Omar headed off, worrying his bottom lip. After all they'd come through together, he couldn't lose his mare now.
By the time he reached Butcher Street, his shoulder was screaming in protest from all the jostling and jarring. Sweat beaded his brow, and his lips were sore and red from his gnawing on them. Thankfully, it didn't take long to find where extra horses were being held.
Unfortunately, he did not see his horse among them.
"You look like a loved one just died," a woman said, walking over to him.
Omar managed a brief laugh. "Not quite that severe. I'm trying to find my horse. I left her with a man who was caring for the horses in the temporary camp outside the city."
"Marco," the woman said. "He's a few streets over, has his own stablewell, it's his father-in-law's, butanyway. Your horse is probably there, but from the way your shoulder is bleeding I'm guessing that's not a walk you prefer to make."
"What?" Omar groaned. "I guess not."