‘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 roommates 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.’