Richard Baker - Corsair

“Where are the mines? And the forests your people cut?”

Geran pointed past her at a faint, gray-green range that marched across their path many miles away. “The Galena Mountains. They lie about fifteen or twenty miles east of Hulburg. That’s where you’ll find the mining and timber camps. West of Hulburg there’s nothing but the Highfells and Thar.” He reined in and swung himself down from the saddle. “You keep riding. I’ll walk a bit.”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking a few miles,” Nimessa answered.

“I don’t doubt it, but I’d feel better if you rode.”

She looked at him with a skeptical expression. “You don’t have to impress me with your gallantry, you know.”

“Would it make you feel better if I said I was mindful of the horse, not you?”

Nimessa laughed briefly and shook her head. She had a pleasant laugh, light and soft, much like many of the elves Geran had known in Myth Drannor. He smiled and set off again, walking at her stirrup as they picked their way down a hillside. If he had his bearings right, they’d hit the inland trail from Thentia soon. “So what business do you have in Hulburg? It seems a fair distance from your home.”

“I’m taking over the management of our House’s tradeyard. My father isn’t satisfied with the return on our investments in Hulburg. He feels that it’s time a Sokol stepped in to put things in order.”

Geran looked up at her. He wondered if she had much experience in overseeing Sokol business. Was her father seeing to her education in the affairs of House Sokol, or was she expected to take a direct hand in the business? He was more than a little responsible for the decline in Sokol profits over the last few months, since he’d played a large part in exposing the corruption of the Merchant Council in Hulburg-although it was Geran’s own cousin Sergen who’d been behind much of that. In the aftermath of Sergen’s failed attempt to seize power, Harmach Grigor had closely examined the leases and rents paid by each of the foreign merchant concessions in Hulburg. Most of the big merchant costers were now paying much more for the right to cut the harmach’s timber and mine the harmach’s hills than they had when Sergen was running things. Of course, that meant Nimessa would be on the other side of the table from him when it came time to negotiate those rights.

“There are still plenty of Veruna leases available,” he observed. House Veruna of Mulmaster had been Sergen’s chief accomplice in the recent troubles. “House Sokol could do worse than to bid on a few of those, since the Verunas won’t be getting them back.”

“The Verunas have made it clear to us that they’d take a very dim view of other families or costers buying up their Hulburg leases,” Nimessa answered. “They feel they’re still the rightful holders, and they’ll retaliate against any other House that takes advantage of your uncle’s draconian measures.”

“Draconian?”

Nimessa tilted her head. “So the Verunas say. I wasn’t here, so I really can’t make a judgment about whether the harmach was within his rights to expel House Veruna and confiscate their holdings.”

Geran snorted to himself. He didn’t have any doubt of it, but of course he was a Hulmaster. He decided that Nimessa wasn’t in Hulburg to learn anything. She was here because her father trusted her to look after Sokol interests. Nimessa hadn’t forgotten that he was a Hulmaster, and despite the fact that she was riding through the middle of nowhere with a borrowed shirt and oversized cloak, she was careful to keep her thoughts to herself about her family’s business.

The rest of the morning passed by quietly enough. From time to time they talked of small things; Geran told Nimessa some of the stories he knew about the Highfells and their brooding barrows, while Nimessa told him about events and doings in Phlan. They saw no signs of Kraken Queen’s crew or any other travelers for that matter. Eventually they struck the Thentian trail Geran was looking for, and two hours more brought them to the edge of the Winterspear Vale a couple of miles north of Hulburg itself. As Geran had promised, they came to the Burned Bridge over the Winterspear in the early afternoon.

Hulburg itself lay south of the old bridge, a ramshackle town bustling with commerce and trade. Here, where the Winterspear emptied into the Moonsea, an older city had stood hundreds of years ago. The town of Hulburg was built atop its ruins. On the east bank of the river, the castle of Griffonwatch-home of the Hulmasters-overlooked the town’s landward edge, guarding against attack from the wild lands of Thar. The tradeyards and concessions of the foreign merchant companies stood mostly on the west bank, hard by the town’s wharves. A steady stream of wagons and carts pushed out along the road leading inland, ferrying provisions and tools to the camps outside of town. The ruins of an old city wall meandered around the edge of the town, but stonemasons were at work in various spots-Harmach Grigor was pouring most of the Tower’s newfound wealth into repairing the old defenses.

Geran stole a glance at Nimessa’s face, trying to read her reaction to her first sight of the town. She frowned, perhaps taking in the unpaved roads or the smoking smelters. “It’s not quite as cheerless as it looks,” he told her. “The streets down by the bay-side are a little more, well, civilized.”

She summoned a small smile. “It’s busy,” she observed. “That’s a good sign. Besides, I’ve been told that the lodgings in the Sokol concession are fairly comfortable. I’ll be fine.” Then she nodded off to Geran’s left. “It looks like there was a fire.”

Geran followed her gaze. Near the spot where the Vale Road passed through the ancient walls stood a large wooden building on a footing of old stone. One corner was scorched, and a patch of the wooden shakes over that part of the building was missing. A thin plume of smoke rose from a hole in the roof. “The Troll and Tankard,” he said with a frown.

“A tavern?”

“The best ale in Hulburg.” They rode by slowly. A number of workmen were busy with the work of tearing down the ruined siding with hatchets and saws. Several more stood watch over the scene, each with a blue cloth tied around the arm. Geran spotted Brun Osting, the tavernkeeper, studying the scene with his thick arms folded across his chest and a fierce scowl on his bearded face. Brun had run the Troll and Tankard ever since his father died fighting to stop the Bloody Skull orcs from pillaging the town five months past. Geran detoured closer and hailed him. “What happened here, Brun?”

The tavernkeeper looked around. He was a young man of strapping build, easily two or three inches taller than Geran and fifty pounds heavier. “M’lord Geran-and m’lady,” he said, touching his knuckle to his brow. If he was surprised to see Geran riding with a pretty young yoman in the front of his saddle, he didn’t say anything. “It was the Cinderfists. A gang of ’em tried to fire the Troll during the night, but they made enough noise to rouse my brothers. We drove ’em off and saved most of the building.”

Geran studied the damage and frowned. “Anyone hurt?”

“The Cinderfists carried off two or three o’ theirs, but I don’t think no one got killed. My brother Stunder took a bad cut, but he’s patched up now.” Brun Osting shook his head. “There’s trouble in the making, m’lord. Mark my words. The Cinderfists try burning out good Hulburgans again, and there’ll be killing over it.”

“I hear you,” Geran said. “Is there anything I can do to help? The Hulmasters are in your family’s debt.”

The young brewer waved his hand. “It’s just a few hours’ work to cut some new shakes and planks, m’lord. The Troll wasn’t that handsome to look at anyway, but I’ll bet the smell of smoke’s going to be in the rafters for years.”