The Dark Citadel - Chapter 2: Merchant

Ten steps away from the crates, Gregory heard scrambling behind him. The clerk had finally spotted where Gregory was heading.

"Stop!" the clerk shouted, somewhat frantically, as he rushed to catch up.

The soldiers exploded into motion as Gregory's destination became clear. This young man must be the merchant of this caravan, perhaps a dignitary from a rich family, and the soldiers were here to protect him.

He was the one in charge, for sure.

A half-formed recognition nagged at Gregory as he studied the young man. There was a familiar quality to his features—the set of his jaw, the way he carried himself even while pretending to be a mere merchant. Gregory had heard stories in the taverns of Olestin about the royal family of Comer. Wild tales, mostly. They said Prince Bryce Hunner was cursed—or blessed, depending on who told the story. They whispered that he couldn't die. That assassins had tried and failed. That he'd walked away from wounds that should have killed any man.

Nonsense, of course. Tavern talk meant to entertain drunks.

Still, studying this merchant's face, Gregory couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen those features before. In a portrait, perhaps? Or a wanted poster?

He shook off the thought. Paranoia was making him see princes where there were only merchants.

At least the guards were efficient. Gregory paused six feet away from the young merchant, crossing his hands passively in front of his stomach and giving them plenty of time to react.

Except they reacted much more aggressively than he had expected. In seconds, Gregory was surrounded, all the soldiers with weapons drawn.

"Is that necessary?" he asked, forcing himself to relax.

"What do you want?" The Captain fingered the hilt of his sword. He hadn't moved, but his eyes bored into Gregory in a way that made him uncomfortable.

Gregory tucked his thumbs into his belt, pulling his coat out of the way to show his sides and hips. He was unarmed—except for a dagger he kept tucked in his boot—and he wanted them to know it.

"Just to ask a question," he offered softly.

"Then speak quickly and get lost." The captain's voice held only the slightest edge of contempt. He nodded to the guards behind Gregory, and footsteps drew away. A few swords were put away, but not all.

"Not of you." Gregory nodded at the young man sitting on the crates. "I was hoping to speak to him, since he's the one you are here protecting..."

His voice trailed off. A sharp intake of air from several guards behind him. The back of Gregory's neck prickled. The merchant's expression shifted from shock to fear, and the Captain slid his fingers lower down the hilt of his sword.

That blade would be better remaining in the guard's hilt than buried in Gregory's stomach. Time to backpedal.

"I seem to be mistaken."

"Dangerously so. Move along."

There was a finality in his voice, and Gregory said nothing else.

This was not the exchange he had been hoping for, and his plan to impress the merchant had backfired. The young merchant still had a look of worry on his face and was staring down at his feet. As Gregory turned to leave, he caught something unexpected—a flicker of movement from the merchant. The young man had raised his hand, just slightly, palm down. A subtle gesture, almost invisible.

The Captain's posture changed immediately. The hand that had been sliding toward the sword hilt relaxed. The soldiers behind Gregory stepped back another pace.

Gregory filed the observation away. Whatever that gesture meant, the "merchant" had just made a decision—and the guards had obeyed without question. Not the behavior of hired protection following a rich man's son. This was something else entirely. Command, given and received in the space of a heartbeat.

Gregory bowed to the Captain as calmly as possible and walked down the road to the south, further into the city.

He passed through a section of the market where the air changed. It was not the shift from one vendor's cooking smoke to another—Gregory knew the geography of market smells from years in Olestin's commercial quarter, the way spice stalls bled into tanneries bled into fishmongers in predictable gradients. This was different. For three steps, perhaps four, the air went dead. Not stale. Dead. The horse dung, the frying oil, the sweat-and-wool press of bodies—all of it simply stopped, as though he'd walked through an invisible curtain into a space where scent itself had been consumed. His sinuses ached with the absence, a pressure behind his eyes that had nothing to do with the sun. Then the market's noise and stink crashed back over him, sudden as a door slamming open, and he stumbled a half-step before catching himself.

Gregory glanced back. Nothing. Just the crowd flowing around him, oblivious. A vendor two stalls down was crossing himself in the old fashion—forehead, chest, both shoulders—but that could have been anything. Habit. Superstition. The kind of reflexive piety that market folk performed a dozen times a day.

He shook it off.

"Damn it all," he muttered.

How could he have guessed that the caravan wouldn't want passengers? Since when did a caravan or any merchant turn down a paying customer? He cursed his luck. He would have to wait a few days, maybe weeks, until another caravan passed through the city, and then hope that things went better the next time around.

Now he needed to find some way to keep busy during his extended stay in Marisburg. He would have to lie low, but he had little money. Maybe he could find work in the city for a merchant; he was good with mathematics and fair at scribe work, and both those traits were in high demand in a city like this.

It might even turn out to be a positive venture in his monetary situation. His funds were running low, and he'd been hoping to find somewhere to restock, anyway. Plus, adding a few weeks to his trip wouldn't have negative consequences unless Olestin was looking for him, and there was always the possibility that they weren't searching for him after...

Lost in thought, it took him a few minutes to realize he was being followed. Two of the caravan guards shadowed him, and obviously so. No discretion at all.

Which meant they probably meant to kill him.

Gregory's breath caught in his throat. His stomach tightened into a knot. Who the hell did I just piss off?

He drew a deep breath to calm himself and slipped down a side street, turned a corner, and circled back to the spot where he first spotted the men following him.

Sure enough, they were still there.

So much for the merchant's gesture of mercy—if that's what it had been. Perhaps Gregory had misread the situation entirely. Or perhaps these guards were acting against orders, taking matters into their own hands. Either way, he was in trouble.

Where to go? Could he outrun them? Maybe, but he didn't like the proposition of running through the streets chased by uniformed soldiers. The city guardsmen might intervene on their behalf just in case he was a criminal.

Maybe he could slip into one of the many shops lining the street and hide and then find somewhere he could lie low until the caravan left the city.

His two shadows were about thirty feet behind him, not increasing their pace. He doubted they knew the layout of the town any better than he did, so they might not know where to look if he slipped out of their sight.

He walked at a leisurely pace to the other side of the road and turned the first corner he came to. As soon as he was in the alley, he took off at a sprint toward the next corner, slipping around it before his pursuers could catch up.

In another street, he sprinted across, dodging pedestrians and horses, and dipped into another alley. He heard shouts behind them but didn't stop to apologize.