Free The Four Forges by Jenna Rhodes Page B

rooms of the mayor’s office and the conference they had requested. “I suggest you refrain from that particular form of diplomacy until we gain what we want, Sister,” he advised, as he straightened his tunic. She threw a wicked grin at him.
    “At least, I vow I’m ready for anything.” She put her shoulders back. Both dressed in Vaelinarran finery, including the weapons belts about her waist and his shoulder, and the gleaming blades sheathed in them. The citizens of Calcort might not wish to defer to their Vaelinar visitors, but they would most certainly respect them, if they had to swallow a sword blade to do so.
     
Sevryn leaned back against the building, a clay jug that smelled of beer between his feet. The jug was filled mostly with cider, with just enough beer in it to give off a faint odor, if anyone were to stumble over him as he sat waiting. Anticipation shivered through his veins as he counseled patience to himself. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen Vaelinars in the last seasons; he’d been brushed by several times, kicked once, and cursed at as well, but he’d never stood toe to toe in good graces with one, and he missed the kinship. He wondered if they would recognize in him that which Gilgarran had so patiently nurtured. He could wait. He knew what he had to offer, and the day would come when the elves would stop, and look at him with consideration in their gaze instead of dismissal. Once he had counted himself as worthless; he knew far better now, even though Gilgarran’s mission had failed. He would find himself a position from which he would eventually avenge his friend’s death, but he could only do it one step at a time.
    From his spot, he could see the mayor’s courtyard and steps, opposite the columned building that was the traders’ guild. Without seeming to notice it, sipping from his jug and singing a very soft drunken medley to himself about the winsome features of a barmaid, he sat, and the single guard who patrolled the alley passed by, saying to him, “When you’re finished with that, move along,” and he nodded back amiably, sprawled, apparently harmless.
    Unless the guard were to pat him down and discover the five blades he had positioned about his body. Underarmed that day, Sevryn had decided not to weigh himself down too heavily in case he needed to sprint for it. As he pondered his options, he could hear the clopping of a high-stepping pair of carriage horses. The carriage pulled into the courtyard, and he could hear the scuffle of attendants running to meet it. Good horses had come with the Vaelinars. Before that, Kerith stock was mostly small and scrubby if sturdy ponies, but Vaelinarran steeds were horses out of ballads and poetry. Through the centuries, they’d been interbred selectively until all the horse stock greatly improved, even the stocky ponies. These had the looks of the tashya about them, the hot bloods. Footmen came out to hold the pair still. Without appearing to do so, Sevryn looked up under the brim of the old hat he wore, and watched the carriage rock as a man stepped down, then handed a woman out.
    If her looks were not enough to identify her, her movement was. She moved with a contained grace, certifying that he watched the queen of the valley holding of Larandaril. Her older half brother Jeredon would be the man escorting her, and he was all the guard she had with her despite a small crowd of people, shifting and unhappy, staring and grumbling at the visit. He wondered why she’d come to Calcort and its Mayor Stonehand, but word would filter down to him soon enough. The walls to such meetings always had ears, sometimes too many, and the information would be garbled until sorted through for the nuggets of truth that mattered. He’d already had some word that the queen was unhappy with the settlements upon her borders, but he could not count that as anything more than gossip.
    Sevryn lifted his jug to his mouth and sipped, obscuring his face should