Chapter 216

I was getting better at stepping to places I'd never been.

It only took me three attempts to reach Halemarch - two of them were awkward.

Very awkward.

The first time I appeared in the nursery of a pleasant manor of a modest size. An infant wailed from a rocking chair while its mother sat nearby, softly crying as she tried to soothe the child in her arms.

I froze.

For a moment my brain tried to process where I was, how I'd gotten there, and why I'd apparently teleported into the middle of a family crisis.

Beside me, Iolite shifted her weight.

The movement drew the woman's attention. She screamed.

The baby immediately upgraded from crying to outright shrieking.

Heavy footsteps thundered somewhere below.

“Belly rubs for the baby. Fennel tea for you,” I said with a wince. I grabbed Iolite's hand just as the nursery door burst open and an angry man locked eyes with me.

I looked out the window and stepped.

Then stepped again. And again. Several short hops carried me over the wall and across the fields, away from the increasingly upset parents.

I let out a long breath.

Iolite looked up at me and offered a sweet, encouraging smile that somehow made the embarrassment worse instead of better.

I stepped again.

This time we arrived in the middle of a funeral.

Roughly two dozen mourners stood around an open grave. At the front stood a woman in her early thirties, flanked by three boys who couldn't have been older than ten.

Iolite and I appeared directly beside her.

The woman screamed, then fainted.

The mourners reacted with understandable alarm.

I caught her before she hit the ground and lowered her gently onto the grass.

Something struck me from the side. Hard.

I stumbled backward and fell directly into the grave.

Iolite's expression darkened. She shoved the man away. Her smooth olive skin roughened into stone as her body expanded. In seconds she towered over everyone, ten feet tall and unmistakably elemental.

The mourners scattered.

Within moments only the unconscious woman and one of her sons remained. The boy clung desperately to his mother.

“Iolite,” I called from atop the coffin.

She looked down at me. “Relax. It was my fault. Don't hurt anyone.”

Her expression softened. The stone receded. She shrank rapidly until she once again resembled the girl-next-door I'd grown rather fond of.

I climbed out of the grave and brushed dirt from my clothes. “Sorry,” I told the boy. “We didn't mean to interrupt.”

I knelt beside the woman and checked her breathing.

Normal.

I gently tapped her shoulder.

Her eyelids fluttered.

“Easy,” I said. “Just lie still for a moment.” I elevated her legs slightly. “Relax. I'm going to get somebody.”

I looked at Iolite. “Keep an eye on them. I'll be right back.”

The cemetery sat on the edge of a small village.

I stepped to the entrance and walked to the nearest house. After knocking, I waited.

Several moments later a voice shouted through the door. “Go away!”

“The widow fainted,” I replied. “Someone should probably check on her.”

Something shifted inside. No answer came.

I sighed. “I'm not leaving until I know she's alright. So if you want me gone, you're going to come out and check on her.”

Then I stepped back.

The woman flinched.

Her son whimpered.

Apparently I wasn't helping. “Hopefully someone's coming,” I told her as I knelt nearby. “I'm sorry for startling you and interrupting the funeral.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I'm still figuring out this whole teleportation thing.”

A few minutes later I spotted a group approaching from the village.

Several carried axes. A few had clubs. One had a pitchfork.

I smiled. “Looks like help is on the way.”

The woman still looked pale.

“Just stay put and take it easy.”

I stood and took Iolite's hand. “And sorry again for the intrusion.”

We stepped away. Not far. Far enough that they probably couldn't see us. Close enough that I could make sure nobody did anything stupid.

Once I was satisfied the woman was receiving actual help and nobody was organizing a lynch mob, I tried again.

The third attempt finally worked.

We appeared on a bridge overlooking a vast city.

A broad lake stretched away to the west. The water split around the city's walls before ing again downstream to form a great river flowing south and east.

Beyond the white stone walls rose three tall towers - the Ledger Towers.

I glanced down at Iolite. She smiled and gave me an encouraging nod.

This time, at least, we were in the right place.

Together we headed into the city.

* * *

Halemarch was a city in constant motion.

Everywhere I looked there were horse-drawn wagons, ferries, gondolas, carriages, and people, all flowing toward one destination or another. It wasn't frantic. It was purposeful. The city breathed in cargo and travelers, then exhaled them somewhere else.

Birds filled the sky.

At first I thought they were simply part of the city's wildlife. Then I noticed each carried a tiny leather tube strapped to one leg.

Messages.

Cardinals, indigo buntings, goldfinches, and orioles streaked overhead in flashes of crimson, sapphire, gold, and orange, weaving invisible lines between towers and rooftops.

Many of the larger canals ed through locks where the water could be raised or lowered. Beside each lock stood a squat stone tower crowned by an enormous bronze bell.

Every few minutes another bell rang. Each carried a different pitch. A different rhythm.

I had no idea what any of it meant. Everyone else apparently did.

A deep bell sounded twice. A team of laborers immediately abandoned what they were doing and headed toward one of the locks.

A bright, sharp chime rang three quick notes. Half a dozen mothers suddenly rounded up wandering children and hurried them across the street before the next ferry arrived.

The city spoke in bells.

The people listened.

When we reached the heart of Halemarch, the streets opened onto an enormous causeway stretching east and west. It was arrow-straight and easily a hundred and fifty feet wide.

Like the city walls, it had been shaped from a single mass of white stone. There were no seams. No ts. No hint that human hands had ever touched it. The surface was textured just enough to give horses secure footing while shallow channels, barely noticeable beneath wagon wheels, carried rainwater away toward the canals.

Freshwater mingled with the smell of pond scum, horses, hay, fresh bread, hot tar, unfamiliar spices, and meat sizzling somewhere nearby.

It smelled like trade.

Despite the sheer volume of traffic, movement remained remarkably orderly. Everyone simply kept to the right. There were no painted lines. No signs demanding it. It was simply what people did.

Along both edges of the causeway ran slightly raised walkways. Most pedestrians stayed there, though merchants had claimed generous portions for carts, awnings, and stalls. At times shoppers spilled back into the roadway, forcing wagons to weave around them with practiced ease.

Occasionally someone would call, ‘ing!’ or ‘Left!’ before slipping around slower traffic.

Nobody seemed offended. It was simply another part of the city's rhythm.

Ahead, the three Ledger Towers rose above the rooftops.

The broad causeway divided neatly around them before ing again on the far side, as though even the road acknowledged their importance.

“Any idea how to find Bors?” Iolite asked.

I shrugged. “He's in charge of roads. Seems reasonable to start with the Ledger Towers.”

We ed the current of people flowing toward them.

Fifteen minutes later we stepped inside the nearest tower.

The noise hit me first. Hundreds of conversations blended with echoing footsteps, shuffling papers, scratching quills, and the occasional shouted name until the entire building became one enormous bureaucratic roar.

Some people argued. Some chatted. Most simply waited in one of dozens of long lines snaking toward counters scattered throughout the great hall.

In the center stood a broad staircase that climbed in square turns toward the upper floors before disappearing through the ceiling.

The walls were covered in signs. Some pointed toward departments. Others listed permits available at specific counters. Still others corrected directions from older signs that had apparently become obsolete years ago.

The entire place was a loud, confusing masterpiece of organized bureaucracy.

Several smaller information desks circled the base of the staircase.

I ed the shortest line.

Only three people stood ahead of us. It still took nearly twenty minutes.

Finally the dwarf behind the desk looked up. “How can I help you, sir?”

Mirri's explanation about dwarves drifted into my mind.

I looked at the clerk's eyes - bright blue.

A woman.

Despite the thick black beard. Despite the barrel chest that may - or may not - have concealed breasts. Despite the square jaw, broad shoulders, and voice like gravel rolling downhill.

I smiled. “Could you tell me where I might find either Lord Bors Vey or Governor Weavelyn?”

“Lord Vey works out of his estate office,” she replied with the practiced smile of someone who'd answered the same question a hundred times already. “Governor Weavelyn can be found in Crown Tower.” She pointed toward the southeastern tower.

“Thank you, miss.”

She blinked. It lasted only a heartbeat, but surprise crossed her face before her tired smile warmed into a genuine one.

“And could you tell me how to reach Lord Vey's estate from here?”

“Certainly.” She pulled a sheet of paper toward herself, sketched a quick map, and marked several landmarks.

I accepted it with a nod. “Thank you, miss. Have a lovely day.”

“You too.” She flashed me another smile.

Iolite and I made our way back into the steady current of people flowing through Halemarch.

* * *

Lord Vey's estate was unlike any noble estate I'd visited.

It occupied a large block near the western gate, just off the causeway. Anyone entering Halemarch from the lake crossed directly past it. It wasn't just river traffic, either. Bridges spanning the canals and rivers funneled much of the kingdom's overland traffic through the same stretch of road.

The estate was enclosed by a whitewashed stone wall. At first glance it resembled the seamless white stone of the city walls, but only at first glance. The masonry beneath was hidden beneath layers of stucco and limewash. It was meant to evoke the city's architecture, not imitate its magic.

Beside the main gate, a large bas-relief map of Arvellia had been carved into the wall. Hundreds of tiny holes dotted its surface. Brass pins marked bridge closures, ferry delays, flooded roads, bandit sightings, rockslides, storms, and any other hazard that might delay travel through the kingdom.

It was less a monument than a living map.

Rather than a single manor, the estate consisted of four substantial buildings clustered around a broad courtyard. Each swarmed with activity.

One bore the words Messenger House carved above its entrance.

Birds never seemed to stop coming or going. Cardinals, buntings, orioles, finches - reds, blues, yellows, and oranges constantly wheeled overhead. Couriers hurried in and out carrying satchels bulging with letters and scrolls while handlers clipped tiny message tubes onto waiting birds before tossing them skyward.

Two more buildings - the Road Office and the Survey Hall - were even busier.

Lines stretched from their doors into the courtyard. Clerks darted between queues carrying stacks of ledgers while surveyors rolled maps beneath their arms and argued over measurements I couldn't begin to understand.

The fourth building lacked any inscription, yet people entered and exited it with steady purpose. It wasn't as crowded as the others, but it certainly wasn't private.

To one side sprawled an enormous stable. Relay riders arrived at a gallop and departed just as quickly. Stable hands brushed horses, changed tack, and led fresh mounts into place with practiced efficiency. Nearby, wheelwrights repaired wagons while leatherworkers stitched harnesses and blacksmiths replaced horseshoes, wagon pins, and bent iron rims.

Iolite and I stood for a while simply watching it all.

It was a crowded, chaotic mess disguised as impeccable organization. Or perhaps it was impeccable organization disguised as chaos.

An hour later we crossed a nearby bridge to an inn called the Wayfarer's Rest.

It wasn't particularly elegant. Most of its patrons appeared to be caravan masters, engineers, surveyors, and government clerks. A broad front window overlooked both the causeway and Lord Vey's estate, making it an excellent place to watch the constant flow of people without attracting attention.

We ordered lunch.

Between bites we watched the estate, chatted about nothing of consequence, and listened to the conversations around us.

Business dominated nearly every table. Taxes. Permits. Cargo. Bridge repairs. Road conditions. Shipping schedules. Travel delays.

From the look of things, many of the estate's employees came here for lunch. Some left the offices, ate quickly, then headed straight back to work. I couldn't imagine anyone willingly abandoning those lines just to start over.

No one mentioned Lord Vey himself. That didn't really tell me anything.

Nor did I hear many complaints about transportation beyond what I'd expect.

A bridge halfway to Kingsward had been closed for nearly a year, though repairs were supposedly nearing completion. Bandits crossing over from Caldris remained a nuisance, though they rarely challenged well-guarded caravans. Heavy rain near Stormwall had delayed several shipments.

Normal complaints. Nothing that suggested corruption or conspiracy.

After lunch we rented a room for the night. With the inn nearly full, I didn't want to risk waiting until evening.

I requested a room facing west, claiming I liked sleeping in and wanted to avoid the morning sun.

The innkeeper smiled knowingly and gave us a room on the southwest corner. It overlooked both the estate and the causeway.

With that settled, we headed back into the streets.

If Lord Vey wasn't the sort of man people discussed openly, perhaps they'd talk around him instead.

Our first stop was a hatter whose little shop spilled out onto the raised walkway.

I picked a hat from one of the racks and settled it atop Iolite's head before taking a thoughtful step backward.

“Exquisite hat, if I do say so myself,” the merchant announced as he approached.

He was rail-thin, with a magnificent gray mustache so large it completely concealed his mouth. Narrow dark eyes peered beneath bushy brows, while a hawkish nose and prominent Adam's apple gave him the appearance of an exceptionally judgmental crane. Wisps of steel-gray hair fluttered in the cool breeze.

“It's a nice hat,” I itted. “Though I was mostly iring the woman wearing it.”

Iolite immediately blushed and removed it.

The merchant chuckled.

“Is it from Caldris?” I asked.

“Esmori,” he replied proudly. “Very fashionable down there. This shipment just arrived from Highfield.”

I gave an appreciative whistle. “That's a long journey. Do caravans make that trip regularly?”

“Semi-regularly.” He shrugged. “Bandits are worse the farther south you go. Once the caravans reach Arvellia things settle down considerably.”

“The queen keeps the roads safe?”

His eyes flicked nervously briefly to either side. It lasted only an instant. “A lot safer here,” he answered, just a touch too carefully.

I pretended not to notice. Instead I picked up another hat and examined its tag. “Prices seem reasonable. Taxes aren't too painful?”

He relaxed a little. “Same as anywhere.” His smile became more genuine. “This is the place to buy or sell. Nearly everything in Arvellia es through Halemarch. Lord Weavelyn keeps things moving about as smoothly as anyone could hope.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “It's our first visit. We're from Northgate.” I slipped an arm around Iolite's waist.

She leaned comfortably against me, still holding the hat.

“Then you've come at the right time,” the merchant said with an easy grin. “Harvest's over, everyone's stocking up before winter, and the weather's kinder than it is up north.”

He gestured toward the display. “And with winter coming, everyone needs a good hat.”

I chuckled and looked at Iolite. “Do you like this one?”

She looked up at me, smiled shyly, and nodded.

“We'll take it,” I said.