The Hekamon (18 page)

For a moment, Galvyn thought Tregarron had
returned. The man was a similar height and build, but just as quickly
he realized it wasn't Tregarron. The visitor looked a few years
younger than the captain, maybe in his mid thirties, clean shaven and
with shoulder length black hair. The tunic, belt and scabbard,
suggested someone from the south but he wore a heavy coat and boots.

"Can I help you?" Galvyn asked.

"I take it you're a weaponsmith, is this everything
you have?" The man said, looking around the shop, signaling
to the shelves merchandise and the various items on display.

"I'm an apprentice weaponsmith and armorer, and we
have more stock in the next room. Are you looking for anything in
particular?" Galvyn asked, standing and following the customer
as he moved around the workshop.

"The man tapped the empty scabbard on his belt,
"I'm looking for a knife or dagger, do you sell anything like
that?"

"Yes, we have some daggers, but we specialize
in armor. Chainmail, that kind of thing, could I interest you in some
chainmail?"

"No, a solid but inexpensive short blade will be
fine."

Galvyn showed the customer to a shelf with a few
daggers, and beneath it, boxes containing blades, pugios, shivs and
spare hilts. The man picked through the selection but murmured his
disapproval at the choice.

Sensing the customer's air of disappointment, Galvyn
tried to put a more positive light on it. "If you want the blade
from one, and the hilt from another, that can be arranged, in some
cases anyway."

"Thank you, I'll keep that in mind."

"And if you're looking for chainmail…"

"I'm not."

"…we have quite a good selection."

"I have a long way to go and don't need the extra
weight." The customer said, continuing to look through the box
of blades.

"Ours is light, very finely made, I've made some of
it myself. A traveler needs protection, it provides warmth, too and…"

"You don't give up do you?" The man said
standing up, seemingly not too impressed with their selection of
daggers. "I hadn't intended on buying any armor, but you got me
with warmth. It's a lot colder this side of the mountains." The
man indicated to his heavy coat which was not in the same style of
the rest of his clothing. The coat looked old and worn and the man
didn't look very comfortable in it.

"Are you from Coralai?"

"I'm from that way, yes."

"A chainmail vest under your tunic may be a good
idea then."

"Maybe. You say you made them yourself, are you any
good?"

"Well, I'm just an apprentice but…"

"So that's a no."

"Perhaps you could try some on," Galvyn
suggested. Making a sale might mitigate the trouble he was going to
be in with his boss.

The man looked around impatiently, "Where are
they?"

"We keep some of the higher quality items in the
back," he said, leading the customer into the next room.

"And does that include daggers?"

"Er, no. Those are all we have."

The armory room was less well lit. It was much more
secure and there were no large windows here. It contained numerous
shields hanging on the walls. On the higher shelves were
helmets and pauldrons, and beneath them, racks of chest plates, some
studded leather, some plate armor. While on the lowest shelves were
the chainmail vests.

Spaced around the perimeter were several mannequins in
full military garb. Some holding swords, halberds and maces for
effect.

The customer was impressed but curious, "Who buys this stuff?"

"The heavier weaponry is mostly for show, we don't
make that anymore. Now we make leather helmets, bracers and light
chainmail vests. Just personal protection for the well prepared
traveler. Mr. Croneygee tells me business isn't anything like what it
was during the war," Galvyn said, looking at the prospective
customer, "Did you…were you, in any of the battles?"

The man stopped looking at the shelves and turned to
face him, "I'm guessing you're from the west of Demedelei."

"A little way to the west yes, how did you know?"
Galvyn replied.

"Your accent and fair complexion are a dead give
away," the man replied, smiling, before his expression turned
more serious. "Battles? A few skirmishes out east, but I seemed
to avoid the worst of it," he added cagily.

"I see, that's good to hear, that you avoided the
worst of it that is. I'm Galvyn, by the way."

The man looked at him for a few seconds before holding
out a hand.

"Hayden. Good to meet you."

Galvyn looked at the outstretched hand, a little
uncertain of what to do, before reaching out, too. Hayden took his
hand and shook it.

"Strength be to he—" Hayden said.

"Er—"

"You're meant to say, 'Who is born from the rock.' "

"Am I? I'm sorry, I didn't realize—" he
began, but Hayden waved away his apology, suggesting he was joking.

"It's something we say, well, some of us anyway.
Now show me your warmest chainmail."

"Warmest? Well, these are linen lined, under-armor
vests," Galvyn said, taking one of the finer examples of his
work and handing it to Hayden. He was going to talk more about the
garment but was distracted by a noise from the other room. Did he
have another customer? "Maybe you would like to try it on?"

"I think I'll do that."

"I'll be back in a moment, I have to check on
something."

Galvyn returned to the shop front and looked around.
There didn't seem to be anybody there and it didn't look like
anything had fallen, nothing that would make the noise he'd heard
anyway. He walked around his workbench and towards the hearth, where
everything seemed to be normal.

He opened the door to the coal bunker and looked inside.
Perhaps the coal tub or pulley chain had moved. Or perhaps not,
nothing seemed out of place. He must have imagined it. Or might his
boss have returned that way? It was a possibility.

Galvyn stepped into the bunker, reached down and began
to open the door to the mine.

When out walking, Tansley was normally lost in his
thoughts, but not today. He was paying a lot more attention to his
surroundings this time.

From the moment he'd handed Croneygee his
bag, he hadn't stopped looking around. He'd climbed the bank of the
old moat and skirted the edge of Serfacre, glancing several times in
the direction of the workshops there. Then, having hurried across the
Briddlesford Bridge, he'd taken the first turning into Demedelei
Town.

As he'd entered the town, his alertness had not dimmed,
with the people he could see there being of particular interest.
Whether they were browsing the shops, or just going about their
business, he scanned the faces of everybody.

He saw a few men who bore a resemblance to the two that he
had seen on the highway, but they were not same ones. He relaxed a
little, but not completely. The man who'd walked by Croneygee's
workshop occupied his mind.

He'd
only caught a brief glimpse of him, a tall man, with black hair and
wearing a white tunic,
was about all he'd had a chance to see.
Perhaps the similarity was just a coincidence. Serfacre was a busy
place, it attracted craftsmen and customers from miles around.

Yet
there had been something about the man, something about the way he
moved, less of a walk and more of a prowl. He'd only seen the man
take two steps before disappearing from view again, but it was enough
and it worried him.

What
if he
had
been followed? What could it mean?

Tansley continued up Market Street and made his way
towards the tavern. He wanted to speak with the proprietor there, he
had something for him. Something he wanted to sell quickly. It would
also give him an opportunity to rest his legs and think of what he
should do next.

The thought of the tavern lifted Tansley's spirits. He
could have a drink while he was there, he was feeling in need of some
sustenance. The half-eaten bacon cob he'd left on the counter came to
mind, no wonder he was feeling listless. He reached the tavern and
went inside.

"Tansley," the barman said by way of hello.

"Duncan, a pint of your finest, if you would be so
kind," Tansley said, sitting on a barstool and looking around
the tavern. Watching the other patrons and making sure that none were
too close.

He waited for the right moment, before reaching into his
coat pocket, taking out a clay vial and placing it on the bar, just
as Duncan served him a jug of ale. In a well practiced move, the vial
was swiftly hidden under the bar, while and a leather bound ledger
moved in the other direction.

Tansley watched as Duncan opened the ledger and jotted
down a few numbers.

"One-fifty, plus forty," the barman said,
looking at his jug, "minus one, that's one-eight-nine." The
man took a nod of confirmation from him and replaced the ledger.

Tansley knew that the empessence he'd just sold Duncan,
was special ingredient in one of barman's more popular and potent
beverages. It would double the value of every barrel it was put in.
Tansley took a few sips of his own drink. It was refreshing and
tasty. Not one of the special brews. With the transaction complete,
the barman moved to serve another customer, while Tansley remained
seated, contemplating matters.

He could spend the afternoon in the tavern. The idea was
not an unappealing one but the Coralainians were still on his mind.
Why hadn't he seen them when he left his trading post? That thought
nagged at him now. Could he have been followed? Or, thinking the hut
empty, might they have broken in? If so, what did they want with him?
He thought he knew the answer to the last question but he needed to
be sure, either to put his mind at rest or reaffirm his need to be
vigilant.

After weighing up his options, Tansley decided on what
he thought to be the best course of action. He would head up through
the High Gate, turn onto the highway and stop by a neighboring hut.
He could then ask a fellow merchant about the visitors who had
stopped by, and see what he could find out about them.

If the two men were still around, he could take the
opportunity put them off the scent. Better to meet with them in
daylight, and in full view of the other merchants, than alone and at
night. Tansley took a few more sips of ale and contemplated some
more.

The men had startled him with their sudden appearance,
but now he'd had some time to think, and a little dutch courage, he
grew more confident. He could deal with them without difficulty, he'd
just needed time to get his story straight.

If
he met with them, he could tell them that yes, a man from the south
had
stopped by his store. The visitor was traveling north, and wanted to
trade a dagger for a pair of sturdy boots and a warm coat, but no,
the man didn't sell him any gauntlets. It would help that this was
all true. Keep as close to the truth as possible, he reminded
himself, and took another swig of ale. And whatever happens, don't
mention any gauntlets, not unless they do.

Yes, that should work. Since he'd have to return home at
some point, it would be much better to do so now, rather than wait
until it was dark. Finishing the last of his drink, he stood and gave
a discrete wave.

"Duncan, good day to you, a pleasure as always."

"Tansley," The barman replied, by way of
goodbye.

With that, Tansley left the tavern.

Once outside, he
looked up and down Market Street and, seeing nothing suspicious, he
started up the rising street, and back towards home.

Advancing up the bank, he could see five adits to
the mine. Each about twelve feet wide and eight feet high, with two
wooden posts each side holding up a crossbeam. Decarius was back on
one of the worn paths now, and followed it to the same entrance the
two men had used a few minutes earlier.

He knew that by taking him out of sight quickly, the
mines made for a potentially ideal escape route, but what of their
layout? Would they be busy with miners? Was there enough light inside
without a torch or a lamp? Could there be a maze of tunnels to get lost
in?

There was an equal chance that they were the worst kind
of escape route.

He entered anyway, taking advantage of the concealment
the tunnel provided but paused to consider his options. Going up to
the workshop by the same way he'd descended would be easier. The
problem being that it would require him to reveal his face, since he
couldn't move around masked. Or could he?

He'd noticed some of the workmen shielded themselves
from the dust and fumes. A mask may not look quite so out of place.
The rest of his clothes were not in keeping with the workmen, though,
and the combination might look suspicious. Since he was in the mine
he would try to make this way work, and if he encountered problems,
he could always come back and try a different route.

Walking up a slight incline, Decarius reached the main
coal seam itself, or at least, what was left of it. The cavernous
void was all that remained of this part of the seam. By the light of
the five adits, he could see that whole space was filled with
columns of wooden posts, spread amid large untouched pillars of coal.
The miners had no doubt wanted to make sure the roof didn't cave in
on them, so had left some of the coal in place. The occupants of the
buildings above were no doubt pleased they had.

The seam extended for hundreds of yards ahead of him,
and from what he could tell, it was just as wide. What little light
there was, quickly faded out to blackness, and Decarius found himself
using the sounds and echos of some distant mine activity to gauge the
size of the space he was in.

He ventured further inside and found it to be like a
journey into a dark forest. There was a stillness and sense of
something ancient and as old as time. The wooden posts retained an
eerie resemblance to the trees they were hewn from, while there were
ropes everywhere, wrapped around and hanging down from the beams
above like vines. With each step he took, the eons old detritus
crunched underfoot, the dusty remnants of long dead forest floor
where no sunlight reached. The canopy, entwined as it was, by the
foundries and forges of Serfacre, some forty feet above him.