“Its hull was painted a merry yellow. A bitter breeze played in sails of red silk. The wooden figurehead, a fool dressed in motley, wore a comic frown, as if afraid he might run aground. From a distance, the ship would have seemed to be sailing backward through the snow. “Whoa,” Erstwhyle called to the gray draught horses that pulled the ship. The vessel had been hoisted up on axles and turned into a wagon. Every time it rolled through a town, rustics would gape and point. Inns and homes would e...mpty as spectators gawked. Erstwhyle liked that. The bigger the crowd, the more he got paid. Castle Crydon loomed ahead, perched upon a steep crag. Walls rose up, gray and oppressive, with merlons like rotten teeth. A dozen tall towers rose in great spires, black spears aimed at the heavens. Guards in bright red cuirasses marched along its wall like toy soldiers. No peaceful lord needed such protection. A wretched city squatted in its shadow. Squalid houses and cheap wooden shops leaned at odd angles, as if wondering where to fall.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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