In the common room, he found Marac sharpening his sword at the dining table.
Laedron closed the door after entering. “I think it’s sharp enough, my friend.”
“Never sharp enough. The blade must be ready.” Marac slid the whetstone along the length of the edge. “I won’t be caught helpless again.”
“Being captured worked in our favor this time. No worries.”
“It could’ve turned out much differently.”
“But it didn’t.”
“But it could have,” Marac said sharply.
“Are you well?”
Marac let out a chuckle. “As well as can be expected. I’m deep in the enemy’s territory, but we play games of politics and intrigue.”
“Things must be handled with delicacy, Marac. I’d like nothing more than to rid this world of Andolis Drakar, but we must do so carefully if we’re to survive.”
“And how long must we wait? Weeks? Months? Or years, perhaps? How long will it take?”
Laedron put his hand on Marac’s shoulder. “No matter how long it takes, we must stay the course. This plan is the best chance for success.”
Marac lowered his head. “Very well.”
“Don’t worry.” Laedron patted him on the back. “We’ll see some action today, but first, I must make sure Jurgen and Valyrie are preparing themselves to leave.”
“They’ve left already.”
“They have?”
“You seem disappointed. I would’ve thought you’d be pleased they got to it.”
“Yes, but-”
Marac smiled. “You wanted to see the girl off, did you?”
“No. Well… yes. To wish them a safe journey.”
“It’s more than that. I can see it.”
Laedron took a seat next to him. “I… um…”
“Say no more. I already know how you feel.”
“How did you know?”
Marac leaned back in his chair, having finally laid the sword on the table. “I’ve known you for as long as I can remember. I’ve never seen you behave that way around other girls.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“To me, sure. I doubt she realizes it, though.”
Laedron folded his arms across his chest. “I feel horrible for her. She’s just lost her father, and now she’s wrapped up in our schemes.”
“By her own will.”
“What?”
“She’s old enough to know what she’s doing, Lae.”
“Is she? Perhaps, but I can’t help but thinking she helps us because she has no other choice.”
“She mentioned her uncle, didn’t she?” Marac asked. “She could’ve gone to live with him.”
“From what I understand, he’s unbearable to be around.”
“It’s still a choice. She chooses to be here with us-with you.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
Marac smiled. “Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”
“Unless I am,” Laedron said, letting out a laugh.
“Oh, you got me there. I’m right until the ol’ archmage starts arguing me up and down the Midlands. Can’t be denied.”
Laedron poured a bowl of stew from the fireplace pot and returned to the table. “Once I get a bit of this in my belly, I’ll be ready if you are.”
“Go ahead, I’ve already had some. One thing I won’t miss is the food in this place.”
“Won’t argue with you there.” Laedron poked a chunk of overcooked meat with his spoon. “This stuff’s fit for a dog.”
“Not even a dog, but you’d better eat up anyway. You need your strength.”
Maybe this will help it go down, he thought, snatching a piece of bread from the plate.
After eating, Laedron brushed his shirt free of crumbs, then took the scroll sitting on the end of the table. “Jurgen’s note to get us in the militia.”
“Good.” Marac sheathed his sword and wrapped his cloak about his back. “At least we’ll get to walk around a bit. Where is this place, anyway?”
“Near what they call the Ancient Quarter. We passed it on the way to the sea.”
“Then, lead the way.”
Laedron followed the same path Jurgen had taken him on earlier. On the trip to the seaside, he had kept his head down most of the way, but he decided to take in the sights and sounds of the city. The buildings were closer together in that end of the city than anywhere he’d seen in Morcaine, but many rose as high as three stories. In his homeland, the houses and businesses were made of carved stone and wood, but the Heraldan homes and shops were built of timbers, brick, and plaster. Maybe they lack quarries. Or perhaps the expense would be too great.
Every window and doorway had some religious decoration of some kind, and the symbols made Laedron feel even more foreign. He wondered if the people glancing at him as he passed could see that he wasn’t Heraldan. Don’t give yourself away. They can’t know. There’s no way for them to know.
The houses and shops had well-trimmed grass occupying the open space of each lot, a feature he found strange, yet somewhat pleasant. People in Sorbia, from his recollection, cared little about how their lawns and shrubs appeared. The grass had been allowed to grow long around the passage, and the people apparently cut back bushes only when they threatened to block a door or a window. The only flowers to be found on a Sorbian’s tract were wild and grew at random. The Heraldan houses sometimes had a number of planters or even beds of fertile earth set aside for flowers. That’s likely the reason the air has a certain perfume at all times. These flowers are everywhere.
Turning the corner, Laedron spotted the golden dome of the consul chamber in the distance and thought of Valyrie. I hope Jurgen keeps her safe.
A cart caught his attention, and he approached the vendor.
“Might I help you, young man?” the seller asked.
Laedron’s stomach churned with delight at the smell of the hot rolls, and he reached in his pocket. “How much?”
“A pence apiece. How many?”
“Four should do.” He offered the copper coins to the merchant and received a thin cloth full of buns in exchange.
As they took to the road once more, Marac said, “You won’t be eating them all on your own, will you?”
“Of course not.” Laedron gave him two.
Honey bread? How fine. Laedron savored the roll after he popped it into his mouth. Then, he ate the second, trying not to look like a hungry beast. Marac didn’t fare well in hiding his pleasure, either.
They arrived at the militia headquarters, and Laedron found the building peculiar. It was the only structure in that end of town built entirely from red bricks-a rich, bright red, as if the color itself had a significance.
Upon entering the main hall, Laedron stopped one of the guards. “Might you tell me where I can find Master Greathis?”
“Master Greathis? What business have you with him?” the guard asked, impatience in his tone. He wore a gold and silver tunic with the coat of arms of the theocracy on his chest-a gold and silver shield beset by Azura’s Star.
I’m beginning to get sick of that symbol, Laedron thought, studying the man’s tunic. It’s displayed on everything here-shops and houses, the flags, the coins, and even the people themselves.
Marac stepped forward. “We mean to join up, of course.”
“You can do that without seeing Greathis.” The soldier pointed down the hall. “Go to-”
“We must see Greathis himself. We were sent here by Vicar Jurgen,” Laedron said, producing the scroll.
The man glanced at the scroll. “Very well. Third floor, all the way back.”
“The stairs?”
The guard sighed and gestured toward the nearby door.
“Thank you.”
On the third floor, they walked toward the rear of the structure, stopping when Laedron spotted a sign reading, “Master and Commander of the Militia Dalton Greathis.” Laedron hoped the long, stuffy title didn’t accurately reflect the man to whom it referred. He took a deep breath before knocking on the heavy door.
Receiving a muffled response from inside, Laedron opened the door. “Master Greathis, I presume?”