Gregory Colton reclined against the tavern bench, his eyes drifting shut.
Too long. The days were too damn long in these northern countries. The thought had recurred since he first crossed into this territory, the heat and light overwhelming. Even indoors, the sun waited outside, rising too early and refusing to dip below the horizon until late in the evening.
He had arrived in the kingdom of Comer two sweaty days ago on foot. Miserably humid, with barely any breeze. The air inside the tavern hung thick with the smell of sour beer and woodsmoke, cut through by something sharper—unwashed bodies packed too close in summer heat. On the wall behind the bar hung a faded tapestry depicting the Comer royal crest: a crowned falcon clutching a sword, surrounded by wheat sheaves. The symbol appeared everywhere in this kingdom—on doors, on coins, branded into the wooden mugs. These northerners wore their loyalty like armor.
How could people survive such stifling weather? True, the land was beautiful: a tapestry blending into the horizon that would make even the most talented of artists envious. But beauty didn't make him chafe any less.
Gregory wiped the sweat and salt off his brow. He lived far to the south, where the weather was less consistent and the days shorter. Clouds dominated his home, and rain was a near constant companion. In Olestin, folk worshipped the Three Sisters—goddesses of sea, soil, and sky—and spent their coin on fishing nets rather than falcon banners.
Thinking of the city he grew up in made him homesick. Here, in a tavern two hundred miles from his family, curiosity tugged at him—what were the people he used to know doing? It was summer back there as well, but that meant cool days and relaxing temperatures, tending to crops or fishing. No doubt the sun had already set, and many would prepare to sleep.
He missed it. But to return home now would certainly put him in prison.
"You drinking anything?"
Gregory turned on his stool, facing the barkeep and letting out a yawn. A short man, balding and fat, wearing overalls stained dark at the belly where he pressed against the counter all day. The man's thick fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the bar. Around his neck hung a small iron falcon pendant—the common folk's version of showing loyalty to the crown.
"I haven't decided."
"You haven't decided?"
"Not yet." He scratched his jaw. "I'm not sure if I want the wine that tastes like vinegar or the beer that tastes like piss."
The barkeep's eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. Gregory hadn't expected sensitivity from a man who served drinks for a living, and the heat had made him cranky.
Still, if he had been thirsty, he wouldn't risk it now. No telling what would come in the cup.
"I don't think I'll have anything today."
"Then it might be best you move along."
"That it might." He let out another yawn and stumbled off his stool. His legs ached from the road, but he had to keep moving, just in case someone was following him.
A drunk at the bar corner caught his attention, voice slurred and loud. "...burned 'er, they did. Right in the square. Said she was using the old magic, curses and hexes..." The man hiccupped. "Queen's law is clear as day: touch magic, you burn."
Gregory shuddered despite the heat. He'd heard similar stories in every town since crossing the border. Magic was forbidden in Comer, punishable by death. The Queen's paranoia about sorcery ran deep, they said. Deeper than anyone understood. In Olestin, hedge witches were tolerated, even consulted for weather charms and healing poultices. Here, they were ash.
He'd spotted a caravan upon first entering Marisburg—the sad little town he found himself in—several hours earlier. It was heading north as well. These were dangerous territories, and traveling the roads of Comer alone would be ill advised. If he didn't get passage on this caravan, he would be forced to wait until he found another. And that might not be for weeks.
The route he had chosen would end up in Bridane, the capital city of Comer, two hundred miles further to the northwest. But the road would travel immediately north and then cut west after bypassing the mountains.
There would be no civilization until they reached the outlying city of Mulrich, and since the territory Mulrich sat in was only recently acquired by the Kingdom, it wasn't often patrolled. The Comerians had taken it from Otagin in the border wars, and the locals still resented their new rulers.
Bandits were the mainstay from this point on in his journey, and Gregory wasn't much of a fighter. The modest training his father had given him might help against, perhaps, a rabbit, in close combat.
There would be safety in numbers if he could join the caravan, but he also didn't like the idea of traveling while exhausted. How could these local people maintain such energy throughout these long days? The heat was too oppressive for anything except finding a comfortable bed.
Gregory headed out of the tavern into the streets. The midday sun hit him like a wall, and the smell of the city rushed in—horse dung baking on cobblestones, roasting meat from a vendor's cart, the sweet rot of overripe fruit discarded in the gutters. Marisburg was small but harried, with a great many tradespersons and citizens perpetually running to accomplish one task or another. Street vendors hawked meat pies stamped with the falcon seal, a tradition dating back to some ancient king whose name Gregory couldn't recall.
Where he grew up, people rarely came to town at all. They kept to themselves and went about their private business. Town was a place to stock up on supplies and swap stories, and it seemed unreasonable for so many people to confine themselves in so undersized an environment. Olestinians valued their space, their privacy, their quiet afternoons watching storms roll in from the sea.
With a shrug, he shouldered his pack and began walking down the primary thoroughfare. The decision to seek out the caravan—now that he'd made it—settled something restless in his chest.
The caravan had gathered several wagons and passengers near the north gate and was in the last stages of prepping to leave. Several hired hands loaded food and supplies into the back of one wagon while a man with a clipboard checked the goods in.
The professionalism surprised him. During his two-hundred-mile trek to reach Marisburg, he had traveled with four different caravans from one city to the next, and those were sloppy at best and negligent at worst.
The men working this caravan moved smooth and methodical. But it wasn't the hired help that surprised him as much as the hired protection. A contingent of thirty soldiers milled nearby, more than twice the number he might have expected for a caravan this size.
Maybe the roads were even worse than he'd thought. Gregory didn't recognize any insignia or colors on their uniforms, but assumed they were part of the Comer military. They wore the kingdom's standard gray-and-gold, though without the specific regiment markers he might have expected.
Whatever they were transporting must be valuable. Gold? Precious gems? No, they had entered Mulrich from the East, where there was little mining. Spices, mayhap. Many spices in his home country of Olestin were worth a fortune this far north. Masalas and saffron were locally grown herbs near his home, and yet they were considered rare here—Comer's bland cuisine favored salt and pepper above all else.
Dozens of crates were stacked snugly inside the wagons and varied wildly in size and shape. The boxes were too inconsistent for spices. Spices were often shipped in bulk on an individual basis.
Liquor, then, seemed most likely. The latter possibility gave Gregory hope. After choking down the harsh beers from Comer, maybe he would finally get his hands on a bottle of the sweet brandy Olestin was famous for. It would lack the nutrients and calories of a full meal, sure, but at least it would taste good.
Gregory approached the man with the clipboard with a smile. "Good day," he said, offering a slight bow. "Might I inquire where this caravan is heading?"
"We aren't looking for tagalongs—"
"I can pay."
"—nor passengers of any kind," the man finished, barely glancing up from his clipboard.
"I see."
He studied the man—a mouthpiece and nothing more. Someone pretending to be in charge, following a script. If Gregory was going to accomplish anything, he would have to figure out who owned all these goods and ask them.
The problem was no one else was making themselves obvious. Whoever was in charge didn't want to stick out. Gregory scanned the crowd, looking for insignias or expensive clothing.
After careful observation, his suspicion proved correct: the hired hands went to the man with the clipboard for their orders, but continually snuck glances at someone else after every order. As though waiting to see if he would contradict the clerk.
This man was several years younger than the soldiers, also wearing a nondescript uniform. No medals or insignia; in fact, he looked to be nothing more than a bland mercenary who recently joined the company.
The young soldier sat on a pile of crates, eating a piece of thick bread and engrossed in his own thoughts. An older soldier sat next to him, attentive. He wore a Captain's insignia on his shoulder and looked to be in charge.
"Have a great day," Gregory said to the man holding the clipboard, and started walking directly toward the young soldier. The clerk waved vaguely at him, not paying attention.
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