“You are a much more tractable Marstel,” he remarked as they came to the upper court. “Go about your business; I’ll be in my quarters if you have need of me.”
The false Marstel nodded once and set out for the library, which served as the harmach’s office. Rhovann watched it leave, and glanced up across the castle’s upper courtyard to the Harmach’s Tower. Given the unqualified success of his simulacrum, a feeble old madman locked up in his chambers there had just become nothing more than a tedious liability. As long as Maroth Marstel remained alive, there was always a slight chance that someone might somehow stumble across the inconvenient fact that there were now two Harmach Marstels.
He allowed himself a small smile; after all, he’d been looking forward to this moment for months. “And now for a little bit of tidying up,” he said to himself.
TEN
24 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
A winter fog hung heavily over Hulburg as Geran dressed himself for the journey to Thentia. A Sokol caravan was setting out along the Coastal Way in half an hour, and he intended to slip out of the town by playing the part of one of the caravan guards. Nimessa had provided him with a surcoat in Sokol’s colors of blue and black, and the cold weather gave him the perfect excuse to cover most of his face with a scarf and hood. She’d quietly arranged with her arms-captain for him to join the caravan’s mounted escort; the fellow didn’t know who he was smuggling out of Hulburg, and Geran intended to keep it that way as long as possible. He checked his appearance one last time in the standing mirror in Nimessa’s room, and decided that it was good enough for all but the closest inspection. Of course, that depended on whether they met any of Rhovann’s constructs on the way out of town, and whether the helmed guardians had some means of seeing through common disguises or not.
In that case, I’ll break ranks and make a gallop for it, he told himself. He adjusted his sword belt one last time, slung a pair of saddlebags with a typical sellsword’s traveling kit stuffed inside over his shoulder, and trotted downstairs. Nimessa waited for him in the foyer, wearing a dress of green velvet with high boots-always a good idea in Hulburg’s streets at this time of year-and a heavy fur mantle against the weather.
“It seems you’re ready,” she said. She glanced out the window toward the compound’s courtyard, where the mule teams were being hitched to their wagons, and looked back to him. “Are you certain you want to leave today? You can stay longer if you feel you need to.”
He sensed the unspoken invitation in her offer, and hesitated. He liked Nimessa very much, and it was certainly true that the last two days of hiding in her home had been very pleasant indeed … but strangely enough the time he’d spent with her had finally dispelled the mystery and confusion he’d wrestled with in his heart for months now. Nimessa Sokol wasn’t the one he loved, no matter how desirable he found her, and he thought that her heart wasn’t entirely given to him either. To stay longer and draw out their temporary entanglement would only make that more clear without changing the essential nature of his heart, or hers. Framing his answer in the simplest and most comfortable terms he could find, he said, “I’d better go while I can. You might not have another caravan setting out for a couple of tendays or more. And I don’t want to endanger you any more than I already have. You’ve risked too much on my behalf already.”
“I understand,” she said, and her wry smile showed him that she did understand. She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, and drew a deep breath. “As for the question of danger, I’ll be the judge of my own risks. I’ll send word to our representatives in Thentia to extend you any help they can if you need to slip back into Hulburg again.”
“I appreciate the offer,” he said, “but the next time I return to Hulburg will be the last. There will be no more retreats. One way or the other, I’ll settle with Rhovann and Marstel and put things right. I have to.”
Nimessa nodded, and drew back. “We’ll help as we can, then. A good journey to you, Geran.”
He opened the door and stepped outside. The mists were cold and damp, the sort of weather that would slowly chill a traveler all day long until no fire or bedroll could warm him when he finally stopped. He made his way over to the mount waiting for him and swung himself up into the saddle as Nimessa went to have a few final words with the caravan master. Commerce in and out of Hulburg slowed to a trickle in the depths of winter, but the mines in the Galena foothills worked around the year, and so Hulburg’s smelters did as well; the Sokol wagons were loaded with silver ingots, bar iron, and a few furs taken by trappers in the high country. With a jingle of harness and the nickering of the horses, the caravan passed under the gates to the Sokol tradeyard and into Hulburg’s streets.
Geran watched carefully for any sign that Council Guards or helmed guardians were waiting to swoop down and seize him as he left the concession’s shelter, but no enemies charged in as they left. The master turned the caravan toward the left and began to climb up Keldon Head toward the Coastal Way beyond, and still no hue or cry came. But up ahead in the fog Geran spotted two tall gray figures looming-a pair of the helmed guardians, standing motionless on either side of the road leaving the town. He surreptitiously drew his scarf up over the lower part of his face and tugged down on his hood. Slowly the caravan creaked and plodded ahead, and he found himself thinking again of the whispers he’d heard about the things and Sarth’s speculations about the creatures speaking with each other. Do they see as men do through those blind helms of theirs? Geran wondered. Or do they somehow sense identity without recognizing facial features?
He tightened his grip on the reins, ready to spur his mount into a desperate gallop if the helmed guardians challenged him, and kept his eyes fixed on the back of the horse’s head as he rode past the gray constructs. But they did not stir as he went by. Resisting the urge to look back, Geran breathed a small sigh of relief. Apparently the creatures weren’t mind readers of some kind, which was a small comfort at least.
For the next four or five miles, Geran kept listening for the sound of galloping hoofbeats coming up the road behind the caravan, but no cries of pursuit or bands of Council Guard riders came. Finally he allowed himself to relax, and began to spend more time keeping an eye on the sodden landscape around them. Rhovann is clever and ruthless, but he’s not omniscient, he reminded himself. He can be beaten … although how in the world the Hulmaster army could deal with scores of guardians that seemed almost impossible to hurt, Geran couldn’t say.
He stayed with the caravan for two full days as it crept along the Coastal Way toward Thentia, just in case they met some far-ranging patrol of Council Guards or spies of Rhovann’s. On the morning of the third day he informed the caravan master that he was departing, and rode on ahead to spare himself another day of plodding alongside the slow-moving wagons. An easy day’s ride brought him to the gates of Lasparhall in the late afternoon, as the fog finally lifted and the weather began to grow cold again. At the manor’s front door, he swung himself down from his horse, and pushed his soaked hood back from his face. He rubbed at his back, glad to be done with the day’s travel.
Two Shieldsworn stood guard by the front door. They came to attention as they recognized him. “The Lord Hulmaster’s returned!” one called inside. He motioned for them to stand easy as stablehands trotted out to look after his mount and he climbed wearily up the steps to the door.
He was met there by a stocky, round-faced soldier. “Welcome back, Lord Geran,” Sergeant Kolton said. The blunt old sergeant gave Geran a quick grin, and then turned to the younger warriors nearby. “Well, don’t just stand there. Give the Lord Hulmaster a hand with his saddlebags!”