north, bringing the Srigmorites salt, spices, tools, and other things; each summer and fall they would come back home to Sardiron with wool, furs, and amber.
To the east lay The Passes, where a person could safely cross the mountains into the Valley of Tazmor, that fabulous realm that Wuller had never entirely believed in before.
There was little magic to be found around here, save for the usual village herbalists and a few primitive sorcerers and witches — but a mere fifteen leagues to the south was Sardiron of the Waters, where any number of magicians dwelt.
None of the people who had visited the inn had recognized the girl in the picture, or had any useful suggestions about finding her.
He also knew now that a lump of stale bread was not enough to still the growling of his stomach or stop the pinching he felt there, but that he could buy no better unless he could acquire some money —
As he left the village he sighed, and decided he needed to catch another squirrel or two — which would probably be a great deal more difficult now that he was in inhabited country.
Even as he decided this, he looked down the road ahead, past the trees on either side, and saw what looked like a very large clearing. He sighed again; squirrels preferred trees.
He watched both sides of the road carefully, but had spotted no game when he emerged into the “clearing” and realized his mistake.
This was no clearing. This was the edge of the forest.
Before him lay a vast expanse of open land, such as he had never seen before, or even imagined. Rolling hills stretched to the horizon covered with brown plowed fields and green grass, and dotted with farmhouses and barns. The highway drew a long, gentle curve across this landscape, no longer hidden by the forest gloom.
A few trees grew on the farms and hills, to be sure — shade trees sheltered some of the houses, and small groves of fruit trees or nut trees added some variety. In some places, neat lines of young trees marked boundaries between farms.
Most of the land was treeless, however, like the mountains where the sheep grazed above his home village.
He would find no squirrels here, he was sure.
Even as he came to that conclusion a rabbit leapt from concealment and dashed across the road in front of him, and he smiled. Where there was one rabbit, there would be others.
Two hours later he knocked on the door of a farmhouse by the roadside, a freshly-skinned rabbit in hand.
In exchange for half the rabbit and all of its fur, he was permitted to cook over the kitchen fire and eat sitting at the table, chatting with his hostess while two cats and three young children played underfoot. Water from the farmer’s well washed the meal down nicely.
Thus refreshed, he set out southward again.
Not long after that he passed through a fair-sized town — to him, it seemed impossibly large and bustling, but he knew it couldn’t be any place he had ever heard of, since he was still well to the north of Sardiron of the Waters. A large stone structure stood atop a hill to the east, brooding over the town and a highway, and Wuller realized with a shock that that big ugly thing was a castle.
Having no money, Wuller marched directly through without stopping.
An hour later he encountered another village, and another one an hour or so after that, though these had no castles. They had inns — but Wuller had no money.
At sunset, he found himself on the outskirts of another town. Like the village of the Burning Pine and the town with the castle, this one had three highways leaving it, rather than just two. Unlike the other towns, here the directions weren’t north, south, and east, but north, south, and northeast; it wasn’t a crossroads, but a fork.
There were no fewer than three inns on the town square; Wuller marvelled at that.
He was tired and hungry, so he did more than marvel — he went to each in turn and asked if he could work for a meal and a bed.
The proprietor of the Broken Sword said no, but was polite. The owner of the Golden Kettle threw him out. And at the Blue Swan the innkeeper’s daughter took pity on him and let him clean the stables in exchange for bread, cheese, ale, and whatever he could pick off the bones when the paying customers were finished with their dinners.
She also found him a bed for the night — her own.
10
No one at the Blue Swan could identify the girl in the portrait, but the innkeeper’s daughter suggested he contact Senesson the Mage when he reached Sardiron itself. Senesson was a wizard who was said to be good at this sort of work.
There were a good many magicians of various sorts in her town of Keron-Vir, but she doubted any of them could help — and certainly not for free.
Wuller hesitated over that, but in the end he took her advice. After all, Sardiron of the Waters was only one day’s walk away now, and he wanted to see the capital after coming so close. Besides, Teneria surely knew her own townspeople well enough to judge such things.
He did, however, stop in at the Golden Kettle and the Broken Sword to show the portrait around.
As he had expected, nobody knew who the girl in the picture was.
He shrugged, gathered his things, and set out.
He glimpsed the castle towers by mid-afternoon, and he could see the city walls and hear the thunder of the falls before the sun had set, but it was full dark by the time he reached the gates, with neither moon in the sky, and he made his entrance into Sardiron of the Waters by torchlight.
Even in the dark, he was impressed by the place. All the streets were paved with brick, flags, or cobbles — not a one was bare earth, anywhere inside the walls. Where the hillside was steep, the streets were built in steps, like a gigantic staircase.
The buildings were built up against each other, with no gap at all between them in many cases, while others left only a narrow alley — and even these alleys were paved.
Torches blazed at every intersection, and despite the gloom the streets were not deserted at all — people were going about their business even in the dark of night!
The sound was also amazing. The roar of the river was a constant background to everything, and fountains splashed in a dozen little squares and plazas, as well, as the city lived up to its name. A steady wind moaned endlessly around the black stone towers. On top of this were the normal sounds of a big, busy town — creaking cartwheels, lowing oxen, and a myriad of human voices chattering away.
The great castle of the Council of Barons reared up above the city, high atop the hill, looming darkly over everything.
The place was really like another world entirely, Wuller thought, as he looked about in confusion, wondering where he could eat or sleep.
A torchlit signboard caught his eye. There were no runes, but a faded painting of a dragon hatching from an egg.
That, he knew, must be an inn. And perhaps the dragon emblem was an omen, of sorts.
There was no broad window displaying ale kegs and pewter tankards, nor open door spilling light into the street, as there had been at the village inns he had seen so far — in fact, the only window here was a small one with bars on it, high above the street, and heavily curtained with black velvet. The only door was painted in four triangular sections, red at top and bottom and blue at either side, and studded with short spikes of black iron. It was tightly closed.
However, most of the city’s architecture was equally strange and forbidding. He had seen no open doors or large windows
