Swordmage (9 page)

“They seem to be doing well,” Hamil observed. “The harmach must be making a fortune on his rents.”

Kara shook her head. “Not as much as you might think. To pay off old debts the harmach borrowed heavily from the merchant guilds, and he had to rent out the concessions for a pittance by way of payment. The foreign merchants are keeping the better part of what they’re cutting down in our forests and digging out of our ground. Except, of course, for the so-called ‘licensing fees’ Sergen and his Merchant Council capture from the whole business.”

They came to the Burned Bridge and drove over the

rickety wooden decking. It was covered by a dilapidated roof, and the hoofbeats echoed in the shadows of the bridge. Geran scratched at his jaw, thinking. He didn’t like the idea of using Hulmaster land in such a way, especially if the harmach saw little return on the rights he rented out, but it wasn’t really his place to say if it was a good idea or not. “What’s Sergen’s connection to the Merchant Council?”

“He’s the keeper of duties—the harmach’s representative on the council. Uncle Grigor put him in charge of releasing concessions, negotiating their prices, and administering the resulting trade.”

So your cousin decides which properties will be up for bidding, who can purchase a concession, how much they’ll pay the harmach, and how much they’ll pay the council he presides over? Hamil observed silently. If he were a corrupt man, that would be an awful temptation. I’m sure that isn’t the case, though.

Geran glanced back at his friend but didn’t reply. He was not at all sure that Sergen wasn’t corruptible. A younger, more vigorous harmach might have been vigilant enough to check any ignoble impulses someone in Sergen’s position could fall prey to … but Grigor was not a young man anymore, and it seemed he relied on Sergen to look after his interests for him.

They drove on in silence for a time and began to climb again. The road wound through the mournful Spires on the town’s western side, then followed the flanks of Keldon Head, the windswept promontory that sheltered Hulburg and its bay. The town’s cemetery was atop the long, bare hill. A long time ago the ruins surrounding Hulburg had been plagued by undead, and so the townsfolk chose to bury their dead in the safe ground of the hilltop, well outside any lingering influences from the days before the town’s refounding a hundred years ago. The cheerless stone markers and weathered mausoleums of the cemetery rose into view as the carriage neared the hilltop.

“Kara,” Geran said quietly, “what can you tell me about Jarad’s death? The harmach said that he was found alone in the Highfells, but that’s all I know.”

Kara briefly met his eyes, then sighed and returned her gaze to the road. “A shepherd found him by the door of a barrow mound up in the east Highfells, perhaps five or six miles from town. We’ve had a rash of crypt-breaking in the last few months—someone’s been opening barrows and tombs, looking for funereal treasure, I suppose. You know how dangerous that can be in Hulburg, so Jarad began to search for those responsible. We think he finally managed to catch the tomb robbers in the act, but he was overpowered and killed.”

“He took no one with him?” Hamil asked.

“No, he was alone. I don’t know if he just chanced upon the tomb robbers, decided to set watch on a barrow he thought they might visit, or heard some rumor that led him to that spot.”

The halfling nodded, thinking. Kara drove the carriage up to the cemetery gates and halted the team. She set the brake and hopped down; Geran and Hamil followed. “This way,” she said.

The sunshine was bright on top of the hill, and the wind rustled and hissed through the long grasses. They followed Kara through rows of plain stone markers, some crumbling beneath decades of moss and weathering, others bright and new. She stopped by a raised stone bier surmounted by a heavy sepulcher of new white stone, its lid inscribed with Amaunator’s sunburst emblem. Lettering chiseled carefully at the foot of the tomb read simply:

Jarad Erstenwold, Captain of the Shieldsworn. His valor, compassion, and faithfulness shall not be forgotten.

“Uncle Grigor paid for the monument,” Kara said quietly. “He thought the world of Jarad. It’s been hard for him.”

Geran stood silent for a long moment. He reached out and rested his hand on the cold stone. It simply didn’t seem possible that Jarad truly rested under that heavy slab. Behind

him, Kara and Hamil exchanged looks and retreated a short distance, leaving him alone with his old friend. “Jarad,” he whispered. He felt as if he should say something more, maybe give in to tears or try to find some shadow of a smile in a good memory, but there was nothing in his heart except a dull, cold ache. He let his fingers brush over the sun symbol atop the tomb, following the design aimlessly. I never knew he thought of himself as a follower of Amaunator, Geran reflected. Jarad was not a particularly religious man. Was it something the harmach had picked out for him? Or Mirya? Or the Tresterfins? He was engaged when he was killed, after all.

I wonder if I would have come home for his wedding, Geran thought dully. He hoped he would have. But ever since the terrible day when he’d left Myth Drannor, he’d avoided things that reminded him of who he used to be. Maybe he wouldn’t have shown up after all.

“I’m sorry for that, Jarad,” Geran said to the cold stone. “You deserved better from me. Everyone here did, I think.” He heard the steady rhythm of hooves on stone and looked up. Someone else was driving up to the cemetery in a simple wagon. He put it out of his mind and let his hand fall from the stone.

“Ten years ago I would’ve followed the men who killed you to the ends of the world,” he murmured softly. “I think you’d want me to look after things before I set out again. I’ll see what I can do. And if I happen to run across the men you met out in the Highfells while I’m at it, well, so much the better.”

Footsteps swished through the long grass. Geran looked up again. Mirya Erstenwold stood watching him, a small bunch of wildflowers in her hands. She dropped her gaze to the ground and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“It’s nothing.” Geran noticed a small stone vase at the foot of the tomb, near where he stood. A small spray of wildflowers rested there, faded with the weather. He retreated a few steps and made room for her. “I’ll leave.”

“There’s no need for that.” She knelt by the foot of the

tomb and began to remove the old flowers from the vase. “I met your friend Hamil. He seems a good man.”

“You don’t know him very well yet, then.”

Mirya gave him a bleak smile. She replaced the old bouquet with the fresh one and took a moment to arrange the flowers. “I’ve come up here once a month since my mother passed,” she said without looking at him. “It’s a fair spot in the summertime. Sometimes I’ll bring Selsha for a picnic.”

“Did she know Jarad well?” Geran asked.

Mirya closed her eyes and nodded. “Aye. He supped with us once or twice a tenday and was always stopping by the warehouse. She cried for days when I told her that he was gone.”

Geran’s stern resolve cracked at the idea of a heartbroken little girl who’d never see someone she loved again and couldn’t understand why he wasn’t coming home. It ached like a cold knife in the center of his chest. He was a grown man, and he’d seen his share of death and misfortune, but the gtief of a child was a damned hard thing to dwell on. He sank down against an old moss-covered tomb next to Jarad’s with his hand over his eyes.

“Ah, Mirya, I’m so sorry,” he breathed. “If I’d been here… .”

Mirya watched him in silence, and her stern expression softened. “Geran, what happened to Jarad was no fault of yours. Aye, things might’ve been different if you’d been here in Hulburg. But if you hadn’t gone off to find your fortune in the south, who’s to say that someone else wouldn’t have died because you weren’t there to stand by their side? Who in turn might have died because those people didn’t live? And even if you’d come home to Hulburg before now, well, fate might have called you and Jarad to some ill end years ago. Why, if I hadn’t—” Mirya stopped herself abruptly and sighed. She rose and brushed her hands against her skirts. “Anyway, there’s no point to wishing on might-have-beens.”

He looked down between his boots at the wiry grass, growing by a weathered stone marker so old that its inscription

was only a set of illegible dimples in its surface. He knew that Mirya was right, and that there was no telling how things could have turned out if he’d made different choices… the duel against Rhovann in the glades of Myth Drannor, for example. He knew that he had no real cause to blame himself for failing Jarad. But it was the simplest and straightest course for his grief.

“I know you’re right,” he said. “I know it. But somehow I can’t help but feel that this didn’t have to happen.” He kicked idly at the grass, pushed himself upright, and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “I’ll be on my way.”

She met his eyes briefly and found a small smile for him. “Take care of yourself, Geran Hulmaster.”

Geran took a deep breath, turned, and made his way to the carriage where Kara and Hamil waited. They watched him pull himself up into the seat, adjusting his cloak to keep his sword arm free. “I’m ready to go,” he said to Kara.

Kara nodded and said, “We can come back any time you want.” She took the reins in hand.

“Geran, wait!” Mirya hurried up to the carriage, holding her skirts. She stopped and studied him, evidently considering what she wanted to say. Finally she spoke. “Listen, likely there’s nothing at all to what I aim to tell you, but I thought you ought to know.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Several days past, I thought I saw something … Jarad had an elfmade dagger that he often wore. It was a handsome thing with a hilt of silver wire and a pommel in the shape of a sprig of holly. I think he got it from you.”

Geran leaned forward in the seat. “Yes, he did. I sent him that blade shortly after I arrived in Myth Drannor. It was nothing, really, just an ordinary dagger of a coronal’s guardsman, but I wanted to send him something elfmade, something to show that I’d visited the city of the elves. When we were boys we always talked about going there someday.”

“It was nought to you, perhaps, but Jarad treasured it. He wore it at his belt always.” Mirya’s voice grew flat. “I think I

saw that dagger on the hip of a hired sword by the name of Anfel Urdinger. He’s in the pay of House Veruna. He and a few other Verunas were keeping watch on Erstenwolds from across the street. Like as not they were keeping count of my business to work out the Merchant Council’s cut.”

Hamil looked at Geran. “If it’s a common design as you say, it may not be the same dagger. Or even if it is, it’s possible that this man Urdinger simply got it from someone else— won it throwing dice, traded for it, stole it, who knows?”

“Aye, your friend may have the right of it,” Mirya acknowledged. “But this I do know: Jarad wasn’t afraid to interfere with Merchant Council business when he had a mind to, and interfering with Merchant Council business means interfering with Veruna business. If you mean to start asking questions, then you might start with asking whether House Veruna is interested in tomb-breaking out in the Highfells.”

“Mirya, you should’ve told me about this,” Kara said with a frown. “If there’s any reason to suspect Urdinger, I need to know. Do you realize what you’re suggesting? If you’re right, House Veruna’s armsmen ambushed and killed the captain of the Shieldsworn. That’s a direct attack on the harmach.”

“You were away up at the northern posts, Kara,” Mirya replied. “Besides, what I saw’s no proof of anything. Even if I’ve got the right of it, well, as Hamil said, Urdinger could claim that he came by that dagger in any number of ways. All I’ve got are my suspicions.”

Geran met Mirya’s eyes. “I take your suspicions seriously, Mirya. I’ll remember what you’ve told me. And I’ll keep my eyes open for this fellow Urdinger. He’s got some questions to answer.”

Kara shifted in her seat to look at both Geran and Mirya. Her armor rasped and jingled. “Geran, you’ve got to move with care,” she said. “You can’t just challenge this man in the street, regardless of Mirya’s suspicions. The harmach’s law applies to you as well as everyone in Hulburg—especially to you, since we can’t afford to have anyone say the Hulmasters are above the law in this city. Besides, you might be playing

into House Veruna’s hands. Someone arranged for Isolmar to meet a professional duelist four years ago. Whoever arranged that for Harmach Grigor’s own son wouldn’t hesitate to arrange something similar for you.”

“I hear you, Kara. I’ll choose my steps carefully, never you fear.” Geran leaned back in his seat and motioned at the road leading back down to the town below. “Now, before I go looking for this Veruna man, I want to take a look at the place where Jarad was found. Could you take me to the barrow?”

Kara nodded once and flicked the reins. The horses whickered and leaned into the traces, trotting on the mossy old cobblestones. As they turned out of the cemetery gate and began to descend, Geran glanced back up the hill at the lonely stone markers amid the long grass. Mirya stood there with the dead, faded wildflowers in her hands, watching him drive away until a bend in the road hid her from his view.

Six

XToon was approaching when Sergen Hulmaster’s jT^( chamberlain informed him that Lady Darsi’s carriage was hurrying up the long drive leading to the broad porch of his villa. Sergen arose from his bath, allowed the bath attendants he’d chosen for the morning to dry him and drape a robe over his shoulders, and dismissed them with an absent wave. As the girls hurried away, he belted his robe, stepped into slippers warmed by the fire, and donned a plush lounging coat against the cold. Then he went to see to his guest.

Darsi Veruna waited in the house’s great room, sipping from a goblet of mulled wine already provided by Sergen’s servants. She wore a long green winter dress with a subtle trim of ermine fur at collar and cuff, with a matching fur-trimmed hat over her long, golden hair. “Ah, there you are, Sergen,” she said in a rich, melodious voice. “Have I taken you from your morning’s sport?”