gentle.”
The party reached an encampment deep in the mountains of southern Tamerice. It differed little from the one where Credence Abaca died. This one was not Marena Dimura, though. The forest people were scarce in Tamerice. The camp had been created by Royalist refugees from Hammad al Nakir as a base for raids across the Kapenrungs. Refugees had gathered there during the Great Eastern Wars.
Dantice told her, “You and the children should stay out of sight if strangers turn up. Let Dahl and Sherilee deal with them.”
Kristen thought Sherilee would attract any man who came within a mile.
Aral said, “I’ll give you letters saying you belong here and are under my protection.”
...
“Aral is gone,” Sherilee said. The suffering of the journey had wakened her resilience. She was now the optimist of the band. “Next time we see him he’ll tell us it’s time to head home to Vorgreberg.”
“I hope so,” Dahl said. “I wasn’t made for this life.”
Kristen snapped, “No one is. It’s a life that comes looking for you.” Sherilee said, “This is a nice place. It must have belonged to one of the high muckety mucks.”
The structure, partially log, partially stone, was large and had potential for being made comfortable. There were stores in the camp, tools, and even weapons. Dahl said, “Let’s don’t touch anything we don’t need to. We don’t want any smugglers upset because we got into their stuff.”
“Smugglers?”
“Smugglers. It’s what Aral does. Remember? This is a way station on the route into the desert. We’ll see plenty of travelers once the weather gets better.”
“Then we’d better get the kids educated about what to do when strangers come.”
That proved to be no problem. The first travelers were not inclined to socialize, either. Some never showed their faces.
That was both a comfort and discouraging. No discourse meant no news from outside.
...
There had been innumerable dislocations in city life the past ten years. No Vorgreberger knew all his neighbors anymore. The situation suited spies and criminals and anyone else who wanted to go unnoticed.
Espionage was a thriving industry. Crime was less lucrative, other than for smugglers. Smuggling was just commerce where the Crown failed to extort any taxes. Gang crime had fallen on hard times. Some invisible force saved the body politic the added friction.
Dark tales circulated in the underworld. They insisted that dire forces were at work. Things came in the night to collect those who preyed on their fellows.
It was true: evil men did disappear.
Crimes of passion remained common. What could be done to curb those?
There was an apothecary shop in Old Registry Lane. It had been there for decades. An elderly fellow had run it till recently. He had been a permanent grouch. When his son took over people noted that the younger chemist was less cranky.
He was about fifty. He may have been a soldier once. He had a bad right knee. He dragged that leg sometimes. He was slow with his customers but was tolerated because he dispensed good advice. He would help those who could not afford a physician. He was more of a talker and gossip and was curious about everything.
His most popular foible was that he sometimes extended credit.
Some said he was the official apothecary to the palace, provided old Wachtel with the specifics he used to keep the Royals hale and hearty— whoever they might be this year.
The popular jest was, Castle Krief had been built around Dr. Wachtel. The ancient physician was a national hero.
The apothecary would not discuss the connection. The favor of the doctor might be charity. A story that gained traction supposed that the chemist was Wachtel’s son by a married patient.
No one really cared. The apothecary was not colorful. He was just there.
Strangers visited frequently. They brought medicinal ingredients from far places or wanted concoctions crafted for some distant consumer. None of this attracted any but the
The party reached an encampment deep in the mountains of southern Tamerice. It differed little from the one where Credence Abaca died. This one was not Marena Dimura, though. The forest people were scarce in Tamerice. The camp had been created by Royalist refugees from Hammad al Nakir as a base for raids across the Kapenrungs. Refugees had gathered there during the Great Eastern Wars.
Dantice told her, “You and the children should stay out of sight if strangers turn up. Let Dahl and Sherilee deal with them.”
Kristen thought Sherilee would attract any man who came within a mile.
Aral said, “I’ll give you letters saying you belong here and are under my protection.”
...
“Aral is gone,” Sherilee said. The suffering of the journey had wakened her resilience. She was now the optimist of the band. “Next time we see him he’ll tell us it’s time to head home to Vorgreberg.”
“I hope so,” Dahl said. “I wasn’t made for this life.”
Kristen snapped, “No one is. It’s a life that comes looking for you.” Sherilee said, “This is a nice place. It must have belonged to one of the high muckety mucks.”
The structure, partially log, partially stone, was large and had potential for being made comfortable. There were stores in the camp, tools, and even weapons. Dahl said, “Let’s don’t touch anything we don’t need to. We don’t want any smugglers upset because we got into their stuff.”
“Smugglers?”
“Smugglers. It’s what Aral does. Remember? This is a way station on the route into the desert. We’ll see plenty of travelers once the weather gets better.”
“Then we’d better get the kids educated about what to do when strangers come.”
That proved to be no problem. The first travelers were not inclined to socialize, either. Some never showed their faces.
That was both a comfort and discouraging. No discourse meant no news from outside.
...
There had been innumerable dislocations in city life the past ten years. No Vorgreberger knew all his neighbors anymore. The situation suited spies and criminals and anyone else who wanted to go unnoticed.
Espionage was a thriving industry. Crime was less lucrative, other than for smugglers. Smuggling was just commerce where the Crown failed to extort any taxes. Gang crime had fallen on hard times. Some invisible force saved the body politic the added friction.
Dark tales circulated in the underworld. They insisted that dire forces were at work. Things came in the night to collect those who preyed on their fellows.
It was true: evil men did disappear.
Crimes of passion remained common. What could be done to curb those?
There was an apothecary shop in Old Registry Lane. It had been there for decades. An elderly fellow had run it till recently. He had been a permanent grouch. When his son took over people noted that the younger chemist was less cranky.
He was about fifty. He may have been a soldier once. He had a bad right knee. He dragged that leg sometimes. He was slow with his customers but was tolerated because he dispensed good advice. He would help those who could not afford a physician. He was more of a talker and gossip and was curious about everything.
His most popular foible was that he sometimes extended credit.
Some said he was the official apothecary to the palace, provided old Wachtel with the specifics he used to keep the Royals hale and hearty— whoever they might be this year.
The popular jest was, Castle Krief had been built around Dr. Wachtel. The ancient physician was a national hero.
The apothecary would not discuss the connection. The favor of the doctor might be charity. A story that gained traction supposed that the chemist was Wachtel’s son by a married patient.
No one really cared. The apothecary was not colorful. He was just there.
Strangers visited frequently. They brought medicinal ingredients from far places or wanted concoctions crafted for some distant consumer. None of this attracted any but the
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