appearance, wiped his hands on his apron, and frowned. When Cale flashed platinum the man grew immediately solicitous.
Sembia remained Sembia, Cale thought, as he handed over a pair of platinum suns.
Few other patrons sat at The Workbench’s sturdy tables, and those who did minded their own affairs.
Cale, Magadon, and Jak enjoyed a hearty meal of day-old chicken stew, stale bread, and an entire wheel of soft, sharp goat cheese. Cale surprised himself by savoring every bite. He could not remember anything ever tasting so good. Perhaps he needed ordinary activity after all.
Afterward, the trio spent an hour in one of Selgaunt’s many shopblocks. There, they replaced travel-tattered cloaks, tunics, breeches, and boots, and Magadon re-equipped them with field gear and more hardtack. Cale enjoyed watching Jak haggle with the merchants. The little man was as professional and skillful a haggler as he was a gambler and pickpocket.
By the time they were done, the bell tower of the Temple of Song and the hour-callers on the street announced the fifth hour after noon. They’d enjoyed nearly two hours of peace. It had done them all good:
“Back to it,” Cale said, and the three headed toward Temple Avenue.
They walked east along Tormyn’s Way, leaving behind the shops and inns of the northwest corner of town. Soon they were moving through narrow avenues lined with residences. The homes, though small, were built of sturdy wood or brick, and even the most modest had a tiled roof-a long distance from the ramshackle squalor of Skullport.
As they moved east, the small structures gave way to grander homes built of quarried and magically-sculpted stone. Squads of Scepters grew more commonplace, as did the presence of carriages.
In the distance ahead, overlooking the city from its perch atop a high rise, stood the crenellated towers and high walls of the ridiculous Hunting Garden of the Hulorn. The thick, gaudy towers of the Hulorn’s palace stood behind the garden and just poked their tops over the garden’s walls, as though peeking out in embarrassment.
Not far from there, Cale knew, stood the sprawling grounds and manses of Selgaunt’s Old Chauncel, including the squat, walled towers of Stormweather. He grew wistful, thinking of his old life.
He had been away from the city only a few tendays, but felt as though he had been gone a lifetime. His stomach clenched when he thought about what he had left behind. Jak must have seen it in his expression.
“You all right?” Jak asked him, looking up with concern.
“Yes,” Cale lied. “The light is bothering me some, that’s
“Of course,” Jak said. The little man’s gaze looked off toward the Hulorn’s palace, toward the abodes of the Old Chauncel. He knew the city as well as Cale.
Jak said, “I left Mistledale after I’d seen twenty winters. I went back once and only once, a few years after leaving. Did I ever tell you about that?”
Cale shook his head.
“I wanted to see the lake where I’d fished as a boy with my father and uncle, to see some of my childhood friends, the hillside home I grew up in. That sort of thing, you know?”
Cale nodded.
“And while I was there I realized that my memory of things had more shine than the things themselves. I realized, too, that sometimes leaving a place changes you, and when you go back, you realize it isn’t really your home anymore. That’s how it was for me in Mistledale. By the time I came back, I’d changed, grown beyond it. It’s sad in a way. Old friends drift away, sometimes even family. But growth is part of life.”
“It is, eh?” Cale asked.
“It is,” Jak affirmed, and popped his pipe into his mouth. “I think you understand that as well as any.”
Cale did not answer, so Jak lit with a tindertwig, took a draw, and blew it out. Eyeing Cale sidelong, he said, “For some people, a place is home. But for men like us, people have to be home. And not just any people. Friends. The friends who live
Sembia remained Sembia, Cale thought, as he handed over a pair of platinum suns.
Few other patrons sat at The Workbench’s sturdy tables, and those who did minded their own affairs.
Cale, Magadon, and Jak enjoyed a hearty meal of day-old chicken stew, stale bread, and an entire wheel of soft, sharp goat cheese. Cale surprised himself by savoring every bite. He could not remember anything ever tasting so good. Perhaps he needed ordinary activity after all.
Afterward, the trio spent an hour in one of Selgaunt’s many shopblocks. There, they replaced travel-tattered cloaks, tunics, breeches, and boots, and Magadon re-equipped them with field gear and more hardtack. Cale enjoyed watching Jak haggle with the merchants. The little man was as professional and skillful a haggler as he was a gambler and pickpocket.
By the time they were done, the bell tower of the Temple of Song and the hour-callers on the street announced the fifth hour after noon. They’d enjoyed nearly two hours of peace. It had done them all good:
“Back to it,” Cale said, and the three headed toward Temple Avenue.
They walked east along Tormyn’s Way, leaving behind the shops and inns of the northwest corner of town. Soon they were moving through narrow avenues lined with residences. The homes, though small, were built of sturdy wood or brick, and even the most modest had a tiled roof-a long distance from the ramshackle squalor of Skullport.
As they moved east, the small structures gave way to grander homes built of quarried and magically-sculpted stone. Squads of Scepters grew more commonplace, as did the presence of carriages.
In the distance ahead, overlooking the city from its perch atop a high rise, stood the crenellated towers and high walls of the ridiculous Hunting Garden of the Hulorn. The thick, gaudy towers of the Hulorn’s palace stood behind the garden and just poked their tops over the garden’s walls, as though peeking out in embarrassment.
Not far from there, Cale knew, stood the sprawling grounds and manses of Selgaunt’s Old Chauncel, including the squat, walled towers of Stormweather. He grew wistful, thinking of his old life.
He had been away from the city only a few tendays, but felt as though he had been gone a lifetime. His stomach clenched when he thought about what he had left behind. Jak must have seen it in his expression.
“You all right?” Jak asked him, looking up with concern.
“Yes,” Cale lied. “The light is bothering me some, that’s
“Of course,” Jak said. The little man’s gaze looked off toward the Hulorn’s palace, toward the abodes of the Old Chauncel. He knew the city as well as Cale.
Jak said, “I left Mistledale after I’d seen twenty winters. I went back once and only once, a few years after leaving. Did I ever tell you about that?”
Cale shook his head.
“I wanted to see the lake where I’d fished as a boy with my father and uncle, to see some of my childhood friends, the hillside home I grew up in. That sort of thing, you know?”
Cale nodded.
“And while I was there I realized that my memory of things had more shine than the things themselves. I realized, too, that sometimes leaving a place changes you, and when you go back, you realize it isn’t really your home anymore. That’s how it was for me in Mistledale. By the time I came back, I’d changed, grown beyond it. It’s sad in a way. Old friends drift away, sometimes even family. But growth is part of life.”
“It is, eh?” Cale asked.
“It is,” Jak affirmed, and popped his pipe into his mouth. “I think you understand that as well as any.”
Cale did not answer, so Jak lit with a tindertwig, took a draw, and blew it out. Eyeing Cale sidelong, he said, “For some people, a place is home. But for men like us, people have to be home. And not just any people. Friends. The friends who live
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