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  Thirty-five Twinmoons later, Sybert Gregoro died in his sleep. Brynne sent word to his estranged son, a farmer in northern Falkan, who replied in a careful script that she and Sallax should send along his father’s personal effects and savings but should consider the tavern their own. They kept the letter closely guarded in a strongbox under the bar and left Sybert’s chambers empty for seven full Twinmoons before they felt comfortable taking over.

  It was a longer time before she and Sallax started calling Greentree Tavern their own. For many Twinmoons, Brynne expected Sybert’s son to arrive and claim his inheritance, but he never had, and the people of Estrad Village were glad the old man had left his business to the hard-working siblings he had fostered.

  It was dark by the time Steven, Mark and Brynne reached the edge of Estrad Village. Steven was glad of the darkness: it would help camouflage their strange-looking clothing.

  ‘If we’re going to be around here for any length of time, we ought to get some other clothes,’ he observed. ‘Your red sweater stands out like a beacon among all this homespun fabric.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Mark said, appearing to notice his pullover for the first time all day. ‘But before that, we have to do something with her. Look for something we can use to tie her up.’ Steven pulled the belt from around his waist and, taking his friend’s lead, Mark did the same.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Brynne implored. ‘Are we not going to my tavern? I can get you food, and Sallax has clothing there that will fit both of you.’

  ‘Into the lion’s den, my dear?’ Mark asked sarcastically. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll find food and clothing and be back to get you. We need to meet Gilmour, because he’s the only other person who seems to understand we’re not here to overthrow the damned government, or to infiltrate your resistance efforts, but I certainly don’t trust you enough to follow you into town.’ Mark felt a pang of sadness as he watched her frown with disappointment. She was lovely. He fought the urge to gently push her hair back off her face.

  ‘I don’t want anything to do with you two either,’ she spat. ‘Why will you not trust me to take you to Gilmour now?’

  Steven said, ‘Because we don’t believe you know where he is. None of you were expecting that attack this morning, so I don’t suppose your friends are all snugly tucked in their beds. We’ll find food, steal some clothing and be right back for you.’ Brynne struggled against the bonds that held her firmly to a handy tree trunk. They were still several hundred paces from the edge of the village and although screaming would do her no good, Steven was taking no chances; he tore a sleeve from his shirt and tied it tightly across her mouth.

  ‘Try to relax,’ he whispered as he and Mark turned to make their way stealthily into the village. ‘We’ll be back in a tick.’

  Unable to respond, Brynne’s eyes clouded with anger and she lashed out at the foreigners, but her kick sailed wide of its targets.

  ‘You think she was lying?’ Steven asked a short while later.

  ‘I’m sure she was lying.’

  ‘That’s too bad. I’ve always wanted to meet a woman who owned her own bar,’ Steven mused.

  Mark chuckled. ‘Yeah, me too, but I was hoping mine would be on 17th Street in Denver.’

  ‘Maybe we can find Gilmour at Greentree Tavern,’ Steven guessed. ‘Why else would she want to get us there?’

  ‘Sallax,’ Mark commented dryly.

  ‘Oh, you’re right. He does tend to shoot first and ask questions never, doesn’t he.’ Steven spoke in hushed tones as they approached a row of single-storey stone buildings with clay-tiled roofs. ‘I say we risk it. Maybe he won’t try to kill us if he knows we have her tied up somewhere.’

  ‘Let’s find clothes first. We certainly can’t ask for directions looking like this.’ Mark crept alongside one of the buildings and peered through an open window to where a family was sitting around a fireplace, talking and laughing together.

  ‘Not this one,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s keep going.’ They moved to the next window, through which Mark could see a family making preparations for their evening meal.

  ‘As great as it smells in there, I say we keep looking,’ Mark said.

  Steven’s mouth watered at the aroma emanating from the warmly lit kitchen, but he nodded in silent agreement.

  Crawling on all fours, they discovered the windows in the next house were covered with pine shutters. Through a small crack between the wooden blinds Steven watched a burly, powerful-looking man don a wide-brimmed hat and exit out the opposite side of the house into the muddy street. Steven watched for a full five minutes, in case the man returned quickly, or other family members turned up. From his vantage point at the window he could see clearly through two rooms, but he wasn’t sure about the rest of the building.

  Mark grew uneasy waiting. ‘What do you see?’ he whispered at last.

  ‘Nothing,’ Steven answered. ‘One big guy went out the front, but I haven’t seen anyone since.’

  ‘All right, let’s go in.’ Mark began making his way around the side of the house. The front door was made of wood, with a length of hide hanging from a small hole drilled through the centre board. No locks. Pulling down on the leather strap, Steven felt a latching device inside come free and the door swung open easily on its leather hinges.

  The two men made their way rapidly through the house collecting food and clothing. It was sparsely decorated but comfortable, with a small stone fireplace in the bedchamber, a pile of logs and kindling next to it.

  Mark spotted the straw mattress and, acting on instinct, lifted a corner of the bedding to find a small pouch and a long narrow sword in a smooth leather scabbard. He emptied the contents of the pouch into one hand: silver coins. Although different sizes, they all bore an image of the same man embossed on one side, with an inscription Mark was unable to read on the other.

  ‘Well, thank God for us some things don’t change,’ he said. ‘People are the same everywhere: the family fortune is stashed under the mattress. I guess they can’t trust the banks here in Rona either.’

  ‘Hey, you can trust my bank,’ Steven retorted.

  ‘Sure, the bank you robbed.’ Mark laughed, then changed the subject. ‘I’m taking this sword, too.’

  ‘What are you going to do with a sword?’ Steven asked, belting a long tunic around his waist and stuffing what food he could find into a cloth pack.

  ‘Hopefully, protect myself from lunatics like Sallax. You should find some kind of weapon as well, my friend. He doesn’t seem terribly fond of you either.’

  Mark moved through the back room towards a row of windows facing the forest. On a plain wooden table was a long hunting knife similar to the one he had taken from Brynne. ‘Here,’ he said and handed the weapon to his roommate. ‘Take this one. I’ll keep Brynne’s.’

  Finding nothing more to pillage, Steven and Mark returned to the front door.

  ‘We should leave him something. I feel bad. We’ve taken everything this guy has,’ Steven said guiltily.

  ‘C’mon, let’s just go.’ Mark gripped Steven’s shoulder. ‘Of course you feel bad. We’re thieves. We just robbed this guy’s house. It’s not right, but with his help, we might just live through this nightmare.’

  Steven moved back through the house, removed two ballpoint pens from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘There, he can make a fortune inventing the disposable writing instrument.’

  ‘Compliments of the First National Bank of Idaho Springs, I assume?’

  ‘Home of the lowest interest small business loans on the Front Range,’ Steven said, as if reading a cue card.

  ‘Great, leave him the phone number. Howard will appreciate that.’ Mark opened the wooden doorway a few inches and peered into the street beyond. ‘We’re clear. Let’s go.’

  ‘Right.’ Steven moved outside. ‘Now we have to find Greentree Tavern and, hopefully, Gilmour.’

  ‘If he’s still alive.’ Mark sounded dubious.

  The roomma
tes asked directions of an elderly woman, who spent several minutes explaining how to find Greentree Square. Once he’d grasped the directions, Mark tried to interrupt her, but she continued talking as if the two foreigners were the first people with whom she had spoken in half a lifetime.

  Steven was feeling stifled, despite a lingering Twinmoon breeze and the evening’s cooler temperatures. He was beginning to regret wearing his tweed jacket under his newly stolen tunic – he’d remove it as soon as they were alone, but for now he had to listen, somewhat impatiently, to the garrulous old woman while sweating through his layers.

  Her directions, although lengthy, were easy to follow and they soon reached a busy main street that appeared to run north. Mark suggested they stick to the side streets that parallelled the wide thoroughfare, to avoid Ronan freedom fighters or Malakasian soldiers who might be searching for them. It wasn’t long before the road opened into an expansive trade and commercial area, bigger than they might have expected for a village. Even though night had fallen, carts of dried meats, fresh fish, cheeses, tanned hides and wine still lined the small village common: it looked like a tiny grass island in the centre of a divided highway.

  Greentree Square.

  The evening breeze caused torches illuminating the area to flicker as if the light itself were alive, and shadows cast by those hurrying through town seemed to move in unnatural ways. Greentree Square bustled with activity, much of it caused by Malakasian soldiers moving deliberately through the buildings and back streets, obviously searching for someone, and the Ronans steering clear of occupation forces by taking shelter in any building that would allow them a quick entry through bolted doors. Locals working their carts raised collars, pulled hat brims down or stepped into shadows as Malakasian patrols crisscrossed the streets.

  Mark looked out on the bustling activity for several moments before melting back into the shadows where Steven waited. ‘We can’t go out there,’ he whispered, ‘they’re checking everyone.’

  ‘Let’s get Brynne,’ Steven said through a mouthful of Ronan bread and cheese he’d pulled from a pocket. The bread was hard, but full of flavour. ‘At least the food’s edible. We can find someplace to spend the night, eat properly, get some sleep, then come back here tomorrow.’

  Mark considered the suggestion briefly. ‘You’re right. We have food. We just need a safe place to get some rest. I think—’

  Steven abruptly reached out to cover his friend’s mouth as several villagers hurried along the street away from the common. Mark was relieved to see one of them was black. Apparently he was not the only person with dark skin in the village. From the shadows, the Coloradoans could easily overhear their conversation.

  ‘Well, didn’t you see the smoke?’ a villager asked. ‘It was higher than the tallest spire at the palace, as if the whole place was on fire.’

  ‘I smelled it all the way down at the alehouse. It was burning pitch, I’m certain,’ another said confidently. ‘I know that smell from that stint I did in the shipyards. It may be Twinmoons ago, but it’s not a smell you forget.’

  ‘I hear there were grettans in the forest as well, and that’s why the rutting horsecocks abandoned the siege.’ The first villager laughed, adding, ‘Their horses were tethered in the forest, a right perfect breakfast set out just for them.’

  ‘Grettans, Dakin?’ a third voice asked dubiously. ‘You’ve had too much wine again. There are no grettans in Rona and you shouldn’t go on spreading such rumours.’ The voices faded as the Ronans moved on and Steven motioned that they should begin heading back the way they had come, away from Greentree Square.

  They turned a corner into a dark street that ran between two rows of small businesses, all closed for the evening. This small street was much older, an indication of when Estrad Village had first been built: the buildings were similar to the house they’d burgled out near the edge of the forest, stone, with clay-tiled roofing, but here the foundations had sunk unevenly into the ground. In the darkness, they looked like a row of untended gravestones that had shifted haphazardly in a heavy rainstorm; several had sunk forward, as if they were slowly falling on their faces. Steven looked up: their roof peaks nearly met over his head.

  Despite the darkness, Mark knew this street faced south because as soon as they turned the corner, he felt a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean. It struck him in the face and brought some small relief from the humid evening.

  ‘Pass me another piece of that bread,’ he asked softly.

  His roommate complied. ‘The food isn’t too bad. That cheese is strong, but not so horrible if you eat it with something. Preferably a decent port. I wonder if they even have drinkable wine in this godforsaken pit?’ There was a short pause as Steven sniffed a piece of dried meat, trying to determine what it was. ‘I’ve no idea what animal this came from – I’ll wait for Brynne to tell us before I try any.’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe it’s grettan,’ Mark said, echoing the villager who happened by them earlier.

  In the distance, two figures entered the side street and turned towards them. One carried a small torch and Steven could see they were shadowed by a large, mangy dog. Even in the dark it looked undernourished. ‘Oh, no,’ he groaned.

  ‘It should be all right,’ Mark assured him. ‘We’re dressed the part. We can speak the language. We’ll wish them a good evening and continue on our way.’

  ‘You’re right, I guess.’ Steven was afraid. He had the hunting knife, but he already knew he would never be able to stab anyone. Firing a bow from a distance into a group of attackers, perhaps he could manage that, but just straight-out stabbing someone would be a more difficult undertaking. His life would have to be in immediate danger for him to use a knife in his own defence.

  As the two Ronans approached, Mark slowed his own stride noticeably.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Steven asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mark answered, staring into the evening wind. ‘Something seems strangely familiar.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing about this place that’s familiar to me at all.’

  Mark shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s the sea breeze. It’s been a long time since I’ve smelled a sea breeze.’

  Steven sniffed the air as well, stopped and sniffed again. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘there is something.’

  The strangers were almost upon them when Mark turned suddenly and whispered, ‘The old man’s tobacco.’ He looked anxiously down the street to where the slowly advancing figures had begun to take on a more definite shape. ‘Shit, it’s Sallax and Gilmour.’

  Steven started twitching in fright. For a moment he thought of turning to flee, but Mark gripped his upper arm, holding him fast.

  ‘It’s okay, Steven. We needed to find them.’

  Sallax and Gilmour were about twenty paces away when Mark cried, ‘Wait right there!’

  Sallax drew his rapier in a fluid motion and was about to charge when Gilmour put a hand firmly on his chest, holding him back.

  ‘No, Sallax, put that away,’ he said calmly. The tall Ronan thought for a moment about defying the old man, then returned the blade to its scabbard.

  ‘We mean you no harm,’ Gilmour offered in near-perfect English. ‘Actually, as I started to mention this morning, I have been waiting for you for some time now.’

  ‘You speak their language?’ Sallax was in shock.

  ‘Of course,’ Gilmour answered, ‘although it is a difficult language to master: too many odd rules one must break too frequently.’ He turned back to the foreigners. ‘Please, let us approach,’ he asked in English.

  ‘Come on slowly,’ Mark called back, ‘but remember, we have Brynne.’

  ‘Of course, of course, my friends,’ Gilmour said genially, ‘I’m certain she’s fine. Please, let’s find a place where we can talk. I will explain as much as I can for you.’

  ‘Can you get us home?’ Steven asked, feeling more confident.

  ‘I can help you get started, but t
he path back home for you will be long.’ As the Ronans drew close, Gilmour reached out one hand.

  ‘I believe this is how you do it,’ he said, a little uncertain. Steven shook his hand. ‘That’s right … I’m Steven Taylor and this is Mark Jenkins.’

  ‘I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.’ The old man shook hands with Mark as well. ‘I am Gilmour Stow and this is Sallax Farro.’ Sallax made no move until Steven reached out to him, then he grudgingly copied Gilmour.

  ‘Where did you learn our language?’ Mark asked, ‘Not that we’re not grateful.’

  ‘I have learned many languages, over many Twinmoons,’ Gilmour said, ‘but we are being rude.’ He placed a comforting hand on Sallax’s shoulder and switched back to Ronan. ‘We should speak Common.’

  ‘That’s better, Gilmour,’ Sallax growled.

  The dog following them up the street appeared to be a stray out looking for food. It sniffed at the cloth pack Steven carried and, obligingly, Steven gave the scrawny animal a piece of the unidentified dried meat. The dog devoured the morsel in a second and nudged Steven again with its nose.

  ‘Go on, now,’ Steven told him quietly, ‘go home.’

  ‘You shouldn’t feed him,’ Sallax spoke up. ‘He will follow you for days.’

  ‘Too late,’ Steven replied. ‘Well, he can have this meat. We weren’t certain whether it was safe to eat, anyway.’ Steven offered another piece to the dog, but surprisingly, the hungry beast didn’t take it. Steven offered again, pushing the meat towards the dog’s nose, but still the animal ignored him. Suddenly Steven detected a foul odour, a sweetish sickly smell emanating from the animal at his heels. He knelt down and found the dog frozen into immobility.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Steven asked, and leapt backwards as the stray began to decompose rapidly, rotting before his eyes.

  ‘It’s an almor!’ Gilmour cried in alarm. ‘Quick, you must run!’ He grabbed Sallax by the sleeve and shoved him roughly down the street. Neither Steven nor Mark waited around to discover what an almor was: they took off at a full sprint after the fleeing partisans.