called Sunrise on Grand Bruan. It depicted the aftermath of the Battle of Tarpolita far differently from the tapestries in Nodlon Castle. In the painting bodies covered the slope, while at the top young Marcus Drake stood leaning on the pole that bore his standard. He was realistically depicted as weary and wounded, and the sun cast a red glow over everything that simultaneously hid the real blood and made the whole image look blood-soaked.
That same sun rose before me as I headed due east toward Blithe Ward, showing me fields and forests of blood. I was too preoccupied to recognize it for the omen it was.
The landscape outside Nodlon was ripe and full with late-summer produce. Prior to Drake’s rule no one would have dared plant such huge fields with a single crop, fearing they’d be set alight as part of some military action. Now I saw at least one barley field stretch to the horizon.
The horse Kay had provided was pure muscle and single-mindedness, bred and trained to carry messengers. I was heavier than she was used to, and my horsemanship was dire, but she had a strong sense of professionalism and didn’t let me slow her down. We made astoundingly good time.
Part of this was the ease of the road itself. It was paved with flat, even stones, with ditches on either side for drainage. At first light it filled with horses, men, and wagons loaded with produce and trade goods, all heading toward Nodlon Castle. Eventually I passed the tipping point, and traffic began to flow with me toward whatever awaited ahead.
As the sun peeked over the top of the forest, I noticed a distant, obviously man-made cloud hanging in the morning air. I couldn’t tell if it was smoke or dust. It was to the northeast and grew larger as I watched, which meant it was coming this way. If it was smoke, it was a hell of a fire; if it was dust, then it was a hell of a lot of people. Either way, it was a long way off and I’d be well gone before it reached the road.
I stopped at the first messenger transfer station, a small building attached to a corral where a half dozen horses milled about. Smoke curled from the chimney, and a man stood outside smoking pensively on a pipe. As I rode in and dismounted, the horses all came to the fence, eagerly jostling to be the next one selected.
The man on duty looked at the seal on my message, then at me. After a moment he gave a shrug and, with little wasted movement, took the saddle and bridle from my horse and put them on a new one. I was on my way within minutes. “Ride like the wind, messenger,” he said flatly, by rote.
I passed through a small town where the day’s market was just being set up, the destination for all that local produce. At least if it was market day everywhere, I wouldn’t stand out on the road so much. People waved at me in that guardedly cheery way rural folks greet strangers. On the other side of town a few late farmers headed in with their produce. They also waved.
I galloped over a hill and down into a low stretch. To my left I glimpsed a small burst of flowers along the otherwise grassy shoulder. From the midst of them protruded what looked like the hilt of a sword. I figured I was making good enough time, so I wheeled the horse around and returned to look it over.
It was a sword, old, weathered, and driven deep into the ground among the planted flowers. Several pieces of vellum, some so old the rain had beaten them into the dirt, were tied to the hilt. I dismounted and knelt so I could read them.
The first read, We miss you, Daddy. Another, in a child’s hand, said, Sleep well, Grandpa. I wondered how the honored dead had met his end.
This isolated and empty stretch of road seemed perfect for bandits, but I saw none. My horse whinnied impatiently, anxious to return to work. I also had a sudden flash of Thomas Gillian sharpening his sword while he watched an hourglass drain away my time, so I returned to the saddle.
I topped a hill and saw a line of wagons impeded by something. With the barest tug on her reins, the horse hopped the ditch and proceeded along the shoulder as if this were nothing unusual. The ground was too soft for the heavily laden carts to take the same detour, so they had to wait for the way to clear. The farmers and peddlers glared jealously at me as I passed them.
Finally I reached the reason for the backup: a cart bearing new flagstones, and three men watching a fourth as he replaced broken ones in the road. Slowly.
“Come on, guys, my taxes pay for this!” one farmer yelled from the seat of his two-wheeled cart. It had no visible effect on the workers.
“You can’t travel five miles on this goddamned road without getting caught behind construction,” the farmer said. I heard murmurs of assent from his fellow travelers. I doubt it sped things up.
We returned to the road, which was clear all the way to the next low hill. I felt the morning wind on my newly bare cheeks.
At midmorning I arrived at a crossroads village where two of the stone thoroughfares met. A sign announced it as Astolat, and the road that crossed at its center traveled north/south just as mine did east/west. Farmers and merchants busily sold their wares at the edge of town, but the few buildings were quiet. The tavern was open for business, though.
At the transfer station I climbed down and stretched my legs, wincing at the pain in my lower back. That had become more frequent the older I got and had nothing to do with how seldom I rode horses. It was the lingering reminder of a spine-crushing blow delivered by a club the size of a calf, wielded by a black-haired maniac against a cocky young mercenary who had ignored the advice of older, smarter soldiers. That mercenary, now a much wiser sword jockey, subsequently paid a lot more attention when other people spoke. And when he started to forget this lesson, his back reminded him.
I narrowly avoided being drawn into conversation with the young man on duty at the station. He wanted to know all about the situation at Nodlon, and I was amazed all over again at how fast and thoroughly bad news could spread. I made polite excuses and decided to take a quick break for a drink. Surely Thomas Gillian wouldn’t begrudge me that.
The tavern, called the Crack’d Mirror, was smaller and dirtier than anyplace else I’d been in Grand Bruan. When I walked in, I had to wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness; there seemed to be no light other than the hearth fire, and what sunlight managed to pierce the cracks in the walls and ceiling. Luckily there were a lot of those, and in the hazy air the light shafts resembled chaotic prison bars.
I hung my jacket on a wall hook beside a hooded cloak, then sat at one of the tables. My butt and backbone were both grateful for something that wasn’t bouncing. I rested my injured hand on the tabletop, glad to no longer feel the weight of the cast tugging at my shoulder. Still, I was alert. Even coated with road dust I was overdressed for the place, and that could lead to trouble.
A large human shape moved back and forth behind the counter, but made no move to ask me if I wanted anything. No one else was in the room, so at last I whistled for his attention. When he turned my way, I said, “What’s a fellow got to do to get some ale in this place?”
He did not reply, but picked up a mug and opened the tap to a keg. I turned and nearly jumped out of the chair.
A woman had appeared next to my table. I hadn’t heard her approach or sensed her nearness, both of which were uncharacteristic of me. Were people in Grand Bruan just stealthier than anywhere else? I said, “If you scare me to death, I can’t pay my tab, you know.”
She put one foot brazenly on the chair beside me, which hiked her tattered skirt enough to show a smooth, surprisingly clean calf. She leaned down to give me a clear view of her admirable cleavage. “All by yourself today, stranger?” she said, her accent heavy, raw, and untutored.
“Yeah. Just stopping for a drink.”
Her hair fell down in her eyes and hung close to her cheeks. I couldn’t tell how old she was, only that she wasn’t elderly. The parts of her I could see were certainly worth the look. She asked, “What’d you do to your hand? Rub it raw pulling your ladle?”
I smiled and said nothing.
“My name’s Elaine. I’ve got all my teeth. Want some company, then?”
“No, thanks. I’ve only got a few minutes.”
She grinned and licked her lips. “I only need a few minutes, love. I can take you from trickle to fountain before you know what hit you.”
“No thanks,” I repeated.
She glanced at the silhouette behind the bar, who stood immobile. I couldn’t be certain he watched us, but what the hell else would he be looking at? “Please,” she said softly, her smile fixed and fearful, “look around.
