Sunlight shone and set the birds to singing, and it felt good on my face and arms. I leaned with my back on a tall, sad marble angel and kept my eyes on the widow’s urn atop the Sarge’s stone. Orthodox tradition demanded that the Sarge’s widow pass each day for thirty days after the funeral. The Sarge’s friends and family were to keep the urn filled. It had been empty when I came. I’d picked it up, poured out rainwater and filled it to the brim with the Lady Merlat’s gold. And after, I stood and I watched. There were those who would rob widows urns, snatching coppers from the elderly, adding insult to grief and loss. They would do no robbery today. Twice a priest had passed, dipped his mask. I’d glared, and he’d gone away. Wise man. I closed my eyes for a moment, let the sun warm my bones and ease my aches. All about Rannit, hammers rose and fell. Lord Merlat’s storm had left shingles strewn on every street, had torn trees whole from the ground, had sent four barges wallowing up over the docks and onto the muddy banks of the Brown River.
