Chapter 5 – The City

CY 579, Coldeven 1 (Starday)

 Colson, of course, did not object.

When Askyrja got outside there was already a donkey cart ready in the front, loaded with lumber and harness on. 'Here we are,' he said, clapping his hands together. 'This is some of the stuff you rode in on with us yesterday. Today you get to see something of the real city! You'll like it, I promise.' The donkey himself – whom Colson called Ban – was a typically morose grey beast with a white muzzle. He gave Askyrja an equivocal blink and a twitch of the ears. She looked into the donkey's glum eyes and scratched his long nose, which made him shake his head back and forth a little, chasing her fingers and nipping at them gently with yellow teeth. Colson regarded Askyrja. 'I think he likes you,' he said thoughtfully.

Animals often did, she'd found. She had a kind of… gift for it, or something, though she could never exactly explain it in any other way. Perhaps it was merely luck. She shrugged. 'I have always had luck with animals; I seem to understand them, and they me. We are not so different. He is tired,' she said sympathetically, scratching the top of his head. 'He has seen long days, too.'

'A good guess,' Colson shrugged. 'Ninfel had him running errands all over town all week. Bet the poor bugger's already half done in.' He patted the animal's withers. 'Don't worry, old chum,' Colson said fondly. 'One last day o' sloggin' and we'll have a quiet stall for you and time off, I promise.' The donkey lifted his head and gave Colson a slow blink. His ears perked up and his gums showed in a strange approximation of a grin.

'I think he would like that,' Askyrja said, scratching his long forehead now and drawing his big head into her shoulder.

'S'like he understands me,' Colson said with a little chuckle. Then he gave Askyrja a hand into the seat, then hopped aboard himself. She smiled at his rough chivalry and nodded when he looked over at her to show she was ready; he flicked the reins and off they went. The donkey cart was agreeably faster than the oxwain and they rounded the corner out of the port district towards the city proper. Their lane ran straight for the town's gates, and that was the way Colson headed. They were just far enough out from the outer walls that she could make out the high pointed parapets of the great castle keep, with the sun bathing the city in a golden light.

'As ye can see, we're headin' for the gates. That's the way inter the outer part of the city. S'all right, I'll do the talkin',' Colson said. 'Don' worry, I go through all th' time. They're a bit nosy but they ain't so bad.'

They headed down the gate road and settled into a line of people and vehicles entering the city. The line trailed out from the gate over a narrow dirt culvert bridge that crossed the moat – a mucky, twenty-foot stretch of stagnant water shot with cattails encircling the city just outside the walls. Askyrja crinkled her nose, wincing as the dirty marshy stench hit her. The reek was absolutely eye-watering; to her surprise, she espied what she thought was a sheep's corpse floating near the far side. 'Yeah… lot o' nasty bits in there, sorry,' Colson said apologetically, pinching his nose. 'Stale water, night-buckets from people who live near the walls, an' the city night-canals run right into it, too. But that's the general idea, innit? Who'd want to cross all that?' He chuckled, then looked aghast as a particularly nasty gout of foul air rolled over them. Askyrja struggled to keep from retching.

The moat was crossed by a low wooden bridge on the roadway and they wasted no time getting away from it. Again Askyrja was impressed by the enormity of the walls, the height of the battlements and the towers that intersected them like miniature keeps. Banners were hung on the walls for all to see: a green tree on a yellow background, surrounded by a green border set with golden leaves, though she was ignorant of who or what it signified. She marvelled again at the wall that stretched southeast, and then bent on south again, to parts unknown. A Rhizian viking party – meaning 'those who go on the rivers' – raiding might loot well in this rich country, but she wondered how they would fare against such walls.

There were pedestrians and carters ranked up in two orderly rows at the gates: scores of human peasants and farmers, merchant drays and even a party of Dwarves sitting a covered wagon. Then, she spotted a bunch what she thought must be the Gnomes that Colson had mentioned. She had never seen such before and stared openly at them.

They had a little cart filled with vegetables and pulled by a black-and-white cow, and were else riding on the cab or standing beside it. They seemed about a hand shorter than Dwarves, standing scarcely to her waist, with close-trimmed beards – which no Dwarf would ever have done – of black, red or blonde, with a few dyed bushes of more outlandish reds – or even green! Each had a long nose roundly blunted, gleaming eyes under beetling brows and skin a rich brown ranging from light maple to chestnut brown. They wore variety of bright matching forest pastels and strange stiff high-kneed boots over short trousers and each had a curious cap of one colour or another. The eldest among them there, an old wizened Gnome with silver rings weaved into his long beard, drove the cart. She stared unabashedly.

'Never seen a Gnome before?' Colson asked. Askyrja shook her head mutely. 'Good heavens! Well, there's lots hereabouts! Earth and stone, Man and Gnome. They been here before even humans were. They really don't have Gnomes in this Rhizia of yours, Askyrja?'

'They do not.' Dwarves they knew well for there were many, but while Rhizians told tales of mischievous house gnomes – huldufólk – she doubted any of her people had ever seen real Gnomes, such as these. To the Northerners, Gnomes were only myth. She listened to their talk and studied their short, jerky movements, finding them both fascinating and eerily alien.

She waited with Colson in the line, thinking it would have been faster to have walked, but it also seemed that would merely have put her in another line. These Southerners did things so strangely. She peered up the line and her anxiety mounted as she saw armed soldiers in mail and surcoat blazoned with the badge of the wall banners, stopping each carter, peasant and trader to ask about their business and cargo. Some even prodded through their goods, lifting tarps, peeking into sacks. The soldiers had dogs, too: large, dark hounds with long noses, square forequarters and stiff ears. She could feel their edgy eagerness as they strained at their leashes.

Her anxiety mounted as their turn approached despite Colson's assurances and a chill ran down her spine. What was her business here, really? She was an unknown foreigner – the soldiers would realize that immediately – with a strange story. Would they think she was a spy, or a renegade, a traitor from her homeland? Maybe the alarm had already gone out to all the lands and they were looking for her even now. Her panic spiked rapidly: would they throw her in their dungeon and send word to her father, or merely execute her on the spot? This was madness. The dogs would smell her, they would smell the treachery on her and then the yelling would start again, and the hunt.

Decision fell on her with the suddenness of a storm: she would quietly hop out of the cart and just… slink away. She would vanish and no one would notice; she would run back to the House, grab her things and flee. Gently she eased her foot out of the cart's footwell and leaned off the bench…

'Careful, Askyrja!' Colson said, noticing her sideways movement and grabbing her shoulder. 'Ye don't want to fall off!'

She considered shaking off his hand, breaking free and running – but in that moment of hesitation it was too late, for the cart had rolled ahead and the soldiers come forward, and they were next. She took a breath and nervously put her foot back in the cab, feeling sweat break out on her back despite the chill. Quickly, she drew her partially sheared cloak back from her shoulders and undid the top tie of her blouse, pulling at its corners. Then she sat still and quiet, her eyes locked on the dogs, who cocked their heads at her curiously, sniffed the air and tugged at their leads – oh gods, her mind rattled in panic, they know they know –

'Morning,' yawned a bearded, bored-looking soldier as he approached and stood beside her. He was looking down at a thick wad of parchments roughly glued together at the top, curled with use and scrawlings. 'All right… name, place of origin and business in the city, if you please,' he drawled, dipping a quill in a little pot of ink he held between his fingers. Another came up with him, took a glance at Askyrja and stood quite still, staring.

'H-hello,' she stammered. She glanced rightwards for help but Colson was talking to another soldier, and to another man who was not a soldier but who carried a similar wad of sheets but resting on some sort of movable wooden frame, atop which was another such set with coloured beads that he slid rapidly around in response to Colson's answers.

'Miss? Name, place of origin and – ' the first soldier repeated, his bored expression quickly vanishing as he looked up and took in her face and form, his eyes lingering on her shirt and the cleavage displayed there. 'Could I – er – could I please have your name, place of origin and business in the capitol, miss?' he said, much more politely.

'I am Askyrja,' she said, sounding it out carefully, giving him what she hoped was a very disarming smile. 'I am from… Rhizia.' There was no point in not saying it; she'd already told Colson so, and lying now would seem very suspicious. Moreover, there would certainly be someone here that would identify her as being from there based on her colouration, mannerisms, speech and dress.

Yet to her surprise, the man frowned. 'Never heard of it. Where is it? Upstream somewhere?'

'Er… downstream,' she said, feeling his doubt and his skepticism. It was falling apart, she could feel it…

The man squinted, thinking, though his eyes returned often to her chest. 'In the lake?' he said, absently. She hesitated, unsure how to answer. Lake? Fortunately, he neglected to follow up and returned to his last question. 'All right – and what business do you have in the city, miss – ' he said, visibly struggling with her name, his jaw sawing the air, then simply left the question there.

Her palms were clammy and sweaty. 'I – was on a boat – there was an accident – I – ' She stammered, realizing that this was an outlandish tale; surely he would see through it immediately? Her eyes flicked right, to the river; maybe she could run the two hundred or so paces to it, jump in – for real this time – and swim to the far side. What was it, a mere half mile of churning, freezing water?

'Afternoon, Stefan,' Colson suddenly interjected, leaning across Askyrja.

'Colson!' The soldier – who was clearly called Stefan – shook Colson's hand as Askyrja froze stock-still, almost sandwiched between the two men, her eyes flicking uncertainly back and forth between them. 'Should have recognized old Ban here, if not you. Haven't seen you in a ten-day!'

'We were up at Eglath waiting for a load o' lumber, me an' Merrim,' Colson drawled. 'They was slow, some trouble or somethin' round there, took ages. Oh – this here's Az-kyr-ya; she's not from here.' He shrugged. 'She's… had a bit o' trouble.'

Stefan looked at the girl. 'Oh – I'm sorry to hear that, miss. What happened?'

'Well, it's like this,' Colson said, plowing resolutely on despite Askyrja's nervous signalling with her eyes. No! she thought frantically at him, though he did not seem to notice. 'Seems like she got drunk an' fell off a caravel bound for Urnst, poor thing, an' had to swim to shore! We're taking her to the city, see if we can sort her out somehow.'

Well, that was… partially true, Askyrja thought nervously, in the very smallest part.

Stefan's eyes narrowed as he studied Askyrja. 'Drunk and fell… in that water? It's cold as ice! Is that what happened, miss?' he asked, sounding sceptical.

'Yes,' she said, swallowing nervously. 'I – I drank too much,' she stuttered in her accented Common. 'I was on the… the deck and it was – dark. I did not see the – the railing. I stumbled into it, and fell. The water was… very cold, as you say,' she said, rubbing her shoulders for effect. 'But I am Rhizian and… our land is very cold. Still, I almost died, swimming to shore.' She gestured dramatically back along the road. 'I came up to it and was there for some time, until Colson and Merrim came along.'

'Really, now?' Stefan said, raising an eyebrow.

'Yeah, that's about the size of it,' Colson said. 'I think she's one of these rich men's kept girls – ' he said in a low voice as he leaned in conspiratorially – though as he was leaning over her she could hardly help but hear him. 'Might be he'd like word of her, want to get her back, you know. Could be he's looking for her even now. Could be a reward in that,' Colson said with a nod. 'I'm going to see what we can do w' her in town, maybe there's someone as could help for now– one o' the temples, maybe.'

Stefan frowned, uncertain. 'I haven't had any missing persons reports from the harbour…'

'Well, I say as lookin' for her, but could be they figured she drowned,' Colson corrected, 'But who knows? Could be halfway to Dyvers by now. Hell, they might not have noticed she was even missin' yet! If yer waitin' for a report, you migh' be waitin' til next spring for it.'

Stefan scratched his chin, thinking. 'All right – I'll make a note of it and send word on to the Tower, in case you're going there, though what they'll do with a lost girl I don't know. How do you spell that, Miss…' He hesitated, unwilling to give her name another try.

Askyrja could feel her face burning. Was this wise? What if they sent a message somewhere? But she could hardly back out now. 'A-s-k-y-r-j-a,' she spelt out slowly, glancing behind at the dogs.

'Not to worry, miss, they won't bother you,' Stefan said, noticing her look. 'Where are you staying? I need somewhere we can send word.'

'She's staying with us at the coster house for now,' Colson cut in, jerking a thumb backwards in that direction. 'Didn't know what else to do w' her.'

Stefan gave Colson a long study, then Askyrja. 'Miss…' he began delicately. 'Is everything there on the… er… up-and-up?' Askyrja stared, not understanding. 'What I mean is, is everything… above board?' That, too, left her confused. 'The men haven't been… untoward? Have they been treating you all right?' he finally tried, making a vague gesture.

'Oh! No, they have not done that,' Askyrja shook her head, not quite understanding but deciding that denying whatever it was he was implying was best in the situation. 'They have been very… toward. Er… how do you say… correct? Orvil has been very kind.' She smiled.

'Stefan, you've known me for years now,' Colson interjected sourly. 'Of course we been treatin' her right, as you ought to know! And she's paying us for the room! There ain't nothin' untoward goin' on! What the hells do you think we're about over there, anyway? We're good lads and Miss Askyrja's an honourable woman – one o' them social… socio… socialists, that's the thing.'

'All right, all right!' Stefan shot back defensively. 'Look, it's my job to ask questions! I have to make sure justice is being done, for carters and soldiers and so-ci-al-ites – ' he aimed the sarcastic pronounciation at Colson '– that fall off boats in unlikely places, all the same.'

'What is the commotion about?' said a new man who came up on the other side of the cart. He was tall, dark haired, stern and unsmiling. A heavy sword hung on his hip and he wore plate mail inlaid with images of leaves, trees and some kind of holy symbol – a club surrounded by shining red gems. They were only painted on, in fact, but he was very impressive with broad shoulders and an expansive chest under his armour. A black shield was embroidered on his surplice, showing a pair of rising golden horns and a long green cloak with the same device on the lapel swept out behind him.

'Sir Hostein,' said Stefan, snapping to attention and saluting, though his ink spilled and his papers jumbled. 'This is a local cartman with some lumber: I know the fellow and he's quite trustworthy, m'lord. The girl with him is apparently an outlander of some kind named… er… at any rate, Colson here is taking her into town to see what can be done to rejoin her with her party. He checks out. I was about to clear them, m'lord,' he said suggestively.

'Were you?' Sir Hostein mused. He walked around the cart, peering into it, then examined its passengers. He passed briefly over Colson and his gaze fell solidly on Askyrja, his keen, bright eyes locking hers and holding them.

There was a sudden shock and a taste like iron and cinders in her mouth. Askyrja jerked in surprise, trying to break his gaze but to her astonishment she couldn't move a muscle, couldn't look away, couldn't even blink as he seemed to look right through her like a rabbit in an adder's cold-eyed stare. His eyes bored into her like he was stripping away all deception, all nuance in which she might cloak herself, as she stared, wide-eyed, his mind probing deeper, reaching into every corner –

Then the link was broken and she sagged, almost falling out of her seat before Colson caught her. Gasping, eyes watering, she touched her breastbone with a shaking hand and realized that however long it had seemed it must had only been a moment, though her back was sheened with sweat and her skin pale.

'Hey!' Colson objected, standing up in the cart's cab and pointing a finger at the knight as he steadied the girl. 'There weren't no need for that! She's a good 'un, as anyone can see!'

Sir Hostein's hand moved towards his swordbelt and a bolt of fright shot through Askyrja, as if he would wrench free his blade and strike her down…

– but instead he swept out his arm in a sweeping bow towards the gates. 'I bid you welcome to Verbobonc, my lady. And – ' he added with an inscrutable look, 'St. Cuthbert go with you.'

Askyrja nodded, trying to get her breath back as Colson scowled down at the knight. 'Well, thankee, m'lord,' he said with deep sarcasm, sitting down and flicking the reins sharply. The cart rolled forward and they left the gate and the soldiers – and the knight – behind.

'Bloody cheek, doin' that to you!' Colson muttered with fury as they rolled out of earshot. 'Weren't no need for any of that! Y'all right?' he asked Askyrja, giving her a worried look. 'That weren't proper! Nasty, miserable – '

'I – I am all right,' Askyrja panted as they left the guards behind. 'What – what was that? How did he do that? Who – who is he?' The paladin was talking to a pair of Dwarves now, but suddenly he glanced her way again, catching her looking. She turned back and hunched down nervously.

'It were a spell, like. Summat they can do. See, the great an' mighty Sir Hostein's one o' them holy knights,' Colson explained in an acid voice. 'Paladins, some folks call 'em. They're like regular knights, only they follow a god, y'see, not a lord as the rest of us have to, an' this god, whoever it is, gives 'em powers, like. These new ones – Knights of the Hart they is, like I said before – most of 'em are followers of St. Cuthbert. You know St. Cuthbert? Square corners can be pounded smooth, thick heads are not made of glass, that kind of stuff. They say he was a saint, but become a god somehows, however that happens. His church is all about smashing down evil with clubs – no, no, it's true – ' he said to her disbelieving frown ' – and his priests figger to do the same with folks as have strayed off the path: salvation is worth more than smart answers, a little thump in the noggin' to sort you out, an' Bob's your uncle. They're always looking for evil to root out and cut down, these paladins and one o' their powers's that they kin… I dunno, sense the badness in people, like. They see right into you, right into your – '

' – soul, ' Askyrja finished for him, looking uneasily backwards at the big man. Growing up in the court of Orvung, she had seen divine magics before, of course – healings, auguries, blessings and curses from Orvung's high priest – but never like that and only once before had anyone done such magics to her.

When she was sixteen, she'd been sweeping the curved stairs of one of the Towers when she'd suddenly slipped. The slip had turned into a tumble and as she crashed down the stairs there'd been a sharp snap in her ankle. She'd hit the bottom shrieking in pain. Other of the thralls had come running and crowded around, unsure what to do.

Then to everyone's surprise, no less than the High Priest of Kord himself, stern-faced Einar Hrođrsson had appeared, storming through the press of servants though afterwards no one remembered him being summoned. Wordless and stern, he'd seized the terrified girl's ankle in his hands, clapped his startlingly warm hands to it and summoned the power of the Stormbringer.

The warmth in his palms had radiated out into her flesh like hot fingers and she'd shuddered, trying to claw away from him as the searing pain lanced through her ankle. 'Hold her!' Einar had roared at the others and they'd scrambled to obey, gently but firmly clasping her arms and legs as she'd struggled and shrieked while the priest's painful healing magic had done its work.

'Keep your teeth together, girl!' Einar had snarled. 'A girl of the North does not scream like a blooded sow!' She'd grit her jaws tight, eyes rolling, moaning hollowly through her nose with the pain.

Then her body contorted and the taste of blood was strong in her mouth as the hot lines crawled right down inside her ankle, focusing on the very point of agony itself. She writhed as the lines converged into a bright, sharp point –

And had woken on one of the low benches in the adjacent corridor; someone was applying a cool compress to her ankle, and there were voices around her, sounding in her dazed state as if they came from a great distance. 'She all right?' a gruff, heavy voice had grunted, to which she was sure she'd heard Einar himself answering in hushed, urgent tones. 'Make sure she stays that way,' the voice rumbled before she blacked out again.

When she'd fully come to – watched over by one of the older thralls, a charwoman named Gunhild – she'd found that her ankle was completely sound, unblemished and firm, and without so much as a twinge of hurt.

Such had been her experience of the old magics, the godly magics; they had touched her soul once already, and the memory still frightened her.

'Aye, that's the right of it,' Colson agreed grimly, jarring her back to the present. 'It's a power, like, like a spell or a gift o' their god. They can like feel or sense the badness in people, so they say. He did it to me once – din't find nothin', obviously – and he knows me now so he don't bother but I din't like it much, I can tell ye that.' He ran a hand through his short hair. 'Verbobonc's been usin' em at the gates to screen out bad types. People are a bit nervous these days given the news from away south but all of a sudden these here sort are all over the place, seemingly to help out; bit suspicious if you ask me, them showing up right around the time as they're supposedly most needed, know what I mean? I know they helped out in at Emridy Meadows, an' they're s'posed to be pure of mind an' great servants of right an' all, but I don't mind tellin' you they scares the cods right out of me – er, if you'll pardon the expression, Miss Askyrja. Saw another one o' them once do that looking thing to a feller who didn't take too kindly to it – he let out this great shout, drew a blade and just went for the knight what done it! But out come the knight's sword, slash slash! – and that feller were on th' ground, dead as a hammer.' He shuddered. 'Savage, them people, merciless.'

Askyrja frowned and hunched down. Had this Sir Hostein seen something in her? If he could see into souls, surely he had seen that she was a thief and a blood-traitor? She shuddered, imagining; but he had said nothing. She did not doubt the power she'd experienced but she did not understand it.

The outer Gates were as massive and impressive as the wall itself; oak doors three feet thick and reinforced with six-inch metal bands in their recessed enclosures, under great slots in the ceiling with gleaming portculli waiting above. There was still another, smaller gate waiting at the end of the short tunnel and a few more guards were there, leaning on their spears or blowing on their hands as they stood about a lit brazier to keep warm. 'Not bothering you today, are we, Tom?' Colson snorted sarcastically.

'Naw, mate; nowt t' do w' Sir Hostein on t' job,' one of the men – Tom, evidently – replied evenly. 'E's got it locked up. We're restin' up, savin' ourselves f' the invadin' gobins,' he said and the others guffawed. 'Who's your friend there?' Tom called after him, but he did not reply except to make a foul gesture. Askyrja decided to lift her hood and pulled her blouse laces tight.

He wheeled the cart around onto a dirt lane behind a warehouse and pulled up by an open pair of doors. 'First stop,' he said simply. 'Should be quick. Then we'll get you into the city proper.'

She looked around, confused. 'This… is not all? There is more?'

Colson laughed and pointed southwest. Askyrja looked that way, and saw that the outer wall had continued westward to join another great curtain of stone, this one higher than the outer wall and set with even more massive towers. Guards patrolled slowly along the parapets, spears held high. Set into that wall was another gate, this one even larger than the one they'd just come through. 'Rest of the city's through there, lots more than you see here. This is just inside th'outer gates. The Inner City is loads bigger.'

Askyrja blinked at his words. Was there no end to the industriousness of these people?

A handful of men came out if the building to collect the bundles of planks in the cart and despite Askyrja's offer she let them handle the carrying. 'Who's that, Colson, yer apprentice?' one jeered and Colson, red-faced, hurried back onto the bench. They drove off as the others howled with laughter.

The rest of the afternoon went by quickly; Askyrja did not find it too boring, and she did get to see the outer city for all their stops were north of the inner wall, in the outer town. These were mostly shops and service-places for those outside the wall, but a few other businesses existed as well. All these places had board walls and wooden roof tiles except for a few crude shacks offering mean, cheap goods. Everything here was built differently to home; to last, perhaps, but nearly always well-made and attractive rather than functional, solid and plain.

They made a stop at a temple called the River Temple located beside a boatyer's wharf where pretty ships with furled sails sat awaiting repairs, rocking in the ebbs of the flow, and at another place Colson called a wholesalers, though what they did was wasn't entirely clear to her. Colson said that they would buy goods from his company and sell them to others who would sell them to still other people; another strange Southerner thing. Or an Aerdy thing, she supposed – this must be some Aerdy town on the other side of Grendep Bay, though she knew nothing of the Aerdy themselves.

She also got to see where the wall reached out into the river by the harbour, the one great tower there looming over the Velverdyva River on its huge stone plinth, watching over the quays. Boats plied the water there, gliding along on their sails like great swans or drawing sweeps to cruise along like long, low water beetles, their decks heaped with goods.

For lunch they went to a tavern near the North Gate called the Way Inn where Colson got them both a refreshing ale and ordered food – taking the liberty of ordering for her, she noticed, though she did not complain. Askyrja drank hers down thirstily and Colson refused to let her pay; in fact, he seemed almost offended by the suggestion. He had chosen a good place: it was nice, very tidy and the taverner – a big man in loose trews like a Suel, and a crumpled tam with a little tuft on the top – made no bones of the face that he was a fervent follower of 'the good St. Cuthbert, scourge of wickedness', blessing the food in his god's name though he did not seem to Askyrja's eyes to be a priest. They had boiled eggs sprinkled with salt, fresh eel steaks seethed in milk and some tart salted vegetables she did not recognize. It was excellent and it filled a spot in her she realized was incredibly empty: the days of confusion and disorientation and the two weeks of flight and terror had taken so much from her. The clientele was a mix of merchants, dockworkers and labourers, all of whom took a good look at Askyrja – like all women she could sense when men's eyes were on her – and a few others in one corner that her own eyes kept wandering to.

There were four humans there and a Dwarf, and they were clearly nothing like the Verboncians she'd seen: they wore mail armour, and carried weapons – swords, axes, knives. Their demeanour was different to the Verboboncians, too – they watched those around them carefully, checking people's hands and hips – for weapons, she realized with surprise. They seemed watchful, if not exactly on-edge. She could tell they had money; they were eating steak and drinking wine, lots of it! She noticed that one of them, a middle-aged human, was not armed, and his dress and comportment reminded her very much of Felix; he wore robes instead of mail, with a wide sash on his hips and an assortment of pouches hanging from it. He nervously fingered a staff, too, that leaned on the wall beside him and seemed to radiate power to Askyrja.

It was another mage.

This was the second magic-user of that sort she'd seen – no cleric, this one – and he filled her with the same nervousness that Felix sometimes did. Had, she corrected, reminding herself that all those people she'd known were in the past now. She was away from them, free and, after a fashion, safe.

Though she'd experienced something of arcane magic, like the divine type she knew nothing of it or what it could do. Her ways were the bow, the sword, the tracking of beasts, not eldritch powers summoned from beyond the pale. Did he know Felix, she wondered? Did mages know each other, generally? She shuddered a little and tried to shrink out of sight when he looked her way, which he often did. Was he was trying to read her thoughts? How could she know?

The little group – and the mage, so like Felix – reminded her of… again, she tore her thoughts away from him. She knew he would be there in her mind and in her heart for some time still and it staggered her for a moment that she had buried him only a few days ago? It was so. She looked away, trying to think of something – anything – else, feeling exhausted in her very soul.

Colson noticed her blanche and followed her eyeline to the party of mercenaries. 'Oh yeah,' he said, spooning up some diced egg and potatoes, salted and buttered. 'Them. Yeah, a few more of them round these parts nowadays too,' he said. 'We used to have the odd mercenary coming through: caravan guards, bodyguards, that kinder thing. Some come from out east round Greyhawk, some from Veluna, even Gnomes and Elves from Celine sometimes. Most just pass through.' He stuffed his mouth as he talked so that egg sprayed out in little clouds. 'Now though, seems like there's just a lot more plain ol' wanderers out and about, sniffing 'round and stirring up trouble; adventurers, they calls themselves, as if runnin' aroun' out in the wild rummaging up trouble's some kinda grand adventure! It's hard work as keeps the demons away, as we say round here, not running about in the woods with swords and riling up goblins and the like. Don't trust any of 'em, that's what I says; dangerous, crazy people. I heared o' one group even tried to take on the dragon in the Gnarled Forest – ' her eyes widened a little ' – oh yeah, there's a dragon way back in the Gnarled, they say, a real live one. Few dozen leagues into the woods or summat, big bastard apparently. A bunch of 'em had a go at him sometime a year or so ago – didn't work out, or so I heared, and only one of 'em came back, some kinder… wild woman or somethin'. Heard she made tracks westwards though I dunno what came of her – but a nice girl like you wouldn't want nothin' to do with her, Askyrja, or w' any of 'em.' He shook his head firmly. 'Dangerous, crazy people,' he repeated, shaking his head. 'Safest you stay as far from 'em as you can get.'

He concentrated on his lunch after that, but she glanced often towards the strange adventurers, quietly thinking and wondering. 'Colson,' she said a little later, unsure how to ask. 'who is Walder?'

Colson's eyes widened and he looked up, a little bit of egg falling from his lip. Hastily he wiped it with his sleeve, then touched his chest in that same sign; four points, starting at his sternum and going around to touch the inner side of each of his collarbones, then his navel, and back to his sternum again. Odd. 'Walder, bless him, was the one what started our company,' Colson said, deep and reverent, genuflecting. 'Great man, great man, he was. Kind as a nun but firm in his dealin's and a head for business like a moneycounter. No one never said where he got the money or the plan, but he got the whole thing going, got the costerhouse built, wagons purchased, the lot. He's been gone almost a tenyear now, but I remember fetching and carrying messages for him when I were a lot smaller than now! Wonderful fellow. Everyone in Lumber Lane – that's where the house is – knew him and he were a great man, a great man.' He made the sign again. 'We owe him a lot. Gave us a life and a purpose. A friend in need is a customer on the mend, he'd say. An' You don't build business; you builds people – they builds businesses. Great man,' Colson said again, shaking his head in awe.

'And – he is dead? I am sorry to hear so. How did he die?' she asked, wondering if perhaps a giant or a dragon had slain him in the throes of battle.

'Kicked in the head by a colicky draft horse,' Colson said, tucking in again. 'Out like a light.'

'Oh,' said Askyrja, feeling strangely disappointed.