The Black Knight Chronicles (Book 4): Paint it Black by John G. Hartness

Author:John G. Hartness [Hartness, John G.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Bell Bridge Books
Published: 2013-10-14T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 15

WE EMERGED BLINKING into the harsh sunlight of the marketplace. “Okay, Marty,” I asked, “take us to the chef’s tent. He’s got some explaining to do.”

The little lizard blinked up at me. “But you don’t mean to attack the chef, do you? That would bring down the rage of the entire Market upon your heads, not to mention what it would do to the supply of decent stew.”

“Marty, he’s chopping up people and putting them into the stew. We can’t let that happen. There are people in danger, right now, and we need to help them.” I bent down and looked our guide right in his wrinkly green face. I wasn’t trying to mojo him, just impress upon him the urgency of the situation.

“But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why must you aid these humans? They are not your kin. They are obviously poor warriors, if they were captured by the chef, so what possible use could they have in your world?”

I looked up at Greg. He gave me a “you’re on your own” gesture and began studying the wares at a nearby stall. I racked my brain for a minute, but nothing in my experience had prepared me to debate comparative morality with a four-foot-tall lizard. I shook my head once, and then had an idea. “It’s our job, Marty. We are tasked with defending the weaker humans from creatures more powerful than them. We’re kinda like guardians, protectors of the innocent, that kind of thing.”

“Like the Sanguine of the stories protected the Faerie Kings and Queens in ancient times? It’s a quest? I’m important in a quest?” Marty asked.

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but figured if it got me a couple steps closer to the chef’s stew tent, it couldn’t hurt. I nodded. “Exactly like that. We are carrying on the duties of our ancestors, only in the mundane world instead of here in Faerie.”

“Oh, that makes sense then. Follow me.” And again we were off, Greg and I dancing around pedestrians and annoying shopkeepers while trying to keep Marty’s little plumed head in sight. He juked, bobbed, and weaved his way through an ever-thickening crowd until finally he came to a dead halt on the edges of a huge clump of people and things.

“Here we are!” trumpeted the little lizard. “This is the end of the line.”

“End of the line for what?” Greg asked.

“This is the line to get the chef’s stew, of course. We really should have gotten in line when you first entered the Market to get the first servings. You wasted an awful lot of time dilly-dallying around with Doctor Orbly if all you really wanted was some stew.”

I ignored our guide’s revisionist history and looked around. There were hundreds of faeries, ogres, trolls, humans, and some races I didn’t recognize gathered around in a loose line. Every few seconds the line shuffled forward a few steps, bringing the mob closer to a huge tent some thirty yards away. The thoroughfare had

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