Free Corsair by Richard Baker Page A

teeth and a sallow cast. The man snorted as if amused by Geran’s attention and muttered something to his comrades as he sauntered past. Several snickered.
    I don’t like the look of the tall one, Hamil said silently. I’ve got half a mind to teach him some manners.
    “Leave him be for now,” Geran answered. “They’re not breaking any law of the harmach’s—not yet, at least.”
    A technicality, Hamil answered. But he smiled pleasantly at the ruffians and allowed them to continue on their way. The gray-cloaked men wandered on down Cart Street, leaving the two companions behind.
    “You’d think a dozen fellows like that ought to have some trade to practice in the middle of the day,” Geran said.
    Hamil nodded. “The Verunas employed hundreds. When the House pulled out of Hulburg, they just left their woodcutters and miners and drivers and the rest to fend for themselves. No wonder some of them have fallen in with the Cinderfist gang.”
    “What choice did the harmach have? He couldn’t let House Veruna stay after they helped Sergen in the attempt to unseat him.”
    “No, he couldn’t,” Hamil admitted. “Your uncle did what Darsi Veruna forced him to do. But until some more trade costers or merchant Houses take over Veruna camps, those Cinderfists won’t have anything to do other than stand around on street corners and trouble passersby.”
    “That isn’t so easy as it seems. Nimessa told me that House Veruna threatened retaliation against any other Moonsea companies that buy up their former rights.” Geran fell silent, thinking over the Cinderfist situation. His friend was right about the unintended consequences of House Veruna’s exile, but there was more to it than that. He’d also heard stories of Cinderfists threatening or beating other foreigners in search of work, pushing them to either join their movement or leave Hulburg and search for prospects elsewhere. A thought struck him, and he looked down at Hamil. “Have the Verunas threatened the Red Sails anywhere?”
    “Us?” Hamil shook his head. “No, I would’ve told you if I’d heard anything like that. You’re a stakeholder, after all. But if you want my guess, I’d say that the Verunas have already assumed we’re no friends of theirs.”
    “True enough.” Geran clapped Hamil on the shoulder. They walked on another half block and came to the sign for Erstenwold’s Provisioners, which hung above a large, somewhat ramshackle old wooden building. Several clerks and customers counted, haggled, or carried goods in and out of the store. Business had been good for the Erstenwold store in the months since House Verunas banishment from Hulmaster. No one was extorting native Hulburgan establishments anymore; the wary truce between the large foreign merchant companies and native Hulburgan establishments was holding. Only now there was the Cinderfist situation to complicate matters, Geran reminded himself.
    Geran and Hamil took the steps up to the old wooden porch and pushed their way into the store proper. A long wooden counter ran the length of the room on the right side, with a familiar clutter of stocked shelves and various pieces of tack and harness hanging on the walls. The uneven floorboards were worn to a glossy polish by decades of foot traffic, and dust motes drifted in the sunlight slanting through the windows. Geran had always liked the place; the old wood, the fresh leather, and the pipeleaf all blended into a rich, comfortable aroma. “Mirya?” he called.
    A tall, dark-haired woman with her hair tied back in a long braid looked up from her ledger-keeping at a small standing desk behind the counter. She wore a plain dress of blue wool and a stern expression on her face, but she smiled when she caught sight of them. She closed her ledger and came over to the countertop. “Here to see to your order? It’s not even been two days, you know.”
    “The carpenters were about ready to throw Geran overboard,” Hamil answered. “We