Gregory Colton's eyes slipped closed as he reclined against the tavern bench.
Too long. The days were too damn long in these northern countries. The thought was a recurring one since he first entered this northern territory and was overwhelmed by heat and light. Even though he was indoors, he knew the sun was outside waiting for him. It rose too early in the morning and refused to dip below the horizon until late in the evening.
He had arrived in the kingdom of Comer two sweaty days ago on foot. It was miserably humid, with barely any breeze. Now he lived in a perpetual state of sweaty exhaustion.
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 such beauty didn't make him chafe any less.
Gregory let out a deep breath and 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.
Thinking of the city he grew up in made him homesick. Here, in a tavern two hundred miles away from his family, he couldn't help but be curious about what the people he used to know were doing. It was summer back there as well, but that would mean cool days and relaxing temperature, 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. He was a short man, balding and fat and wearing overalls. "I haven't decided."
"You haven't decided?"
"Not yet," Gregory replied. "I'm not sure if I want the wine that tastes like vinegar or the beer that tastes like piss."
The barkeep narrowed his eyes, and the sudden tension in the man's jaw told Gregory he'd offended him. He hadn't expected to meet a sensitive barkeep, and the heat was making 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," the barkeep said.
"That it might," he said. He let out another yawn and stumbled off his stool. His legs were tired, but he knew 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.
He'd spotted a caravan upon first entering Marisburg—the sad little town he found himself in—several hours earlier, and he knew it was heading north as well. These were dangerous territories, and it would be ill advised to travel the roads of Comer alone. 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.
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 high levels of energy throughout these long days? The heat was too oppressive for him to desire anything except to find a comfortable bed.
Gregory headed out of the tavern into the streets. The city was small but harried, with a great many tradespersons and citizens perpetually running to accomplish one task or another.
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 as far as Gregory was concerned, and it seemed unreasonable for so many people to confine themselves in so undersized an environment.
With a shrug, he shouldered his pack and began walking down the primary thoroughfare. He was confident in his decision to seek out the caravan, now that he had made it, and was glad that he'd managed to motivate himself.
The caravan had gathered several wagons and passengers near the north gate and was in the last stages of prepping to leave. Gregory saw several hired hands loading food and supplies into the back of one wagon, and a man with a clipboard checking the goods in.
The atmosphere was professional, Gregory noted with surprise. 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 were 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.
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.
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," Gregory said.
He studied the man and determined that he was a mouthpiece and nothing more. Someone who was 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 them over, looking for any insignias or expensive clothing.
It was only after careful observation that Gregory could confirm his suspicion: the hired hands went to the man with the clipboard for their orders, but continually snuck glances at someone else after every order. It was 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 was wearing 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.
