The Crown never had possessed wealth enough to raise a purpose-built structure. Josiah’s health had not improved. He limped. He carried a cane. He leaned on it heavily when no one was watching. The little king was doing better. Inger said, “This place is a sty. Pray the weather has the grace to let us air it out.” Preparations for the Thingmeet had raised obstacles entirely unforeseen, as, here, where enterprising livestock dealers had used a vacant building as an indoor feed lot, thinking it a sin that so much sheltered space should go unused—especially when the inattentive administration at the castle never visited the property. People had squatted there, too. Many had been the sort who could not grasp such basic concepts as taking it outside when they need to vacate their bladders or bowels. Three ragged soldiers trailed Inger and Josiah. Two had helped Babeltausque and Nathan Wolf at the Twisted Wrench. They constituted a significant percentage of the remaining castle garrison.
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