Instead of turning up Plank Street toward Erstenwold’s, he walked past Plank to Fish Street and turned north there. He could think of a few ways to get into Erstenwold’s without being seen. If he remembered the neighborhood, the tinsmith’s shop might have exactly what he needed. He hurried up a half block to the building where old Kettar had his workshop and house, only to find the place closed up with its windows dark.
“Now what?” he muttered, peering in the window. He could see empty worktables, a cold furnace, a few furnishings that had evidently been left behind. What happened to Kettar? he wondered. The tinsmith had been puttering away in his workshop on Fish Street since Geran had been a young boy. Had the tinsmith simply packed up and abandoned town? Had his store been seized through one of Marstel’s newly enacted taxes? Or had some gang of Chainsmen or Cinderfists run him out of his own shop? He scowled into the dirty window, and took a couple of steps back to see if the private rooms behind the shop were occupied or not. A single slat of wood had been nailed across the door, and a tattered leather scroll tube hung by it; he looked inside and found a notice of confiscation from the Tower. Taxes, then, he thought to himself. Hopefully Kettar and his family had a roof over their heads and a little money to get by on, wherever they were.
He glanced up and down the street, decided that no one was paying him any special attention, and pried the slat loose enough to let himself inside. Kettar’s misfortune provided him with a very handy bit of cover for what he had in mind next. It might look a little suspicious for an ordinary caravan guard to be skulking about in an empty property, but if anyone troubled him, he could just claim that he was looking for a place to set up shop and had a mind to buy the tinsmith’s store if it came up for auction. He crossed to the rear of the store and peeked out a window that looked down the alleyway.
Thirty yards away stood the back of Erstenwold’s. Fixing his eye on a small window in the rear of the Erstenwold’s building, he built a mental picture of the storeroom beyond. Closing his eyes, he summoned the arcane sigils of the spell to his mind and said softly, “Sieroch!” An instant of darkness-
— and he stood in a dim, cluttered pantry. Hoping that Rhovann hadn’t thought to ward the entirety of the storehouse, he let himself out into the hall beyond. From a short distance away he could hear the clatter and murmuring voices of the clerks and customers by the store’s front counter. He smiled a little, and started down the hall.
Mirya suddenly bustled around the corner in one of the practical wool dresses she favored in the wintertime, this one a light blue in color. Her arms were full of blankets, and her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid. An absent frown shadowed her wide blue eyes. Geran’s heart lifted at the sight of her familiar features; he hadn’t realized how much he missed her. Then Mirya caught sight of him and let out a startled gasp, dropping her armload as she suddenly recoiled. “What-you shouldn’t be back here!” she spluttered. Then, before Geran could even get a word out, her eyes flew open wide in recognition. “Wait a moment-Geran?”
He motioned for her to lower her voice. “Yes, it’s me,” he said. “Forgive me for sneaking in, but I thought it better to avoid being seen.”
“By the Dark Lady, but you gave me a fright! Never do that again!” She stooped to pick up the blankets; he kneeled beside her and helped her scoop them up. When they stood again, she scowled at him and said, “It’s no help at all that you’re dressed like an outlander and your hair’s that awful color. I thought some Cinderfist ruffian had broken in to rob me.”
“I am sorry, Mirya. Truly I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Hmmph. Well, you can wait back in the counting room. I’ll be along as soon as I tell Ferin to mind the counter for a time.” She brushed past him with her blankets, carrying them out to whatever customer had asked for them. Geran suppressed a smile and ducked back into the store’s back room, where Mirya kept her ledgers among a clutter of merchandise and knickknacks that had likely been moved from room to room in Erstenwold’s for years. The store had been in her family for almost fifty years, beginning as a ramshackle chandlery and storehouse built by her grandfather. Geran made himself comfortable in an old leather armchair and waited. A few minutes later Mirya returned and took a seat on the edge of a small couch across from him with her mouth settled in its customary frown.
“Is this a good time?” he asked her. “If you’ve business to attend, I can wait.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m simply surprised to see you. I would have thought …” She paused, searching his face with her keen blue eyes before continuing. “Geran, it may be that you haven’t heard, but word from Thentia arrived two days past that Harmach Grigor was killed by assassins.”
He met her gaze and nodded. “I was there.”
“Oh, Geran, I’m sorry for it, I truly am. He was a sweet old man who’d naught but kind words for me any time I spoke with him.” She reached across to rest her hand on top of his. “Is the rest of your family well?”
“Yes. Natali and Kirr weren’t hurt, thank the gods. Aunt Terena and Kara are fine too. But we lost a number of Shieldsworn and family retainers. It was a terrible scene.” He frowned and looked around. Speaking of the young Hulmasters had reminded him … “Are you and Selsha well? Is she about?”
“Aye, we’re well enough, I suppose, but I sent Selsha to stay with the Tresterfins for a time. I was worried that she might be caught up in some trouble here in town, and I thought she’d be safer in the countryside. I do miss her, though. I’m in the habit of listening for her footsteps or her voice.” Mirya sighed, and drew back.
The trouble must be growing worse if she sent Selsha away, Geran reflected. Mirya was hardly the sort to panic, as he well knew. “I saw that old Kettar’s workshop was empty,” he said. “Have Marstel’s tax collectors troubled you? Are you still able to make a living here?”
She made a dismissive gesture. “We’ve something laid by for hard times; we’ll see it through, I think. But I worry about my neighbors.”
“I do too. I won’t let this stand a day longer than I have to. I promise you.”
“I know it, Geran.” She fell silent for a time, gazing down at her hands. He knew her well enough to see that she had something she wanted to say. After a moment she shook herself a little, and looked up at his face again. In a quiet voice she asked, “What happened in Thentia?”
“Your old friend Valdarsel sent a priestess from his order to organize an attack at Lasparhall,” he said. “They struck in the middle of the night, when the household was asleep except for a few sentries. It was mere chance that I wasn’t killed as I slept. Kara and I-and the Shieldsworn-managed to foil the worst of the attack. But we were too late to save Harmach Grigor.”
Mirya covered her mouth in horror. “Oh, Geran,” she whispered through her fingers.
He sighed and glanced at the small gray patch of sky visible in the counting room’s tiny window. “Kara and I saw to it that the Cyricist and her mercenaries had no opportunity to enjoy their success. None of them got away.”
“Who is harmach now?”
He shrugged. “I am, I suppose. Well, I won’t take the title until Hulburg is free. But I’m the Lord Hulmaster.”