Wiflow didn’t know what the big, strange man was thinking. Whatever it was, he suspected he didn’t want to know. Yet however much he wished he could remain ignorant, he couldn’t help himself.
“What will you do?”
“Right now, I need to tell Dayna that her husband and the father of her children is dead. Where is she staying?”
“I’ll take you.”
Mark picked up the reins of his horse. They walked slowly past people staring silently, but he didn’t notice them.
“Here,” said Wiflow, when they came to a modest-size house on a low hill overlooking the main part of Tregallon.
A brown-haired woman answered the knock on the wooden door. She blanched when she saw Mark, put a hand to her throat, and stepped back. “Ser Kald—”
Mark recognized her as one of his weavers but couldn’t remember her name, only that she was one of the first trainees in the new method of weaving.
“I’m here to see Dayna.”
She glanced past Mark. “Is Holt . . . ”
Mark shook his head. His expression conveyed the tragic news. The woman put a hand over her mouth, stifling a groan before she gathered herself.
“I’ll get her.” She turned her head. “Dayna. Can you come here? There’s someone to see you.”
The young woman who walked into the room was nothing like the person Mark had seen before leaving for Kaledon. Healing bruises marred her face, her nose bent slightly to one side, and one arm hung in a sling. Her drawn face morphed into shock, her mouth gaped, and her free arm went to the base of her throat. Then a smile appeared. Her eyes lit momentarily, as if a lantern cover had been lifted, only to fade, as she took in Mark’s bedraggled appearance and somber demeanor.
They stared at each other for almost a minute.
“It’s Holt, isn’t it? He’s dead.”
Mark nodded. “I’m sorry, Dayna. There was nothing I could do.”
Tears appeared and flowed down her cheeks as her friend led her to a chair. Mark followed.
“I thought I’d already shed a life’s worth of tears. Enough to never have to cry again.”
Mark didn’t respond. His mind searched in vain for sufficient words of comfort. So he stood, waiting for what was next, whatever it might be.
“I’ll be outside,” said Wiflow. He then closed the door, leaving Mark with the two women.
Minutes passed. Dayna stared at the floor, tears slowing. Finally . . . “How did he die?”
“Some of the men who came to Tregallon followed us to Kaledon. One night, while we walked on a street, they attacked us. We killed several of them. Holt fought well, but one of the men shot him before the last of them ran away. He died instantly. He never felt any pain.”
Mark saw no reason to tell Dayna about her husband’s horrific death, how his lifeless body was meant to lure Mark, or how his body probably now lay in an unmarked grave or even a refuse pit. Bad enough that Holt had died. Why let her carry other images?
Thankfully, she asked only a few other questions.
“I’m tired,” said Dayna. “I need to lie down.”
The other woman helped her leave the room.
“She had to be told, Mark,” said Wiflow, when the two men again stood outside. “You were right to get it done quickly.”
“What about the other workers? Were any of them at the weaving factory or attacked at their homes?”
“No, the men only went to the factory and the Hovey and Firman homes. They knew exactly who they were after and where they lived. I’ve thought about that, and I believe someone in Tregallon directed them where to go. Someone with a grudge against you, me, or . . . oh, I don’t know. I suppose someone who they forced to tell them. We’ll probably never learn the truth.”
“And exactly when did all this happen?”
“Two days after you and Holt left. Dayna heard the men say others had been sent after the two of you to kill you. That’s why she’d assumed both you and Holt were dead.”
Two days! thought Mark. If only we’d waited!
His reaction quickly submitted to reality.
No, if I’d been here, I’d almost certainly be dead, too. Not with fifteen to twenty of them, plus the five who followed us to Kaledon.
Despite his rational second thoughts, he still wished he’d been there.
“Let’s get you to my house so you can clean up and rest. There’ll be time later to talk about what comes next.”
“Yes,” said Mark, “I need to rest, but there’s no question what I’m going to do. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’m going to kill Dumon Klinster.”
Wiflow froze, then turned to Mark and shook his head vigorously. “I know you’re shocked and angry, but think about this before you act. You’d probably be killed trying it, and to what end? Your dying won’t bring Holt or Ulwyn back, even if you succeed, which isn’t likely. And if you did manage to kill him, the guilds would come after you. You certainly couldn’t come back to Tregallon.”
“I can’t stay here anyway,” said Mark. “I learned from one of the Kaledon men that I’ve been charged with murder and robbery. From what you say about the men taking some of the spinners and looms with them, I’m guessing I’m supposed to have stolen the machines from the cloth and spinner guilds.”
Wiflow cursed. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they either keep the new machines hidden or eventually claim they’re guild inventions. We talked before about your innovations eliminating many jobs, but the leaders of the guilds might see the machines as a way to slowly reduce the number of workers needed. At the same time, it would increase their own profits, while preventing a worker backlash.
“But you’re right. You can’t stay here. I know revenge sounds sweet, but we need to accept that there may be no justice. My advice is to go south. The farther you get from northern Frangel, the better. Most of the population is here in the north. Not only are there fewer people in the south, but the north has less influence the farther south you go. Change your name and find someplace to live.
“You might need to leave Frangel entirely. Maybe Novaryn. Its customs and language are similar to Frangel’s. Madyrna is closer, but it might be harder for you to fit in—the Madyrnese can be hostile to outsiders, and the language is totally different.”
Mark didn’t speak the rest of the way to Wiflow’s house. The jeweler called a teenage boy to run ahead to alert his wife. When they arrived, she had prepared a bath and somewhere had procured a set of clothing that would fit Mark’s big frame. Afterward, he ate whatever she put in front of him and went straight to a bed made in the small bedroom.
When he awoke, mid-day light beamed through two windows. He’d slept seventeen hours. As he lay there, he had a few moments of lassitude before memories flooded back. He rose quickly, as if to shoo away thoughts. The house was empty, so Mark helped himself to bread and dry cheese, washed down with cool water from a jug. When finished, he walked to the remains of the Hovey house. No one was working on cleanup at the moment, so he took a shovel left nearby and went to the shell of the small stable. There, in a corner where a stall had been, and where he’d planned to clear away ashes and dig, he stood looking at an ash-layered hole in the ground—an empty hole where he and Ulwyn had hidden most of the remaining coin from pin and spring sales. He dropped the shovel and went back to Wiflow’s house, where he sat inside looking out a window at people passing on the street. An hour later, Wiflow arrived.
“Ah, you’re awake. You slept like a dead man. Uh . . . ”
Wiflow stopped speaking. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s all right,” said Mark quietly. “I’ve just been sitting here, thinking for at least an hour. I was right yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“All this is my fault. I was so sure I could introduce new products and ways of doing things that would make me rich. Yes . . . I admit I wanted wealth, but mainly I wanted the coin to do so much more. Things you can’t imagine. Things that
would seem almost like magic. I saw my life laid out. So much to be accomplished. Steam power. A real steel industry. Alloys like no one here can imagine. Industrialization on a scale you wouldn’t believe. I would have been remembered as one of the great men of Anyar history.”
He cut off speaking and looked to Wiflow. “You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Not really, Mark. You’ve been through so much. I can see how your thinking might be confused.”
A humorless smile creased Mark’s otherwise granite face. “It doesn’t matter. I was stupid and self-centered. Never thinking for a moment that anything would stop me, as long as I pushed forward. After all, my grand ideas were so important, everyone would accede to their inevitability. And I pulled all of you along with me. Ulwyn and Holt, dead. Gwanel and Dayna, traumatized and losing their husbands. Argah, leaving Kaledon and possibly never returning.”
“Argah?”
Mark ignored the question. “I went to where Ulwyn and I hid the rest of the coin I hadn’t yet used for cloth production. It was gone. If I’ve guessed right, they made Ulwyn tell them where it was, probably by threatening or doing something to Gwanel.
“Everything is ashes. People’s lives, everything we built, the coin we made. And there’s no way to start over. Even if I thought it might be possible to stay here, who would work with me after this, even if I were willing to risk more lives?
“So, I’ll go. You don’t need to know where or what I intend. Forget what I said about Klinster. Best you insist you know nothing. You might believe you’re safe here and the town would stand by you, but you’ll all be better off without me here. There’s one thing I have to do, though.” Mark pulled a leather sack off the floor. “Here’s the rest of the coin I took to Kaledon to find new cloth partners and start building a larger cloth factory. I want you to give it to Dayna and Gwanel, a little more to Dayna because of the small children. I can’t replace their husbands, so it’s all I can do for them.”
Wiflow took the sack. It would provide a comfortable life for Holt’s family and the rest of Gwanel’s years.
“But you’ll need coin to live on, wherever you go. More important, though, give up the idea of revenge. You’ll only get killed, which will serve no purpose. Maybe God has some other destiny for you somewhere else.”
“If I ever believed in destiny, especially for myself, that’s gone. As for revenge, I’ll not say anything else. Forget I ever mentioned any such thing.”
Wiflow sighed. “Don’t think you’re the only one with great dreams, Mark. Mine may not have been on the scale of yours, but I’d come to believe in your destiny for things beyond my understanding. I won’t ask now, of all times, but I’d long ago come to doubt your story of how you washed ashore on Derwun Bay. You’re right. I won’t ask for details of your plans. I’ll do as you ask and give what’s in this sack to Dayna and Gwanel after you’re gone, but you can’t go coinless. Wait here.”
The jeweler walked out of the room. When he returned ten minutes later, he carried another leather sack, this one much smaller than Mark’s.
“There’s enough coin here to do whatever you need to do. I made more coin from the pins than I ever imagined possessing. I’ll be well taken care of, as will my wife and children after I’m gone . . . so take this as a gift from a friend. You can use some of it for a new horse, more clothing, and whatever else is necessary.”
Two days later, Mark rode out of Tregallon leading a packhorse. The only goodbyes were to Wiflow the previous evening when Mark asked the jeweler to apologize for him to everyone who knew him—whenever an appropriate time and occasion occurred.
He took with him several changes of clothes, coats for different types of weather, his and Holt’s muskets and pistols, and the sack of Wiflow’s coins, now only slightly diminished. His life in Tregallon was over. He rode down various streets to connect to the road to Brawsea. Several people spoke to him. He acknowledged them with nods but didn’t answer. It took him only ten minutes to leave the last part of the town and climb a low hill east of Tregallon. He never looked back.
For the third time in his life, he faced starting over. First, when he was born; second, when he awoke on the Derwun beach; and now, as he left Tregallon. The first time he had been a blank slate with no more plans than to sleep, eat, and shit. The second time, grandiose dreams had filled his thoughts. This time, there were no dreams, no long-term plans, only a thirst like he’d never felt before. A thirst that could be slacked only by revenge, which might assuage a modicum of his crushing guilt.
He took his time, so he could think, settle his emotions, and consider whether what he intended was rational, emotional, both, or if it made any difference. He didn’t worry about himself, only that being too rash would prevent him from extracting a measure of justice from this world.
He rode the same horse the entire distance, pacing the animal as much as himself. At first, he avoided villages and towns, but by the halfway point to Brawsea, he stopped at inns every second or third night.
When sleeping in the open, he sat or lay near a fire, looked into the flames and the coals, and thought. His assignment of blame didn’t change from when he’d first returned to Tregallon. Although other men had murdered, burned, and stolen, his own actions had led to what happened. His narrow, arrogant focus on himself and what he envisioned he would introduce had made him oblivious to the reaction of society, its members, and its leaders. If he had been more patient, over time he could have introduced innovations to change the planet. Maybe the results wouldn’t have been as substantial as he’d envisioned or the garlands covering him as great. His ego and lack of patience had clouded his mind.
By the time he approached Brawsea, he allowed himself to consider the future—assuming he had one. He could move to another realm on Anyar and begin again with the same goals, but this time school himself to proceed with more caution. Novaryn and Madyrna had the advantages and disadvantages mentioned by Wiflow, but both lay too close to Brawsea. That left Tekleum and Rumpas on the Drilmar continent, neither of which he knew anything about, but he hadn’t known anything about Frangel either.
Other realms? To get to Fuomon or the Harrasedic states and cities required crossing north over the Throat, the ocean separating Drilmar from Melosia, the largest continent. However, north led to the ongoing wars with the Narthani.
Maybe I could contact Nigulas, thought Mark. He might slip me out of Frangel if I convince him I can produce cheaper cloth. Even if it did mean starting over again with a strange people and language. I’ve done it once, so I can do it again, no matter how much I hate the idea.
Going through another rebirth was so unappealing, he pushed aside the possibility—at least, for now. At least, until he’d settled with Klinster.
At the moment, a second option was the most appealing—to ignore the future. He would fulfill his objective for coming to Brawsea. If he lived after that, he would have time to think about a future life.
When he reached the outskirts of Brawsea, he began to worry about being recognized. Not that he thought it likely, but accidentally coming into contact with someone he’d met or who remembered his description wasn’t impossible.
He thought he was being over-cautious, but he circled the city to enter from the east, the opposite direction from Tregallon. Among the facts he’d learned on the previous visit to Brawsea was that day-laborer camps lay on the city’s outskirts. Unlike in Kaledon, sleeping in public was not allowed in the main part of the capital. Wagons arrived at the camps before sunup and transported workers to designated sites where they could be hired for the day. Mark had too much gear to leave unattended in such camps, so five miles from the city center he stayed at a small, cheap inn and left his horses and possessions there, a twenty-minute walk from a work camp.
The next day, he wore a set of clothes deliberately chosen as typical of common laborers. He couldn’t hide his body frame, but he remembered that beardlessness was not uncommon in Brawsea, es
pecially among foreigners. The beards he’d seen had come in different lengths, compared to Tregallon and other smaller communities where full beards were the most common. During his previous Brawsea visit, his beard had been full. Halfway from Tregallon to Brawsea, he’d shaved. Now, instead of a full beard, a half-inch stubble covered his cheeks and chin. At the first opportunity, he intended to buy shears so he could approximate a three to four days’ growth—simulating a laborer who preferred the shaved look but who shaved only every few days.
He also trimmed his hair and intended to use the shears the same as with the beard.
His last attempt at disguise was to change his mannerisms in moving. In his small room, he practiced taking smaller steps, hunching his shoulders slightly, and avoiding eye contact.
Whether he succeeded at his efforts to avoid being recognized would be confirmed by his remaining alive the next one or two sixdays.
CHAPTER 17
A COLD DARK FIRE
On Mark’s first visit to Brawsea and the meeting with Dumon Klinster, he hadn’t paid attention to details of either the Cloth Guild Hall structure or the surrounding neighborhood. Now he spent an entire day correcting this delinquency. The five-story hall stood two or more levels higher than nearby structures. It occupied a quarter of a block with alleys separating it from adjacent buildings on both sides and the rear. The outside was constructed from gray stone blocks with layers of a thinner, darker stone every six or so feet. He saw no windows on the first two floors, except for a second-floor veranda with awnings at one corner of the second floor. On the third, fourth, and fifth floors, square, multi-paned windows were set every ten feet, except for one corner of the top floor. It had windows one foot apart for twenty to twenty-five feet.
At the ornate main entrance off the street, a man in raiment that reminded Mark of a hotel doorman stood at the double doors. He greeted people who approached the door, asked something of them, and opened the door for them or turned them away. Mark assumed he asked about their business with the guild, though he couldn’t hear from the opposite side of the street. The man might also be armed; a noticeable side bulge in his cloak suggested a pistol. Mark’s quick walk down the alley behind the building located the only other entrance.
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