There’s no sense in wishing for this to go away, he told himself. Before he could reconsider the intent growing in his thoughts, he faced the rest of House Hulmaster and spoke. “Tomorrow, we bury Uncle Grigor,” he said. He let the words stand for a moment to let the others think on them. “But the day after, we begin the war to retake Hulburg. Mother, I think it might be a good idea to take Erna and her children into hiding in Selune’s temple-Aunt Terena too, if she’s willing to go. Too many people know we’re here, and we have enemies who command powerful magic. Natali and Kirr would be safer somewhere else. Kara, your task is to build the Shieldsworn and any exiled Hulburgans willing to join us into an army that can defeat Marstel’s Council Guard. Hire sellswords, recruit adventuring companies, make deals with the merchant costers of the Moonsea, whatever is required. I want to be able to march in the spring.”
Kara nodded, but a frown creased her brow. “You have some other purpose in mind, don’t you?”
He met her eyes, and let the anger that had simmered in him for days put steel into his voice. “Vengeance,” he said. “Before I do anything else, those who ordered Grigor’s murder are going to die under my blade.”
FIVE
17 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Six days after Grigor Hulmaster’s burial, Geran set foot in Hulburg again. He trudged alongside the mud-spattered wagons of a Double Moon caravan, playing the part of a Vastar sellsword. He’d signed on to escort the caravan from Thentia’s crowded merchant yards to Hulburg for a half-dozen gold coins. While the winter ice held in Hulburg’s harbor, the only commerce with the city consisted of a bare handful of overland wagon trains making their way along the windswept coastal road. It was a hard and uncomfortable trek in the depths of winter, but there was money to be made, and so the great trading companies sent their goods creaking along the trails as weather and opportunity permitted.
Geran’s hair was bleached to a dark blond, and he wore a fringe of yellow-dyed beard on his face. A heavy coat of burgundy-colored leather sewn with steel studs hung down to his knees, and he wore a shapeless, baglike hat of the same color. He’d cultivated a relentless pipe habit, marching along from dawn to dusk with a pipestem clamped between his teeth and as often as not a wisp of aromatic smoke ringing his head. It had taken every bit of stubbornness he possessed to keep Kara from sending disguised Shieldsworn along with him. She’d argued that it was beyond foolish for him to venture into Hulburg alone, risking capture-and most likely a swift, unpleasant death-at the hands of Hulburg’s enemies. He’d finally won his way by persuading Kara that a small number of Shieldsworn wouldn’t substantially add to his safety, while a large number following him about would simply make it much more likely that his ruse would be noticed. Even then he’d had to threaten to renounce the lordship altogether if that was what it would take for her to agree that he could set out for Hulburg on his own.
At the Double Moon tradeyard, Geran stood in line with the other caravan guards to be paid off, complained a 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.