Chương 4

People see what they wish to see. Few gaze beyond their own shadows. Harker pressed through the crowd, moving slower now but with purpose. He recognized more than a few faces, just as some certainly recognized him—but every single one turned away with a sneer, eye roll, or simply a twist of the mouth. He'd rather have stayed unseen, but Harker was short on time. The sooner he made it to Garon's, the better.

Beyond the press of the pre-festival markets he reached the bridge, where hanging lanterns swayed in the chill evening breeze and the sound of rushing waters almost drowned out the din of fingerbells. The bridge itself was built of piled fieldstone, pulled out of the mud by hands too old to be remembered, back when the Vale was a far-flung outpost. Still was, according to his mother—some just didn't like to admit it. Harker's bare and increasingly numb feet beat a steady tattoo as crowds thinned once more.

He crossed the bridge and padded down a dog-legged street that led past Nell's apothecary and the limestone edifice of Bhorun's masonry. Whitlock's was next, but the inn he'd seen a thousand times before looked suddenly bizarre. Beside the burning braziers next to the stone porch pillars, a herd of sleek hounds were tied up. Without exception, all of them were at least fifteen hands high at the shoulder and draped in fine-looking tack.

They were nicer mounts than anything Harker had seen in the Vale, and even if they weren't, their saddles alone spoke of coin. Harker slowed. Just inside the inn, on the other side of the large glass windows Whitlock was so proud of, a few figures in pale cloaks milled about. New folks with new, far-off faces. They lifted mugs and threw their heads back, clearly enjoying themselves as Whitlock's daughters rushed around with platters. Metal caught the firelight as one of the strangers spun around. Swords and axes.

Knives. Boar spears, too. Common enough weapons in the Vale. Folk had to defend themselves after all, and hunters needed spears to catch the feral hogs to the west. Still, the fine mounts, expensive saddles, and polished weaponry stood out.

"On the hunt, they are," Goody Molluk said, leaning out her window to stare at Harker.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

"Hunters, fool. Come from down the Haver Hill for Threllsnacht." Goody Molluk glared at him.

"I'm watchin' them hounds, boy. Paid me good copper to do it. So don't let me catch you puttin' your mitts on them. Or else." Law 3: Avoid Conflict.

"Of course, Goody Molluk," Harker said through a smile.

"I'll be on my way."

"Hmph." Curious as he was, it was beyond reckless to linger nearby, even if he hadn't been watched by that vile woman. Harker re-checked his pack, ensuring that things within were well-sealed before giving the hounds a wide berth. The herbs in his pack would be very good at warding off beasts he might encounter in the wilds—even a few weak Aberrants if it came to it. The last thing he needed was to spook the hounds with a whiff of wargrass. He turned the corner, still aware of Goody Molluk's eyes on him.

Garon's store was only a few doors down, between the bakery and the cobbler. The front was shabby and a bit worn, much like the merchandise inside, but at least Garon would sell to him. The door jangled as he entered. Inside, Garon's general store looked a lot like Harker's own house, if a great deal more haphazard. Stuff was heaped atop shelves, lining the walls with flour, leather laces, clay pipes, and iron nails.

Beeswax candles filled the left-most wall to bursting, always being in demand as they were, and even a few Talent lanterns were hung up near the counter.

"And this, good sir?" It was an unfamiliar voice, and that sent a thrill of fear racing through Harker. He immediately ducked beneath the height of the shelves and slipped down a side aisle. The jangling bell had announced him, but he couldn't do anything about that. What he could do, however, was watch and listen. Through the gap in poorly joined wood, Harker spied two women standing at the front counter. One older, one younger, the both of them draped in cloaks that hid much of their garb.

Of the two, the younger woman was quite short. She held up a woodcutter's axe and the sharpened blade gleamed in the lantern light.

"It is a fine axe." She gave it a swing.

"Good weight to it." The hem of her thick cloak lifted, revealing her boots. They were of a simple design, with thick soles meant for hard use and splattered with the same mud that covered his own bandaged toes. What stood out, however, were the three silver buckles that fastened them. Those are rich folk boots.

"Ah I see you've got a discerning eye, young miss. That's a mighty good axe, perfect for anyone that wants to push back this long Winter with a cheery fire." Garon was an older man, and like many men of the Vale, he was as irritable as he was hairy. Now, however, his tone was soft and unctuous. She gave the axe another short, practiced swing. It whistled through the air.

"How would it do against an Aberrant?"

"Oh." Garon wrung his hands together.

"It's heavy and would do in a pinch against a beast or two, but that there is a tool, not a weapon. And against an Aberrant…" the man shivered.

"I wouldn't bet my life on a common woodcutters axe." The young woman lowered the axe and sighed.

"A pity. We'll take two." The older woman peered at the shapes of iron and glass hanging from the beam above the counter.

"Are these the only Talent lanterns you have for sale?" She had a smooth voice, with a clipped accent Harker couldn't place. Her face seemed youthful too, with one concession to age being the thin streaks of silver at her temples. She stood, silently watching as Garon hastily packaged the axes and other supplies in a wooden box.

"Aye, miss. Made here in town by a specialist. That there is the whole of Vale's stock, currently."

"Truly? That is…disappointing." Harker raised his eyebrows. Talent lanterns were works of art, every one of them. He'd drooled over them many times, hoping for the day he could afford one, and she found them disappointing?

"Aye, miss. Those hunters stayin' at the inn said much the same. We're not as fancy as the cities near the Gnarl, sad to say." Harker couldn't believe his ears. Garon was proud of everything in his shop, and he'd been known to start a fight for far less. The girl snorted.

"They are pretenders to quality, Master Hobbs. The Sunken Cities do not make such fine axes." Garon, the old codger, actually blushed and scratched his unshaven jaw.

"I could show you the stock in the back rooms, if you'd like that, miss." Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Harker clenched his jaw. He'd asked to look through that backroom more than once. It was where the man kept his really expensive goods, things like Talent crafted traps and lures. There was even a set of Talent crafted leather armor, though it had been there for close to a decade. It would've fetched a good price in the Sunken City, let alone out here in the Vale.

Goods like that cost more than just coin, though; they cost Water. A high price for sure, but that wasn't why it had remained in stock. Most Talented didn't need armor; even at the Surface level their skin was usually tougher than boiled leather. For Harker, that armor could mean life or death. It'd stand up to a few hits from a beast during a hunt… or from something more human. He wiggled his toes. The ointment was wearing thin. He needed those boots now.

"Hm. Perhaps another time, Master Hobbs." The older lady took the wooden package and tucked it beneath an arm with a deceptive casualness.

"This will do nicely for today." She's strong. The axes were hefty enough that Harker would have needed to brace to hold both, let alone whatever else she'd ordered. She's breached the Surface at the very least. Wealthy, Talented, and from far off. Danger signs, all of them. Harker moved away from the front counter. The store wasn't huge, but the chaos of its displays was a boon. It would be best if they never knew he was there. The boots. Just across the aisle.

Three battered pairs left, and perhaps one would fit him. Head down, he reached forward, only to founder against an unexpected wall. Wrack and ruin, he cursed silently. Not a wall.

"Are you alright?" Harker looked up from his half-crouch and into the amused smile of the young woman. Her face was several shades darker than his own and smooth enough that she looked carved from stone. Her full lips quirked into a curious frown, wrinkling her rounded chin ever so slightly. Her eyes… Harker blinked. She was, in a word, beautiful. Of course she is.

"Did you hear me?" Harker fought off a scowl, rearranging its pieces into something approaching sorrowfulness.

"My apologies." Bright gray eyes regarded him from beneath her hood.

"Why are you hiding?"

"I wasn't hiding," he said, forcing his gaze down again. He realized, too late, that he'd stood up to his full height at some point and was a great deal taller than her. He slouched.

"Just looking."

"Ah. Were you shopping for something specific?" She glanced down.

"Boots, perhaps?" Harker wiggled his bandaged toes.

"How observant." The woman raised an eyebrow and Harker cursed his flippant mouth. Two mistakes in less than a minute. That wasn't like him. With a smirk she plucked up the larger pair of boots.

"Here. These should fit, yes?" Harker would have rather grasped the wrong end of a cask serpent than take them from her, but refusing outright would only make it worse. He took the boots from her—and accidentally brushed against her fingers. His skin tightened, goosebumps rising all along his arms and back in a wave. Harker froze, meeting the woman's gaze for the first time. The gray was flecked with a rich green around the pupil. No. Not gray, he realized. Silver.

"Come, iyeshi. We have taken long enough." Harker blinked, pulling the boots against his chest as the older woman stepped close. She had the same complexion, unmarred by a single wrinkle or line despite the iron in her hair. That was done up beneath her hood, adding a severity to a look that could have already flayed flesh from bone. Every instinct told him to run, but he felt rooted to the spot.

"Of course we are," the young woman murmured, her expression darkening. Without another glance, she turned and left, followed closely by what had to be her aunt. Harker rubbed his arm, but the gooseflesh didn't quit. There was no doubt; they had both been powerfully Talented. Hunters and nobles. What is going on in this town? He had to get out.

"Garon. I'll take these." He set the boots onto the counter. The man's pleasant expression had faded once the women had exited, leaving only the dour-faced merchant he'd come to know.

"Harker. You don't usually come to town this late. What'd you do?"

"Lost my boots, as you can see." Garon narrowed his eyes, but grabbed the shoes and some thick paper. Harker stopped him.

"Won't need that. I'll be wearing them out."

"So I see," he said, peering at his bandaged feet.

"You'd best be careful, boy."

"That's what the boots are for."

"You—What? No, I mean about them," the shopkeep said, pointing at the closed door.

"Lots of new folk in town for Threllsnacht. Ancestors bring all sorts for the Charterstones. Traders, hunters, I even heard there was a mendicant wandering about, janglin' his keys." Mendicant? Unlikely. Rural as Vale was, it didn't have beggars, let alone Water thieves.

"I've seen the hunters. What're they after?" Garon grinned and tapped his nose.

"Mella thinks it's a Great Beast from beyond the Drop." Harker frowned.

"Great Beasts don't come to Vale. It's too loud." Garon gave him a look like he was an idiot.

"Great Beasts go where they want. They're closer to the Sea than any of us, and anything could be lurking beneath the waves." Harker gave a noncommittal grunt. He didn't have much to say to that; he'd never seen the Sea. With a reservoir so small, he barely managed to pull enough Water in his sleep, let alone through refinement.

"How much for the boots?"

"Six piece." Inwardly he cursed as he counted out the majority of his money, doling it into the shopkeep's greedy paw. Those same boots would have cost others less than two…but then Harker wasn't everyone else. Garon might buy and sell from him, but it didn't mean he had to be fair about it. The money vanished swiftly, as if the man had a Talent for it, and the boots were pressed back into Harker's hands.

"You staying for the festival, boy?"

"No. I've urgent business outside town." Not a lie. Harker found telling the truth with a few gaps was far more effective.

"I'll be heading there right after here."

"The Manion's? Down Southroad? I heard they lost some cattle." Harker shrugged.

"Ah, shame. Been lots of those recently. You hear about all those sheep northwest of here? Dead with sickness after getting mauled by some hound—" All too well, Garon.

"—Best to avoid the woods, I'd say."

"I'll be sure to stick to the roads." Harker leaned over and slipped the boots on. They fit well enough and he breathed a sigh of relief as he laced them up.

"Good boots are more important than weapons out there in the wilds," his mother used to say. Even better was laying down false trails. He was set to disappear into the north woods, so hopefully a story about him heading south would throw off the Vinells… and anyone else. Ignoring Garon's watchful stare, he left. The street beyond was quiet, interrupted only by the faint rumble of storm clouds to the south.

There were no hunters or noble women prowling the roads, though distant whoops and cries echoed across the rooftops from the market square.

"There he is!" Down the street, just turning the far corner, was bad news incarnate. Kaz and Mert, although dirty and wearing torn clothing, looked annoyingly unharmed. They pointed in unison, their arms covered in the faint gleam of a Chartermark. As did the one leading them.

"Harker!" Jeren Kalson. Mari's betrothed.

"Wrack and ruin," he groaned.

"The idiots found a third."