little about how little coin he’d actually earned, and asked whether he might be needed for a return trip any time soon, all the things a poor sellsword might be expected to do. Then he left the Double Moon yard and lost himself in the bustle of wagons and passersby moving through Hulburg’s streets. After a few minor errands-purchasing more pipeweed, a new cloak, new stockings, and the like-to make sure that no one was following him or paying too much attention, he decided that it was safe to head to Erstenwold’s.
He saw the first of the gray, helmed warriors at the foot of the Lower Bridge, where Bay Street crossed the mouth of the Winterspear. The creatures were tall, a good half a head taller than his own six feet and two inches, and they stood motionless without paying any attention to the bitter cold or the folk passing by. Their faces were hidden behind their blank metal visors, and he could glimpse strange runic markings on the claylike flesh that showed beneath their black breastplates and helms.
“What in the world are these?” he muttered to himself as he drew near. For a moment he considered reversing his course and retreating, but realized that might appear suspicious when other folk simply carried on right past the things. The people going by on the bridge eyed the things nervously and gave them a wide berth; Geran followed their example. If the gray warriors were aware of the stares and dark mutters they provoked from the people who passed by, they gave no sign of it. Some sort of conjured guardians? Constructs built to serve as warriors, supplementing the numbers of the Council Guard? He remembered hearing rumors about creatures such as these in Griffonwatch. Had Rhovann created or conjured more of the gray warriors in the last few tendays, enough to station them around the city? If so, what was their purpose? Protecting the city and castle from attack? Or were they simply intended to intimidate the greatest number of common folk possible?
At the far end of the bridge, he spied a driver waiting with his wagon by a cobbler’s shop. On the spur of the moment he wandered over to the fellow, an old dwarf in a heavy hood of fur. Leaning close to the wagon seat, he said, “I’m new in town. Who are the gray warriors in the helms? What do they do? Should I mind myself around them?”
The dwarf scowled. “They’re servants o’ the harmach’s wizard. For th’ most part, they do naught but stand an’ watch. But ye mind yer step ’round them nonetheless. I’ve heard it said they take note o’ every soul that walks past and remember him or her. And if that’s a person that the harmach’s wizard suspects of something, they lay hold of him and drag the poor bastard on up to Griffonwatch, where the wizard steals their souls. It’s no’ right, but that’s the way of it.” He shook his head, muttering darkly. Geran took that as his opportunity to continue on his way, wondering how much of the old dwarf’s story was idle rumor and how much was based in truth.
He came to Plank Street, and noticed another pair of the helmed constructs watching the crowds at the intersection of Cart Street-as busy as any corner in Hulburg. It would be a good place to set unsleeping eyes to watch over the people who came and went in town. There’s probably nothing but empty speculation to the rumors, he told himself. Most folk knew little of magic or creatures made with magic, after all, and therefore assumed all sorts of things might be possible that weren’t all that likely. But the old dwarf’s story had planted a dark little seed of doubt in his mind. He paused, feigning interest in a tavern’s bill of fare as he surreptitiously watched the gray- skinned creatures towering over most of the crowd. If the creatures really were made to remember all that they had seen, then Rhovann might know enchantments that called upon those memories to quickly find or follow any person in whom he took an interest. The anonymity of Hulburg’s crowds could be much less protection than he’d assumed. How could you plot against a foe who might be aware of your every move?
“There’s no need for that,” he murmured to himself. If Rhovann was truly that capable, then his efforts would be doomed from the first. He might as well assume that Rhovann’s creatures couldn’t see what wasn’t there to be seen, or he’d go mad from worry and suspicion. Still, it couldn’t hurt to avoid the creatures as much as possible. With that in mind, he decided against moving in the open. Marstel-or more likely, Rhovann-would be sure to have Erstenwold’s watched, just in case he showed up. He was confident enough in his simple disguise, but Rhovann was a patient and meticulous adversary; even if the elf mage hadn’t placed his gray sentries by Mirya’s door, he might have woven alarm spells in places where he was likely to make an appearance. Magical measures might easily see through a little hair coloring and spirit gum if he simply walked up to the front door.
Instead of turning up Plank Street toward Erstenwold’s, he walked past Plank to Fish Street and turned north there. He could think of a few ways to get into Erstenwold’s without being seen. If he remembered the neighborhood, the tinsmith’s shop might have exactly what he needed. He hurried up a half block to the building where old Kettar had his workshop and house, only to find the place closed up with its windows dark.
“Now what?” he muttered, peering in the window. He could see empty worktables, a cold furnace, a few furnishings that had evidently been left behind. What happened to Kettar? he wondered. The tinsmith had been puttering away in his workshop on Fish Street since Geran had been a young boy. Had the tinsmith simply packed up and abandoned town? Had his store been seized through one of Marstel’s newly enacted taxes? Or had some gang of Chainsmen or Cinderfists run him out of his own shop? He scowled into the dirty window, and took a couple of steps back to see if the private rooms behind the shop were occupied or not. A single slat of wood had been nailed across the door, and a tattered leather scroll tube hung by it; he looked inside and found a notice of confiscation from the Tower. Taxes, then, he thought to himself. Hopefully Kettar and his family had a roof over their heads and a little money to get by on, wherever they were.
He glanced up and down the street, decided that no one was paying him any special attention, and pried the slat loose enough to let himself inside. Kettar’s misfortune provided him with a very handy bit of cover for what he had in mind next. It might look a little suspicious for an ordinary caravan guard to be skulking about in an empty property, but if anyone troubled him, he could just claim that he was looking for a place to set up shop and had a mind to buy the tinsmith’s store if it came up for auction. He crossed to the rear of the store and peeked out a window that looked down the alleyway.
Thirty yards away stood the back of Erstenwold’s. Fixing his eye on a small window in the rear of the Erstenwold’s building, he built a mental picture of the storeroom beyond. Closing his eyes, he summoned the arcane sigils of the spell to his mind and said softly,
— and he stood in a dim, cluttered pantry. Hoping that Rhovann hadn’t thought to ward the entirety of the storehouse, he let himself out into the hall beyond. From a short distance away he could hear the clatter and murmuring voices of the clerks and customers by the store’s front counter. He smiled a little, and started down the hall.
Mirya suddenly bustled around the corner in one of the practical wool dresses she favored in the wintertime, this one a light blue in color. Her arms were full of blankets, and her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid. An absent frown shadowed her wide blue eyes. Geran’s heart lifted at the sight of her familiar features; he hadn’t realized how much he missed her. Then Mirya caught sight of him and let out a startled gasp, dropping her armload as she suddenly recoiled. “What-you shouldn’t be back here!” she spluttered. Then, before Geran could even get a word out, her eyes flew open wide in recognition. “Wait a moment-
He motioned for her to lower her voice. “Yes, it’s me,” he said. “Forgive me for sneaking in, but I thought it better to avoid being seen.”
“By the Dark Lady, but you gave me a fright! Never do that again!” She stooped to pick up the blankets; he kneeled beside her and helped her scoop them up. When they stood again, she scowled at him and said, “It’s no help at all that you’re dressed like an outlander and your hair’s that awful color. I thought some Cinderfist ruffian had broken in to rob me.”
“I am sorry, Mirya. Truly I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Hmmph. Well, you can wait back in the counting room. I’ll be along as soon as I tell Ferin to mind the counter for a time.” She brushed past him with her blankets, carrying them out to whatever customer had asked for them. Geran suppressed a smile and ducked back into the store’s back room, where Mirya kept her ledgers among a clutter of merchandise and knickknacks that had likely been moved from room to room in Erstenwold’s for years. The store had been in her family for almost fifty years, beginning as a ramshackle chandlery and storehouse built by her grandfather. Geran made himself comfortable in an old leather armchair and waited. A few minutes later Mirya returned and took a seat on the edge of a small couch across from him with her mouth settled in its customary frown.
“Is this a good time?” he asked her. “If you’ve business to attend, I can wait.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m simply surprised to see you. I would have thought …” She paused, searching his face with her keen blue eyes before continuing. “Geran, it may be that you haven’t heard, but word from Thentia arrived two days past that Harmach Grigor was killed by assassins.”
He met her gaze and nodded. “I was there.”
