“Dear Maribor, how you’ve grown, lad!” When the shock wore off, she set the mallet down and turned to the spectators now lining the road. “This here is Haddy Blackwater, the son of Danbury the smithy, come back home.”

“How are you, Armigil?” Hadrian said with a broad smile, stepping forward to greet her.

She replied by making a fist and punching him hard in the jaw. She had put all her weight into it, and winced, shaking her hand in pain. “Oww! Damned if ya haven’t got a hard bloody jaw!”

“Why did you hit me?” Hadrian held his chin, stunned.

“That’s fer running out on yer father and leaving him to die alone. I’ve been waiting to do that fer nearly twenty years.”

Hadrian licked blood from his lip and scowled.

“Oh, get over it, ya baby! An’ ya better keep yer eyes out fer more round here. Danbury was a damn fine man and ya broke his heart the day ya left.”

Hadrian continued to massage his jaw.

Armigil rolled her eyes. “Come here,” she ordered, and grabbed hold of his face. Hadrian flinched as she examined him. “Yer fine, for Maribor’s sake. Honestly, I thought yer father made ya tougher than that. If I had a sword in me hand, yer shoulders would have less of a burden to carry, and the wee ones would have a new ball to kick around, eh? Here, let me get ya a mug of ale. This batch came of age this morning. That’ll take the sting out of a warm welcome, it will.”

She walked to a large cask, filled a wooden cup with a dark amber draft, and handed it to him.

Hadrian looked at the drink dubiously. “How many times have you filtered this?”

“Three,” she said unconvincingly.

“Has His Lordship’s taster passed this?”

“Of course not, ya dern fool. I just told ya it got done fermenting this morning. Brewed it day afore yesterday, I did, a nice two days in the keg. Most of the sediment ought to have settled and it should have a nice kick by now.”

“Just don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“I ain’t selling it to ya, now am I? So drink it and shut up or I’ll hit ya again for being daft.”

“Haddy? Is it really you?” A thin man about Hadrian’s age approached. He had shoulder-length blond hair and a soft doughy face. He was dressed in a worn gray tunic and a faded green cowl, his feet wrapped in cloth up to his knees. A light brown dust covered him as if he had been burrowing through a sand hill.

“Dunstan?”

The man nodded and the two embraced, clapping each other on the shoulders. Wherever Hadrian patted Dunstan, a puff of brown powder arose, leaving the two in a little cloud.