by JD Hart
Grimwaldt peered out at the ward below, noting several masters being attended by those of the Physicians Guild. What should he make of this? Was he the only one concerned with the young man’s recent shift in behavior? Was the general becoming an old fool, or were the hopes of his order misplaced in this young man? Maybe Marcantos was just exhibiting stress from the responsibility that had been heaped upon his shoulders. Grimwaldt had been given great responsibility at an early age, but not the weight of the entire order. Would he have responded differently under similar conditions?
The general was so deep in thought that he was hardly aware Artesia had taken flight to the northwest, dipping low over the Narwalen Plains. But he could not deny her thrill of the hunt. The trip to Loren Canyon would be fast and hard, but it would be good to be on the road again. He found solace on the open range, where troublesome affairs of state were replaced by life’s simple fortunes. Eager to be on his way, he began packing his few possessions.
By providence, Blake Friarwood happened to catch Marcantos sprinting down the stairs to the ward. His pupil’s purposeful step distracted him enough from his other business that he elected to watch the combat from a shaded and private northern balcony of the keep’s tower. Friarwood reflected on Marcantos’s actions. Loosely cut black robes fluttered in the light breeze while he pressed his back to the dark tower stone.
In several dozen heartbeats, his young pupil had taken down four master Warriors. This was the cue he had been waiting for. Friarwood glowed with pride, not only for his personal protégé, but for his own brilliance. To think he had been ready to give up on his unconventional training strategy.
With a lively step, Friarwood crossed the tower hall to his quarters. Carnia squawked her greeting with wings wide, unsure what to make of her bond’s rare feelings of elation. He lightly stroked the peregrine falcon’s back to soothe her capricious spirit. Certain of Marcantos’s potential, he began planning how to rearrange his assignments in Cravenrock. He would need to devote more energy preparing Marcantos for a future he could not even begin to appreciate.
Bandit’s Opportunity
From the corner of a nearby building, a boy known only as Bandit surveyed the marketplace for his next score. He rubbed the side of his round nose with a hand that left behind even more dirt, then pushed back the long, oily hair that hung over his thin face. The market was a buffet of luscious entrees, though the food being sold never entered his thoughts. Despite his many choices, he knew that only the right selection would reap the best rewards. A well-dressed townsman strolled through the crowd eyeing the counters, no doubt for items he could resell to turn a profit in his own shop. But Bandit dismissed him right away. Stealing from town folk got the city guardsmen in a huff, and besides, he had picked from two earlier that morning. His attention instead went to more plentiful delicacies. Most transients carried all the money they possessed, and few were stupid enough to complain to the city guard if they were robbed.
A nagging thought forced his eyes to backtrack to a young transient leaning against the wall near the edge of the marketplace. Bandit surmised he was a freeman farmer, probably an Eastlander. From his dusty appearance and the way he was devouring his food, the farmer had been traveling for several days. And judging by the way he was taking in the market and buildings around him, he had just arrived that morning. Bandit praised his Lady of Good Fortune.
Cautiously, he slipped to the north end of the wall. After checking for guardsmen, he moved lithely along the back side of the wall until he was behind the farmer. Bandit squatted and pressed his back to the wall. He checked his surroundings; the trees before him obscured his presence from anyone happening to pass along the street, and a narrow passage between two nearby buildings would serve nicely as an escape route if needed.
Bandit turned to face the wall. The farmer was finishing his meal, so he had to work swiftly. A glance was all he needed to find the leather strings on the farmer’s purse. Skillful fingers glided over the wall. A flick of his fingers and the simple knot fell away. Lightly gripping the loose strings between his fingers, he gave the cords a delicate test.
It was easy to be mesmerized by Cravenrock’s noisy marketplace. So easy, in fact, that Conner failed to catch the deft fingers on his purse strings. But he was not so enthralled that he missed the gentle tug. His right hand shot back, his fingers clamped around a thin wrist. He dropped what remained of his roll, twisted hard, and yanked upward, hoping to unbalance the thief before he could abscond with purse in hand. Conner was surprised when the wrist came so easily to his tug that he lifted the lightweight body attached to it over the brick wall. Gravity did the rest. Conner torqued the arm hard, pinning the thief to the ground with his foot on the thin shoulder.
In this position, Conner got a good look at the pickpocket. The boy was no more than eleven or twelve. Stringy black hair nearly covered a face caked with dirt, while filthy brown strips of rags for clothing hung from his thin body. Conner glared angrily to keep the snake from squirming away, though in reality, he felt nothing but pity.
“Please don’t be killin’ me, kind sir!” the boy yelped at Conner, his free hand coming up to protect him from punches Conner might start throwing at any moment.
Conner blinked in surprise. “I’m not going to kill you. Why would I kill you over a few coins?” He hesitated, noticing several people were taking notice.
This response did not seem to satisfy the boy with a wild, frightened stare. Apparently, the boy was not used to getting caught. He stated even louder, “Oh, please sir! I promise I won’t be beggin’ you again for a coin!” He waved his dirt-streaked arm more vigorously, becoming more distraught by the moment.
Conner eyed the boy suspiciously. A dozen people had stopped to watch, several women aghast with fingers to their lips. This was not going well. Conner decided it better to reason with the young thief. He bent lower, pressing his foot on the boy’s shoulder, and whispered, “I know what you are about. I don’t want any trouble, but I don’t appreciate having my purse lifted.”
The boy screamed out in false pain. “Please, sir! There really is no need to be hurtin’ a poor beggar boy.” Sobbing, he continued louder than before. “I promise not to be botherin’ yourself for anything ever again. Just please don’t be hurtin’ me anymore!”
Having determined the encounter was not worth the trouble, Conner released the boy’s wrist. He was about to tell the boy to go away when several pairs of thick black boots stepped into view. He slowly traced up the leather trousers and chain-mail shirts to the burly, frowning faces of three guardsmen. Like those at the city gate, these carried swords in black leather scabbards at their waists. He involuntarily stepped back, removing his foot from the boy.
The guard in front, the eldest and by far the meanest looking of the lot, scrutinized Conner closely from brow to boot with a haughty sneer. Then, turning his eyes to the boy at his feet, he shouted with a touch of annoyance mingled in his thick Narwalen accent. “Here! What be goin’ on?”
Before Conner could respond, the boy waved his hands as if warding Conner away. “I only asked him for a coin, sir! He didn’t have to be roughin’ me up so over somethin’ like that!” he sobbed.
The guardsman gave the transient an angry look. “Is that so?”
It was time for Conner to correct the misunderstanding. “That’s a lie. This boy was trying to lift my purse!” Conner snatched his purse from his pocket and held it out, the untied string his evidence to the thwarted crime. He was about to continue his argument when he noted the guardsmen were more intrigued with the bulge of the purse than the condition of the leather strap. The one on the right leaned forward and visibly licked his lips. Conner whipped his hand behind his back, tightly clenching his purse, and took a more cautious stance before the three.
This was the distraction the scrawny little thief needed. In a blink of an eye, the boy was over the brick wall, dashing for a narrow street between two large, old buildings that listed dangerously. Th
e guardsmen did not move or even seem to notice, their eyes boring holes through Conner’s stomach to the purse at the small of his back.
Uneasiness growing, Conner stepped back against the wall. “Aren’t you going to chase down the purse snatcher?”
The guardsman in front grimaced. “Right now, I be wonderin’ what an Eastlander is doin’ in Cravenrock. What is your business here?”
This had all the makings of a situation gone wrong—having spent so much time around Pauli, Conner knew what one looked like. “I am passing through, sir. I am here to buy a few supplies for my trek.” Trying not to look suspicious, Conner started scanning the streets and buildings behind. Luck favors those prepared for the future, his father was fond of saying.
The guardsman examined the wall and ground around Conner’s feet with curiosity. “It seems you not be movin’ too quickly. Where be your supplies?”
The guards’ behavior was not what Conner expected. Even if he was an Eastlander, he was a citizen of the Realm, free to enter the city for food and to enjoy the day without getting accosted by thieves or guardsmen. “I arrived shortly ago, and was completing my meal when that little thief tried to snatch my purse.” Annoyed, he jerked a thumb in the direction the boy had disappeared, hoping to remind the guardsmen that someone else had been involved in this story. It did not have the desired effect.
The front guardsman shifted his weight. From his expression, he did not like Conner’s tone. “Maybe you be tellin’ the truth, and maybe not. But we do not be likin’ people sashayin’ in and mistreatin’ our citizens.”
The situation was souring like warm milk on a summer afternoon. A different approach was needed, so Conner pasted on the friendliest smile he could muster given the circumstances. “Look. I think you are absolutely right, sir. Maybe I will get the supplies I need and keep on moving.” He leaned forward, ready to find the closest grocer and be on his way.
The front guardsman was not swayed by Conner’s attempt to resolve the situation honorably. “All that is well and good, boy, but you’ll be needin’ to be payin’ for the disturbance first.”
Conner bit back his irritation. “I didn’t do anything wrong. And I surely am not going to pay for a misconduct I did not commit.”
No longer in control of his anger, the guardsman’s face twitched and contorted. “Then it seems we will have to arrest you for assaulting a citizen of Cravenrock.” Through gritted teeth, he jerked his head toward Conner with a sneer. “Take him!”
The two guardsmen stepped forward, but before they could grab him, Conner spun about and leaped over the wall. His logic seemed simple and sound. If the narrow street had been a good escape route for the thief, then maybe it would be for him as well. And so he ran.
Shouts from the guardsmen behind coached his legs faster.
Judging from Hemera’s position, Conner was sprinting east. The end of the street opened into a wider north-south cobblestone street. Several guardsmen appeared to the south, shouting. They too took up the chase. Options limited, Conner ran north. After a few minutes, he darted east down another narrow street, but this one dead-ended into the back of several crumbling buildings. A brightly painted door opened to his pull, so he ran through the building and into the street on the opposite side.
After that, the chase became a blur, Conner reacting to the shouts of the city guardsmen around him. Evident that the guard’s strategy was not working, their plan shifted to one of routing and cutting him off. More and more guardsmen joined in the hunt. Soon, Conner lost all sense of direction weaving madly between the tall buildings hugging narrow streets. He was about to give up hope of ever getting out of the city when he reached the end of a narrow alley opening into the most crowded cobblestone street Conner had ever seen.
Bandit squatted low on top of a tall building east of the marketplace. The city guard had seen his face. And he had nearly been caught. At this point, it looked like a sound beating was more likely than lesser punishments. He started to leave, but his eyes darted to the farmer and city guardsmen below. If he was going to get beaten, at least he would be vindicated with the pleasure of watching the farmer get carted away.
It did not surprise him when the farmer jumped the wall and sprinted his way. What did surprise him was how fast the farmer ran. Against his better judgment, Bandit tailed him from the building tops, watching the show play out below. But as the farmer, unfamiliar with the city, continued to thwart the city guard’s lame attempts to snare him, Bandit’s interest in him grew. He was either lucky or skilled, and in the thieving business, it was always good to know how to recognize the difference.
Conner stepped into the street, mingling with the lively crowd. The cobblestones teemed with small, brightly colored wooden huts with shutters pulled up and latched to reveal spacious windows on three sides. Every possible type of merchandise hung from these windows, arrayed in no recognizable pattern or order. Gaudy jewelry in one, animal pelts in the next, glassworks after that. From inside each hut, animated merchants busily haggled with the tight throng of people, with their bonds, pushing and weaving their way through the street. To Conner’s left stood more tall buildings separated by narrow alleys; to his right, the dark city wall ascended into the cloudless sky. Unable to see another choice, he dove into the flowing stream of human and animal bodies.
Many shoppers carried small bonds tucked in pouches or on their shoulders. A middle-aged woman next to Conner had devised a makeshift wrap of gray cloth slung diagonally, shoulder to hip. Occasionally, a wood mouse poked its furry head from the sling, sniffing the air with its pointed nose while long whiskers and large round ears twitched nervously.
Pangs of homesickness knotted Conner’s stomach.
Bandit watched the farmer step out into the Keep’s Market. From his vantage point, it was not difficult to see the two thick lines of approaching guardsmen pushing through the crowd, one from the north, the other from the south. The farmer was being squeezed into their trap. After the line of guardsmen coming from the south passed, Bandit used windowsills and doorframes to slip down the side of the building, then dropped the few remaining paces to the street below for a closer look at the pending action. Having spent his entire brief life in the streets of Cravenrock, he knew how to stay hidden, even right under the noses of the city guard.
Conner’s confidence was starting to return when the flow of the crowd slowed. A quick glance ahead told everything. A long line of city guardsmen pushed its way in his direction, examining those in the marketplace as they filtered past. His first instinct was to continue on in hopes that the guardsmen did not have a good enough description to pick him out of the multitude. But surrounded by the shoppers’ cleaner, more colorful clothing, he was resigned to accept that would not work. He started weaving to his left to take one of the narrow alleys, but guardsmen had barricaded every street. Conner glanced over his shoulder; another line of city guardsmen was closing in from behind.
Opportunity comes only to those with an open mind, his schoolteacher was keen on saying. If he was ever going to get out of this, he would have to think clearly. He moved to his right to get a closer look at the city wall, an insanely desperate idea coming to him.
Seeking Balance
Long after Marcantos had returned to his chambers, he remained unable to shake the feelings of anger he had felt that morning in the ward. He closed his eyes, calming his mind, and was reminded of words he had been taught many years ago by a dear preceptor and sage: If you are to help others find the courage to accept their responsibility, speak of the thrill of achievement rather than the fear of failure.
It was then that the realization of what had been nagging at him surfaced. Somewhere along the way, he had lost connection with his foundation in the basics of his art. He had become lost on a shifting mindscape. His footing had slipped. And it came to him how to get it back.
Once Marcantos had worked through all the details, he left his chambers and attacked the stairs three at a time.
Colonel Palastar rubbed at his eyes to make sure he was not daydreaming. Much different from the cooler nights in Kallzwall Castle, it was hard to find sleep in this insufferable heat. He exhaled a longing breath, Marcantos waiting stoically before him for an answer to his request. Palastar’s first thought was that Friarwood was somehow behind this appeal. But knowing what he did of Friarwood, he dismissed that idea immediately. No, Marcantos’s preceptor would erupt like a volcano when he found out. What was Marcantos up to? Despite Palastar’s suspicious nature, nothing came to him, though he would lay claim there was more to Marcantos’s petition than the man had mentioned.
Grimwaldt’s instructions that morning had been quite clear. Even if Palastar could infer Marcantos’s motives, he would not deny the request. He ran a hand slowly down his face, wiping sweat away, then shrugged. Looking up from his desk, he responded, “As you wish, Marcantos. It would be hard to refuse your assistance given the keep’s current state of affairs.”
Marcantos bowed, a formality not required by someone of nobility, even to one of superior rank. “Thank you, Colonel.” He spun on his heels and walked briskly from the office.
Brow furrowed, Palastar rubbed his wolf bond’s head as it rested on his thigh. He searched eyes reflecting his own concern, then smiled reassuringly. “It’s all right, Garren. We’ll keep two pairs of eyes on that one to see what he’s about.”
A Simple Explanation
Conner noted a place nearby where the wall jutted outward then angled back in. The two lines of guards were nearing, so he worked swiftly. He stepped to the wall near the jut. Reaching both hands over his head, he slid the tips of his fingers along the narrow spacing between two large blocks of the stone wall. He dug his fingertips into the crevice, ignoring the pain. Looking down, he ran the inside of his right shoe along another opening at his knees. He tested his grip, then pressed his chest to the wall and pulled himself up. He released one hand and reached up, feeling his way to the next spacing. Once that grip was secure, he moved his other hand, repeating the action with his feet. He tried to let all his fears go, to focus just on finding the next spacing. Shouts erupted below, demands evolving into threats, then into insults.
