Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

‘Yeah, sure. Just call and tell him I’m coming.’ Steven grimaced: he never enjoyed the drive into Denver. The opportunity to appreciate the picturesque foothills and long sloping vistas was invariably ruined by interminable traffic. If he left by 2.00 p.m., he would have a couple of hours to shop for his sister Catherine, who had just agreed to marry the man she had been dating for the past two years. The wedding was scheduled for mid-December, and Steven planned to buy her a late-engagement, early-wedding present. As a child, his sister had loved the antique china cabinet their mother had in the family dining room. It was mahogany, with thin glass panes set in an elaborate woodworked pattern on double doors. South Broadway Avenue was lined with antique stores and Steven had seen an advert for a going-out-of-business sale at an old family shop, Meyers Antiques. One way or another, he was sure he would find something just perfect for Catherine.

He missed his sister. They spoke frequently on the telephone and she teased him when he forwarded maths problems to her by e-mail, but he wished they saw each other more often. When they were children he had always been busy with friends, athletics and all those other world-shatteringly vital teenage things he couldn’t even remember now. He’d rarely found time for her, despite the fact that she had idolised him. When he reflected on their childhood, fifteen years later, he felt that was his greatest failure, that he had not taken the time to be a good older brother to her. Kenny, the man she was marrying, was a technology specialist and computer programmer. Steven had met him only once, during the Christmas holiday at Catherine’s home in Sacramento – Christmas in humid, eighty-five-degree weather, ironic but fun nevertheless. When he’d got back to Idaho Springs, he’d erected a Christmas tree in his living room to enjoy the holiday in a snowy setting, even if it was a week late.

He wanted his gift to show that he had paid attention to things that were important to her when they were young, even if it came a score of years too late; he hoped she would realise how much she had always meant to him. So he had to find the perfect cabinet.

Steven collected the papers for a small-business loan application and placed them in a manila folder. He walked to the lobby and handed the folder to Myrna, who quickly put away sketches she had been working on and opened a magazine resting on the counter. ‘Were those circles I saw drawn on that sheet of paper?’ Steven asked, grinning.

‘No. Well, okay, yes, but I’m not working on it any more,’ she said, then changed the subject pointedly. ‘What’s this?’

‘This is the Thistle loan application. It’s all approved. Would you put it in the computer for me and send out the letter once Howard signs it?’ he asked.

‘I am not your secretary, Steven Taylor,’ she answered, trying to sound offended and failing. Steven liked Myrna. He often found himself taking time to tell her the things he wished he’d said to Catherine through the years. She was an attractive twenty-one-year-old with short, raven-black hair, light skin and blue eyes. She had been a member of Mark’s world history class three years earlier and Steven knew he would always think of her as one of Mark’s former students, even though he often heard her planning evenings out with friends or trips to the resorts for apres ski parties.

Myrna’s father had to give up work after being injured in a car accident, and she’d taken on a number of part-time jobs around town to help her mother make their mortgage payments. Finances had been tight for several years, but last winter her mother had been promoted to assistant manager at the local supermarket, and her father had landed a job helping out in the cafeteria at the hospital. Myrna’s dream was to attend college, and Mark had been helping her with scholarship applications; if all went well, she would attend the University of Colorado the following fall.

‘I know, I know,’ Steven responded, ‘I was just hoping you’d help me get out of here early today so I can get my sister a wedding present.’

‘Well, in that case, I’ll help you. Also, I’m bored. It’s been dead out here today.’ She cast him a coquettish grin.

‘Thanks,’ he said as he turned towards Griffin’s office, ‘okay, I’m off. Howard, I’ll drop the ticket by tonight if I’m not too late, or tomorrow morning after breakfast. Myrna, behave yourself tonight. Stay away from the Ja?germeister. That stuff will kill you.’ He grinned back at her and pulled an arm through one sleeve of his tweed jacket.

‘How would you know, Steven? You’re never out – when was the last time you had a shot of Ja?ger – or anything?’

‘It may be the only German Schnapps I know, but if you really want to drink like a fat, balding German banker, that stuff is your free pass. Behave yourself anyway.’

Myrna watched through the front window as Steven waited to cross the street. She’d had a crush on him three years ago, but now she looked on him more as a protective older brother than a potential catch. He looked over his shoulder, shook his head in amusement and hopped back up the stairs.

Myrna looked at him expectantly. ‘What?’

‘It’s a square built on eighty-nine per cent of the circle’s diameter. The Egyptians had it all worked out long before they ever heard of pi. See you Monday.’

Garec Haile rode hard through the village towards Greentree Tavern. He had taken a few moments near Danae’s Eddy to clean the claw wounds on Renna’s hindquarter, but the injury needed stitches. Garec thought Sallax had some herbal concoction to help the mare sleep while Brynne stitched her up; for now, the bleeding had slowed enough for Renna to carry him back to Estrad. He hurried to spread the word that there were grettans in the southern forest. Careening into Greentree Square, Garec suddenly reined Renna to a slow walk, a spray of mud about her feet marking the abrupt change in tempo. There were nearly a dozen Malakasian soldiers tethering their mounts to a hitching post in front of the tavern, their black and gold uniforms unmistakable. Some remained outside, encouraging interested passers-by to continue on with their business, while others entered the tavern through the front and rear doors. The platoon would have been no match for an organised group of Estrad villagers, but the Eastlands and Praga had been under Malakasian occupation for so long – several generations now – that few would even think of spontaneously taking up arms against Prince Malagon’s forces.

Fighting his fear, Garec rode to the mercantile exchange across the square from the tavern owned by Sallax and Brynne Farro and hitched Renna there, not wanting to lose her to the Malakasians should trouble arise. Lashing his bow and hunting knife to his saddle, he limped across the common and attempted to enter the building. ‘Hold there, son,’ a burly sergeant called, ‘we won’t be long.’ The soldier was an older man; he looked like he’d been hardened by many Twinmoons’ service in Malagon’s army. He stood a full head taller than the other soldiers and corded muscle bulged in unlikely places.

‘I’m unarmed,’ he replied. ‘I have friends inside.’

‘I said hold here, boy,’ the sergeant directed. ‘If your friends are smart, they’ll have no trouble this morning.’ Garec watched as one of the soldiers moved to block the front entrance. These men were more heavily armed than the Malakasian patrols that regularly crisscrossed town and covered the north bank of the river. Something was wrong.

‘You don’t look like normal patrolmen,’ he ventured, ‘is something wrong?’

‘Mind your business, boy,’ the sergeant told him sharply, then softened and admitted, ‘Actually, you’re right. We’re looking for a group of raiders who took a caravan last night along the Merchants’ Highway north of here.’ He fingered a short dagger in his belt. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you, boy?’