Geran shrugged and picked up another practice sword from a rack close at hand. He executed several quick blocks. “The Mulmasterites begin to open barrows-Jarad fails to stop them. We learn that Urdinger is seeking something in an ancient priest’s barrow-Hamil and I fail to keep the Infiernadex out of their hands. Sergen’s Merchant Council threatens Hulburg’s small traders-so I try to drive off Veruna thugs who are trying to intimidate and bully Mirya Erstenwold.” The practice sword whistled through the air as he spoke; then Geran shifted from parries to a sudden, fierce thrust at his unseen foe. “Everyone who finds himself in opposition to House Veruna does nothing but parry. I think it’s time for a riposte.”
Kara frowned unhappily. “Geran, what do you intend?”
He turned and looked over to Kara. “Is Durnan Osting still a captain of the Spearmeet?”
“Durnan? Yes, I suppose so.”
Hamil looked up at Geran. “What’s the Spearmeet?”
“My apologies, Hamil. It’s the militia of Hulburg. In the years after the Spellplague, Harmach Angar decreed that all landowning households must arm a spearman and drill together regularly. Most of the old families of the town pass down a mail byrnie, a steel cap, a good hide shield, and some weapons. Some of the townsfolk-especially those who live up in the Winterspear-used to take it quite seriously.”
“Only a few of the musters still gather now,” Kara said. She looked at Geran and folded her arms over her mail shirt. “There hasn’t been much need for the Spearmeet in recent years. What do you want with them?”
“The Spearmeet is made up of old native families like the Erstenwolds,” said Geran. “They’re the people who have the most loyalty to the harmach, and they’ve got little reason to be happy with foreign merchants taking over the town. I think it might be a useful lesson for the Merchant Council if a thousand Hulburgans decided to put on their family mail and shake the rust off their old spears. Besides, if the orcs of Thar are coming, it might be a good idea anyway.”
“They’re not professional soldiers, Geran. I doubt that the Verunas or Sokols or any of the others would be much impressed. But still, you may be right about the Bloody Skulls.” Kara brushed some of the perspiration from her face and then nodded. “I’ll speak to the harmach about calling out the Spearmeet simply to count heads and see who turns out. It couldn’t hurt.”
“Thank you, Kara,” Geran said. He looked over to Hamil and asked, “How do you feel about a visit to a taphouse?”
“I regard the prospect with pleasure, as always,” Hamil answered. “But isn’t it a little early?”
“Not if you want to speak to the master of the house before his establishment is full of customers demanding service.” Geran waited while Hamil stripped off his practice jerkin, pulled his fine ruffled shirt over his torso, and threw on his cloak. Then they took their leave of Kara and left the sallet. The taphouse Geran had in mind was close by Griffonwatch, so he and Hamil strolled down the castle’s causeway on foot through the light rain.
In the square of the Harmach’s Foot, Geran turned right and followed the Vale Road to the north, away from the town proper. Wagons and carts creaked by alongside them, a steady parade of provisions heading out to the mining camps, and farmers headed in the other direction, bringing food into town for sale. A couple of hundred yards brought the two companions to the Troll and Tankard, on the northern edge of the town. It was a big, sprawling building, its lower floor made of heavy fieldstone, its upper story timber. The taphouse stood astride the ancient walls of Hulburg. Even though they had been destroyed centuries ago, a low mound of broken masonry ran from the building’s foundation to the riverbank. “Here we are,” Geran said. He led Hamil to the sturdy front door and let himself inside.
The interior of the taphouse was as drafty and drab as the inside of a barn. The air was thick with the smell of brewing beer, and dozens of small kegs were stacked up along the walls. Little daylight filtered in through the small, dirty windows high overhead. “Charming,” Hamil muttered. “I can see why you favor the place, Geran.”
A beefy, brown-bearded man with a swaying belly under his apron appeared from the back room, carrying a heavy keg over his shoulder. “Good morning, sirs!” he said in a booming voice. “The taproom doesn’t open until noon, but I can sell you a keg or two now if that’s what you’re needing.”
“I’m not here for your beer, Durnan Osting. I’m here for you.” Geran threw back his hood and shook the water from his hair.
“Lord Geran!” the brewmaster said. “Well, I’ll be! I heard you were back in town. And I heard all sorts o’ tales, too-stories o’ fighting Chainsmen in the Tailings, battling ghosts up on the Highfells, learning some manners to them Veruna sellswords, and a duel ’gainst Anfel Urdinger yesterday eve. The taphouse was full o’ the talk. Is it true?”
“Some of it, at least. I don’t recall fighting any ghosts, but I’ve crossed blades with a few of the Veruna men in the last tenday-including Urdinger.”
“I heard you killed him.”
Geran nodded. “I did.”
The brewmaster grinned fiercely. “Good! Never did like that red-haired bastard anyway. Wish I could’ve seen it myself.” He set down his keg and brushed his big hands against his apron. “You said you wanted me for something. What can I do for you, m’lord?”
“I’ve seen how House Veruna’s men intimidate Hulburg’s merchants. Are they troubling you too?”
The brewmaster frowned. “It ain’t just the Verunas. All o’ the big foreign merchants collect so-called dues for the gods-be-cursed council: the Verunas, the Sokols, the Double Moon men, the Jannarsks of Phlan-they’ve got the Crimson Chains on their payroll, believe it or not-and even the Marstels, who’re supposed to be Hulburgans. They’re leaning on me and me boys too. I ain’t knuckled under yet, but now they’re threatening folks who do business with me. If the provisioners and smaller alehouses ain’t buying me brew, well, things’ll have to change for the Troll and Tankard.” Durnan looked at the kegs stacked up against the wall and scowled. “It wasn’t so bad last year or the year before, but nowadays… They’re ruining everyone, Lord Geran. The harmach needs to do something about it. Is that why you’re here?”
“Not exactly,” Geran admitted. “My uncle’s got to be careful to respect the concessions, Durnan. He’s convinced that they’re a necessary evil, and I suppose I see that Hulburg can’t get along without them. But I think there’s a lot that can be done that won’t set the harmach directly against the Merchant Council. It just needs to be a little… informal.”
The brewmaster raised an eyebrow. “Go on,” he said.
“The problem with the Merchant Council is that it doesn’t respect the interests of Hulburgans. It exists to protect and enrich foreigners. What we need is a different sort of Merchant Council… an alliance between the small merchants and craftsmen who are under coercion from the foreign Houses. If there were a hundred armed Hulburgans on the street corners, watching to make sure that council thugs couldn’t rough up people or wreck their stores to intimidate them, I think things might be different in town.” Geran leaned against the bar and tapped his hand to the hilt of his sword. “I’ve been trying to keep an eye on Mirya Erstenwold’s shop, but there’s only one of me-”
“Two,” Hamil interjected. “I’m not about to let you fight this out alone, Geran.”
“Two, then, but I need more help,” Geran continued. “I can’t be everywhere at once. We need more blades on our side.”
Durnan scratched at his beard and squinted, thinking it over. Geran remembered that the burly brewmaster was more deliberate than he usually let on with his boisterous manner and loud voice. “It’d take more’n a hundred men,” he finally said. “You’d need more like three or four hundred, since we all got to be able to keep at our trades and provide for our families. I could stand a watch one day in four, and me boys too, and some o’ the stouter fellows who work for us. But we couldn’t all be off on guard every day.”
“I agree. That’s why I was thinking of starting with the Spearmeet.”
Durnan stared at Geran and then let out a sharp bark of laughter. “By Tempus, you don’t do things by half measures, m’lord!”
“How many men are in your muster, Durnan? You’re still a captain of the Spearmeet, aren’t you?”
“Aye, I am. I’ve got two hundred in name, maybe sevenscore in fact. Of those, about a hundred would be worth anything in a fight.”
“What of the other captains? How are their musters?” The Spearmeet was made up of six mustering companies, each about two hundred strong-or at least it had been when Geran was a lad. He didn’t know if that was still true.
“Tresterfin’s boys are pretty good, but the others don’t really measure up to mine or his,” the brewmaster
