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Now in the early hours of the morning, Raznick damped the hearth and donned his dark cloak and descended down the spiral staircase of his lofty round tower. At the bottom of the stairwell he was gripped by a wet bout of coughing which echoed off the stone walls. Leaning into the wall, he took out a flask of diluted wine, and drank heavily from it. Sniffling and wiping his nose on the sleeve of his robe, he glanced up, looked around and let out a defeated laugh under his breath. Bound into servitude as he was, leaving the confines of his tower gave him a great sense of freedom, a deep satisfaction.

The morning mist had not yet begun to lift and Raznick pushed himself from the wall and continued to walk. He moved into the thick, swirling veils and went forth into it with the same quiet composure as though he was walking into hell.

All Raznick could hear was the rainwater running down into cisterns built to catch it for drinking. For though the storm of yesterday had abated, it was still cold and drizzly.

Walking down the twisting streets and dark lanes, the sun began to break up the mist, and at last Raznick could see something moving in the distance. A mongrel dog had appeared mysteriously and trotted just ahead of him.

It was long, lean, and hungry-looking-- all bones and sinew and clad in a thin coat of brown fur. But its eyes held a keen and mild expression. Raznick said a few words to it and soon the dog was trotting obediently at his heels, wagging its tail and peering up at him sorrowfully.

They walked silently for five minutes, side by side, and looked fixedly at each other, with knowing. Raznick nodded at his new companion. “I feel your pain, poor creature,” he said turning to it and dropping to a kneeling crouch, barely touching its nose. “You are like myself."

He held out his hands and offered his four-legged friend some food he was carrying, which it eat eagerly. Raznick was surprised by the degree of sympathy which the dog showed him, by looking at him from time from time with a piteous gaze, as if to assure him that he too partook in his troubles, though the dog could not comprehend the cause nor the extent of it, nor did either of them have the slightest degree of power to change each other's circumstances.

"I'll call you Butler. How do you like that?" He said as the dog licked his hand.

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The narrow lane that led to the main square lay black with mud and strange men went staggering and stumbling in it, arms engaged and bodies tussling as they tried to topple one another over. It was a sort of painfully slow scuffle and at last one of them fell over.

Raznick saw the defeated man crawling on his hands and knees, half drowning in the thick mud. He reached out a hand to Raznick, mud up to his ears he was hoarse with shouting and whistling through his teeth. He was begged Raznick for retribution. A short, thin man appeared and took the defeated man's arm in a vain attempt to help, but unable to lift him he stumbled backwards, lost his footing and landed in the puddle of mud.

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Raznick walked past them, finding it hard to look at that ugly sight, with all the muck and the tottering, falling and tumbling into each other. Great cakes of mud clung to the little man and it seemed he could hardly lift himself from the ground.

Raznick's boots and feet were dry. It was the only comfort left to him. He would not throw that away.

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Entering the township, Raznick threaded through the early morning filth and ferment — the smoke, the smell of manure and the rubbish that washed up in alleys and in corridors. He walked past cramped stalls of farm animals, docile and dumb they glanced at him with woeful eyes, accepting their degrading position in life; the manure and waste left to pile up at their feet.

Raznick walked out and into the gallows yard, past the condemned who were chained by the neck. The air was tainted with the putrid smell of the prisoners, and the loathsome revolting sight of their ailing, sickly bodies shackled by the hands and legs made Raznick ill to his gut. He looked at them with dismay, and turned to leave that inhospitable place.

He went down the waterlogged lanes towards another quarter.

There was always a heavy stench in the town, for everything was disposed off in the streets. From animal entrails and human excrement to organic matter were tossed carelessly from the windows to the side alleys next to the houses.

Sidestepping the foul muck that pummeled his nose, Raznick increased his speed, gasping and choking for breath. He spat on the ground, hoping to rid himself of the odor permeating his nostrils, and pushing past children peddling dangling meat from their grubby little hands.

At last he entered the main market. Pigeons alighted at his footsteps, and he heard the gentle clatter of horse carts, and could see ragged dogs on their haunches glancing at him, rising at the passing of his heels. But only Butler stayed at his side. 

Raznick toyed with a timepiece in his pocket as he pushed people away in the congested town, at last making it to the end of an empty street. Tying the loose ends of his cloak tight and secure, he looked up at the black tower that remembled his own. The sky was gray, shapeless and full of rain, but he was glad to be there.

"Stay here." He muttered to Butler.

As if parting with that deformed world, he ascended the spiral staircase that led up to her chamber room. He knew the way up the narrow, crooked staircase, knew each kink, each uneven stair.

Following the music of his heart and forgetting the rain and filth, which clung to his cloak, he simply thought of her, and let his feet guide him willingly. Towards that maiden not touched by the stain of the world, who seemed so mucher wiser, so much more prudent than any of the Patriarchs or noblemen.

In her he found a glimmer of hope. A hope of what, he was unsure. He only knew that she possessed virtues in proportion corresponding to her beauty, a rare thing.

Raznick was brought to a sudden standstill at the entrance to her door. Knew that the sight of her would strip him of his frustration. He stood in the darkness, draining the flask to the last dregs, awaiting the courage to knock on the door.