Page 80 of Keeper of the Word
“What do you mean?”
Her apathy evaporated. Her eyes stared at the ground. “Dunno. They just do. I don’t like being in the same room with ’em.”
Stars.
Instinctively, Tolvar glanced in the direction of Askella’s border where they’d found the traces of Adrienne. Had someone made their way here after unburying the Curse?
Tolvar gently placed the coin purse in Marga’s hand. “Buy some food with this. Or mayhap passage to a new town.”
Her hands trembled in his. She wouldn’t glance at him again but thrust the message in his hand and slammed the door.
Tolvar unfolded the message and squinted at the parchment as he attempted to hold it in the tiny pierce of light escaping fromMarga’s shuttered window. But after a moment, ’twas clear he would need to wait for more light. Tolvar stuck it in his pocket and walked the two blocks from Marga’s place to the graveyard. He was taken aback by how quiet it was here in this borough. No violent noises from within dwellings—shouting, items breaking, wailing—as he remembered. Flickering lights stabbed through the shuttered windows, but they did nothing to light his way. And the street remained deserted. Strange. This place was as if the dead lived here. To his recollection, the northside streets of Trysinmar had also been boisterous, to say the least. He needed to send men here when this was all over to find out what occurred. Especially, if a steady stream of criminal bandits felt blatant enough to be here.
The graveyard was the very illustration of how rundown Trysinmar was. Like the rest of the borough, ’twas deserted and dark. Tolvar counted seven graves from the center of the yard. The grave of Himmex, or what Tolvar had to assume was his place of rest, didn’t appear abnormal or consequential in any way. He knelt and touched the hard ground, noting that the grass overran the grave markers here.
A hoax.Ghleemusthave meant Crevan’s death. What else could it be?
‘Seek naught but a ghost.’ Bah.
He patted the outside of his pocket, feeling the note. Best to return to the square where at least there was light. Mayhap Gus had found a sign of Crevan. And there was the matter of the band making themselves comfortable in the southside. Tolvar patted the hilt of his sword as he stood.
He jerked and squinted. A lone tree stood in the distance, its shadow playing tricks on Tolvar’s mind. For a moment, he swore a man had stood there.
To be certain, Tolvar made his way to the tree. But the absence of a soul confirmed it’d been his imagination.
Stars.
Tolvar took a different road to the square and, after a couple of blocks, came upon an open pub. The yammering of drunken menstanding outside clashed with the eerie quietness of the rest of the borough. A half-block closer to the pub, the men burst into laughter before one of them clapped his companion on the shoulder and began staggering away, moving in Tolvar’s direction. The man swerved to and fro and began humming to himself.
Gripping the hilt of his sword, Tolvar stepped out of the man’s way as he approached, but the man lost his balance and tripped into Tolvar.
Lids half closed, the man burped—his breath foul—and muttered, “Sorry, sir.”
Tolvar shoved the man aside—not as rough as he wanted to—and continued on his way. A dozen steps beyond, Tolvar noticed a folded piece of parchment on the chipped, stone road.
He twice patted his pocket and felt the message there. But wait. That wouldn’t be the message Marga had given him in front of him. He picked it up. It must belong to the drunken man.
Tolvar turned. “You dropped this.”
The man was gone.
Suddenly, Tolvar noted that the group of men outside the pub had disappeared as well. Within, the lantern lights from the pub exuded. But all was quiet.
Tolvar’s feet pivoted deliberately as he scanned what hidden alleys or doorways someone might have ducked into. Nothing. The only sound was the soft sputtering of a lone torch hanging next to the pub’s doorway.
Placing the found note in his pocket, Tolvar drew his sword and stepped into the pub. Inside, he was met with empty tables and a deserted wooden bar, behind which stood a barkeep wiping mugs.
The man gazed up, his eyes widening when he glanced at Tolvar’s sword.
“May I help you, sir?”
He didn’t know who Tolvar was. If he did, he would have properly addressed his earl as m’lord. The drunk men in the street couldn’t know either. That would be far too coincidental. Nevertheless,Tolvar stalked around the room, peeking behind a cupboard door and peering behind the bar at the barkeep’s feet.
“Nay, nothing.”
Tolvar walked out.
He didn’t hurry to the meeting place, but neither did he tarry.
