tied around the arm. Geran spotted Brun Osting, the tavernkeeper, studying the scene with his thick arms folded across his chest and a fierce scowl on his bearded face. Brun had run the Troll and Tankard ever since his father died fighting to stop the Bloody Skull orcs from pillaging the town five months past. Geran detoured closer and hailed him. “What happened here, Brun?”
The tavernkeeper looked around. He was a young man of strapping build, easily two or three inches taller than Geran and fifty pounds heavier. “M’lord Geran-and m’lady,” he said, touching his knuckle to his brow. If he was surprised to see Geran riding with a pretty young yoman in the front of his saddle, he didn’t say anything. “It was the Cinderfists. A gang of ’em tried to fire the Troll during the night, but they made enough noise to rouse my brothers. We drove ’em off and saved most of the building.”
Geran studied the damage and frowned. “Anyone hurt?”
“The Cinderfists carried off two or three o’ theirs, but I don’t think no one got killed. My brother Stunder took a bad cut, but he’s patched up now.” Brun Osting shook his head. “There’s trouble in the making, m’lord. Mark my words. The Cinderfists try burning out good Hulburgans again, and there’ll be killing over it.”
“I hear you,” Geran said. “Is there anything I can do to help? The Hulmasters are in your family’s debt.”
The young brewer waved his hand. “It’s just a few hours’ work to cut some new shakes and planks, m’lord. The Troll wasn’t that handsome to look at anyway, but I’ll bet the smell of smoke’s going to be in the rafters for years.”
Geran shook his head and rode off, allowing the brewer to get back to his morning’s work. When they were out of earshot, Nimessa glanced up at him. “Who are the Cinderfists?” she asked.
“You might call them a guild or militia, or you might call them a gang. They’re mostly newcomers to Hulburg, men from places like Melvaunt and Mulmaster. Many work in the smelters and foundries.” During the troubles of the past spring, Geran had spurred the common folk of Hulburg to band together against the mercenaries of the foreign merchants. It hadn’t taken long for the poorer foreigners to copy their example and begin organizing their own guilds and militias to protect themselves too. The Moonshields-the native Hulburgan militia-were loyal to the harmach. The Cinderfists, on the other hand were largely dependent on foreign merchants for their livelihood. “I can’t prove anything, but I suspect House Jannarsk and their Crimson Chain allies are behind them. Hulburg is full of poor men from other cities who just want a chance to do better for themselves, but there are a few that came here for different sorts of opportunities.”
“Have they caused a lot of trouble?”
“Some,” Geran admitted. “But Brun Osting’s right-there’s more on the way if things keep going on as they are.” They rode into the small square at the foot of the causeway leading up to Griffonwatch. Geran reined in again and looked down at Nimessa. “Can I offer you the hospitality of Griffonwatch? I’m sure that we can find you something better to wear. Or would you rather go to your family’s holding now?”
“The Sokol concession, please,” Nimessa answered. “I have to tell our people there about
“As you wish. Consider it a standing invitation.” Geran hid his disappointment behind a small nod. He found that he was reluctant to part company so soon. Once he escorted her to the Sokol compound, she would be back among the people and surroundings she was familiar with. He’d check on her in a few days, and if she recovered as well as he thought she might then he’d leave her be. It would likely be for the best.
Then again … he’d been haunted for almost two years now by the memories of Alliere. Maybe some part of him was hoping that Nimessa was not interested, simply so that he could go on dreaming about the elf princess he would never see again. Or was he afraid of what Mirya Erstenwold might think, if he were to start courting again? He frowned behind Nimessa, unhappy with his musings. He’d never been one to puzzle out the workings of his own heart. All he knew was that he’d spent two years living like a cloistered monk because Alliere had broken his heart, and Nimessa Sokol reminded him that he wanted to be free of her ghost.
He tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks. “The Sokol trade-yard’s not far off now. Allow me to see you home.”
THREE
Rhovann Disarnnyl detested his human guise. He was mortified by the unkindnesses of age, the heaviness of his sagging features, the rough whiskers on his face, and the wiry, gray hair on his chest and arms. Elves suffered none of those indignities, and in his natural shape Rhovann was a fine example ofhis graceful race. He consoled himself with the thought that his disguise was only a magical glamour he could end any time he chose with a few arcane words. But the difficulty was that crafting a persona as carefully thought out as Lastannor-middle-aged, balding, with a meticulously squared beard of iron gray and a coarse, dusky, complexion-required hours of painstaking work. The trouble of re-creating his disguise was a strong incentive to endure his altered appearance as long as he could. And there was always the risk that he’d overlook some small detail like the exact shape of the nose or whether the rounded ears lay flat by the skull or stuck out like cup handles, a detail that some observant enemy might notice. Fortunately he’d had the foresight to make Lastannor as close to his own natural height and build as possible, so that he would have one less opportunity to err. No human could really match the slender athleticism of a moon elf, but Rhovann avoided trouble there simply by shaping Lastannor’s build as gaunt and by making a point of moving with a sort of exaggerated lethargy to conceal the lightness of his step.
He was nothing if not attentive to details.
“You have a sour look to you today, Lastannor,” said Lord Maroth Marstel. The Hulburgan and his House mage rode in the human noble’s carriage, rolling through the streets of Hulburg toward the castle of the Hulmasters. Marstel peered suspiciously at Rhovann with weak eyes in a red, heavy-featured face. He was a thick- bodied, white-jowled man of sixty-five years or so, with a thick mane of hair and a broad white mustache that was yellowed at the edges by his ridiculous habit of pipe-smoking. The old lord wore a scarlet tunic embroidered with his family coat of arms, which featured a leaping stag amid a whole field of gold embellishments. “What troubles you?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Rhovann lied, feigning a friendly grimace. “Something disagrees with me, my lord.” Of course, it was Marstel himself Rhovann found disagreeable. The man possessed a truly spectacular combination of loud bluster, oxlike wit, and ill-informed opinion. He seemed to crash through his days like a wagon rolling down a steep hill, completely insensitive to the damage he caused. If Rhovann hadn’t given himself the task of elevating the man’s fortunes, he might have looked on the whole affair with some small amusement. As matters stood, Rhovann had spent several months now soothing feathers Marstel ruffled every time he opened his mouth, and safeguarding the buffoon who sat in the carriage next to him from even greater disasters.
“You’re a scrawny fellow, and you hardly eat at all,” Marstel observed. “I can’t imagine why your stomach should trouble you. I think it’s a lack of exercise and fresh air. And not enough wine. Two good goblets a day would serve you well.” The white-haired lord nodded to himself, satisfied that he had diagnosed the problem. “Yes, that must be it. You should come hunting with me tomorrow. It’s always a good, vigorous day.”
Rhovann sighed. “I am afraid I have business to look after, my lord. But you should go ahead without me. As you say, the outings are good for you.” Marstel’s idea of a vigorous day of hunting was to be driven up to some wild field and seated in a comfortable chair while his servants did their best to drive game in his general direction. The old lord would spend the day getting drunk and loosing quarrels at anything that moved. While one might naturally assume that Marstel rarely hit anything, the man was a far better shot than he had a right to be, and he often collected a fair assortment of game. He also occasionally feathered one of his own dogs or beaters, especially late in the day after he was well in his cups. Fortunately Hulburg had no shortage of poor foreigners anxious to earn a few coins any way they could.
“Suit yourself, then,” Marstel said with a sniff.
Rhovann sighed. Now the old fool was going to be sore at him. Only a month or two more, he told himself. Endure this ox-brained fool just a little longer, and through him the fall of the Hulmasters will be encompassed. He flexed the cold metal of his silver hand-veiled under the illusion of human flesh and bone-and thought of Geran Hulmaster’s destruction. To slay Geran for the injuries he’d inflicted would be simple justice. What Rhovann craved was
