Towards the middle of the square, where the traders outnumbered the travellers, was a raised fountain – a remnant of the time when the square had been more prosperous. The carved figures that formed it had long been mutilated – fine features rendered pugilistic by the breaking of noses and ears, stout stone shields and swords shattered and split, then weathered and decayed. But the water had always flowed. With its source far from the city, it was too good to be hazarded by the reckless damaging of its supply and outlet conduits, and a general awareness of its value by the locals had always protected it from complete destruction.
Pinnatte reached it with some relief. There were two or three groups of people, mainly men, lounging on the steps that led up to the fountain’s basin. He stepped through them with a studied combination of assuredness and inoffensiveness that he had cultivated over the years, meeting gazes clearly where unavoidable, though without challenge.
At the top of the steps, he leaned over the low parapet to catch a handful of water tumbling from one of several spouts. As ever, it was as cold as the mountains it came from, quite unaffected by the weeks of humid heat that had been pervading the city. He drank noisily, relishing the chill that marked out a route inside him. When he was sated, he scooped both hands deep into the basin and splashed his face luxuriously. The strains of the day faded almost immediately. He began to practice his tale for Lassner. It would be a good one and, if he told it well, he might get more than one night rent-free. There could even be extra food – Lassner liked a good tale.