Kara shook her head. “Not as much as you might think. To pay off old debts the harmach borrowed heavily from the merchant guilds, and he had to rent out the concessions for a pittance by way of payment. The foreign merchants are keeping the better part of what they’re cutting down in our forests and digging out of our ground. Except, of course, for the so-called ‘licensing fees’ Sergen and his Merchant Council capture from the whole business.”
They came to the Burned Bridge and drove over the rickety wooden decking. It was covered by a dilapidated roof, and the hoofbeats echoed in the shadows of the bridge. Geran scratched at his jaw, thinking. He didn’t like the idea of using Hulmaster land in such a way, especially if the harmach saw little return on the rights he rented out, but it wasn’t really his place to say if it was a good idea or not. “What’s Sergen’s connection to the Merchant Council?”
“He’s the keeper of duties-the harmach’s representative on the council. Uncle Grigor put him in charge of releasing concessions, negotiating their prices, and administering the resulting trade.”
So your cousin decides which properties will be up for bidding, who can purchase a concession, how much they’ll pay the harmach, and how much they’ll pay the council he presides over? Hamil observed silently. If he were a corrupt man, that would be an awful temptation. I’m sure that isn’t the case, though.
Geran glanced back at his friend but didn’t reply. He was not at all sure that Sergen wasn’t corruptible. A younger, more vigorous harmach might have been vigilant enough to check any ignoble impulses someone in Sergen’s position could fall prey to… but Grigor was not a young man anymore, and it seemed he relied on Sergen to look after his interests for him.
They drove on in silence for a time and began to climb again. The road wound through the mournful Spires on the town’s western side, then followed the flanks of Keldon Head, the windswept promontory that sheltered Hulburg and its bay. The town’s cemetery was atop the long, bare hill. A long time ago the ruins surrounding Hulburg had been plagued by undead, and so the townsfolk chose to bury their dead in the safe ground of the hilltop, well outside any lingering influences from the days before the town’s refounding a hundred years ago. The cheerless stone markers and weathered mausoleums of the cemetery rose into view as the carriage neared the hilltop.
“Kara,” Geran said quietly, “what can you tell me about Jarad’s death? The harmach said that he was found alone in the Highfells, but that’s all I know.”
Kara briefly met his eyes, then sighed and returned her gaze to the road. “A shepherd found him by the door of a barrow mound up in the east Highfells, perhaps five or six miles from town. We’ve had a rash of crypt-breaking in the last few months-someone’s been opening barrows and tombs, looking for funereal treasure, I suppose. You know how dangerous that can be in Hulburg, so Jarad began to search for those responsible. We think he finally managed to catch the tomb robbers in the act, but he was overpowered and killed.”
“He took no one with him?” Hamil asked.
“No, he was alone. I don’t know if he just chanced upon the tomb robbers, decided to set watch on a barrow he thought they might visit, or heard some rumor that led him to that spot.”
The halfling nodded, thinking. Kara drove the carriage up to the cemetery gates and halted the team. She set the brake and hopped down; Geran and Hamil followed. “This way,” she said.
The sunshine was bright on top of the hill, and the wind rustled and hissed through the long grasses. They followed Kara through rows of plain stone markers, some crumbling beneath decades of moss and weathering, others bright and new. She stopped by a raised stone bier surmounted by a heavy sepulcher of new white stone, its lid inscribed with Amaunator’s sunburst emblem. Lettering chiseled carefully at the foot of the tomb read simply:
Jarad Erstenwold, Captain of the Shieldsworn. His valor, compassion, and faithfulnessshall not be forgotten.
“Uncle Grigor paid for the monument,” Kara said quietly. “He thought the world of Jarad. It’s been hard for him.”
Geran stood silent for a long moment. He reached out and rested his hand on the cold stone. It simply didn’t seem possible that Jarad truly rested under that heavy slab. Behind him, Kara and Hamil exchanged looks and retreated a short distance, leaving him alone with his old friend. “Jarad,” he whispered. He felt as if he should say something more, maybe give in to tears or try to find some shadow of a smile in a good memory, but there was nothing in his heart except a dull, cold ache. He let his fingers brush over the sun symbol atop the tomb, following the design aimlessly. I never knew he thought of himself as a follower of Amaunator, Geran reflected. Jarad was not a particularly religious man. Was it something the harmach had picked out for him? Or Mirya? Or the Tresterfins? He was engaged when he was killed, after all.
I wonder if I would have come home for his wedding, Geran thought dully. He hoped he would have. But ever since the terrible day when he’d left Myth Drannor, he’d avoided things that reminded him of who he used to be. Maybe he wouldn’t have shown up after all.
“I’m sorry for that, Jarad,” Geran said to the cold stone. “You deserved better from me. Everyone here did, I think.” He heard the steady rhythm of hooves on stone and looked up. Someone else was driving up to the cemetery in a simple wagon. He put it out of his mind and let his hand fall from the stone.
“Ten years ago I would’ve followed the men who killed you to the ends of the world,” he murmured softly. “I think you’d want me to look after things before I set out again. I’ll see what I can do. And if I happen to run across the men you met out in the Highfells while I’m at it, well, so much the better.”
Footsteps swished through the long grass. Geran looked up again. Mirya Erstenwold stood watching him, a small bunch of wildflowers in her hands. She dropped her gaze to the ground and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“It’s nothing.” Geran noticed a small stone vase at the foot of the tomb, near where he stood. A small spray of wildflowers rested there, faded with the weather. He retreated a few steps and made room for her. “I’ll leave.”
“There’s no need for that.” She knelt by the foot of the tomb and began to remove the old flowers from the vase. “I met your friend Hamil. He seems a good man.”
“You don’t know him very well yet, then.”
Mirya gave him a bleak smile. She replaced the old bouquet with the fresh one and took a moment to arrange the flowers. “I’ve come up here once a month since my mother passed,” she said without looking at him. “It’s a fair spot in the summertime. Sometimes I’ll bring Selsha for a picnic.”
“Did she know Jarad well?” Geran asked.
Mirya closed her eyes and nodded. “Aye. He supped with us once or twice a tenday and was always stopping by the warehouse. She cried for days when I told her that he was gone.”
Geran’s stern resolve cracked at the idea of a heartbroken little girl who’d never see someone she loved again and couldn’t understand why he wasn’t coming home. It ached like a cold knife in the center of his chest. He was a grown man, and he’d seen his share of death and misfortune, but the grief of a child was a damned hard thing to dwell on. He sank down against an old moss-covered tomb next to Jarad’s with his hand over his eyes.
“Ah, Mirya, I’m so sorry,” he breathed. “If I’d been here…”
Mirya watched him in silence, and her stern expression softened. “Geran, what happened to Jarad was no fault of yours. Aye, things might’ve been different if you’d been here in Hulburg. But if you hadn’t gone off to find your fortune in the south, who’s to say that someone else wouldn’t have died because you weren’t there to stand by their side? Who in turn might have died because those people didn’t live? And even if you’d come home to Hulburg before now, well, fate might have called you and Jarad to some ill end years ago. Why, if I hadn’t-” Mirya stopped herself abruptly and sighed. She rose and brushed her hands against her skirts. “Anyway, there’s no point to wishing on might-have-beens.”
He looked down between his boots at the wiry grass, growing by a weathered stone marker so old that its inscription was only a set of illegible dimples in its surface. He knew that Mirya was right, and that there was no telling how things could have turned out if he’d made different choices… the duel against Rhovann in the glades of Myth Drannor, for example. He knew that he had no real cause to blame himself for failing Jarad. But it was the simplest and straightest course for his grief.
“I know you’re right,” he said. “I know it. But somehow I can’t help but feel that this didn’t have to happen.” He kicked idly at the grass, pushed himself upright, and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “I’ll be on my way.”
She met his eyes briefly and found a small smile for him. “Take care of yourself, Geran Hulmaster.”
