The Impostor Prince

By David Debord and Ryan A Span

From gutter to glory!

Killing a man in the heat of the moment,  violating a  sacred peace among the criminals of Ralon's Bend, a young thief called Joren sets off a chain of events he could never have imagined. Banished from his home. Caught up in the political intrigue of nations. Wandering the world with his friend Mattal, the only witness to Joren's crime, trying to fix the mess he caused.

The only way to do that is to become royals—or at least to pretend. But can they carry the deception far enough to save a kingdom, a princess, and a hundred years of peace? And if they're found out, can they spare their own necks from the hangman's noose?

Return to the world of The Absent Gods in this thrilling new fantasy adventure, The Impostor Prince!

'Invokes the same sense of wonder and joyous fantasy as two of the very best writers I grew up with-David Eddings and Terry Brooks. A world full of magic, sly humor and gripping adventure. This is the stuff fantasy is made of." Matthew Caine, New York Times and USA Today         bestselling author of Ghosts of the Conquered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gryphonwood Press
• Release date: Jun 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513093246

David Debord

David Debord began writing at age twelve after reading The Hobbit. He wrote two pages of a story about rogue dwarf warriors name Rancor and Ramoc. His mother found and read the pages, traumatizing him to the point that he did not attempt another fantasy novel for fifteen years.His love of the fantasy genre was renewed years later when he discovered the works of Robert Jordan, David Eddings, Raymond Feist and George R.R. Martin. The world of Gameryah and the Absent Gods series is a byproduct of his love of epic fantasy inspired by these literary giants.A proud wearer of “Fat Elvis” ties, David Debord lives in metropolitan Atlanta, Georgia with his wife and two daughters. When not writing, he attempts to teach Language Arts to teenagers. He releases his frustrations at minor league hockey games. He doesn’t play- just screams a lot. He is hard at work on the second Absent Gods book entitled Keeper of the Mists.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A gibbous moon bathed the city in pale, silvery light. Eaves and chimneys carved long shadows across the cobbled streets. By this time of night, the honest people of Ralon’s Bend had already bolted their doors and bedded down. They left the streets to the people of ill repute: sailors, drunks, and the natural predators of sailors and drunks.

Beggars. Women of negotiable affection. Hungry-looking men who tried their best to hawk boxes of worthless souvenirs. Less visible, keeping to the pools of precious darkness, were those of Joren’s persuasion. Folk who had little to sell but would happily take your money anyway.

Joren picked out his target like a hunting cat selecting the weakest member of the herd. A sailor, too engrossed in telling a bawdy anecdote to mind his purse. Joren approached, brushed past him so lightly the man didn’t even notice, and walked away with his money.

Job done, Joren slipped into the back alley behind the Dice and Drum and made a mental note not to breathe in. The faint evening breeze only stirred up the stench of yeast, tannin, and stale piss. Nothing in Downstream smelled good, but between the seedy pub and the leatherworker across the road, the mingling aromas at this particular spot could kill lesser men.

Joren liked the alley’s privacy. Nobody came here who didn’t have to.

In the dim light seeping through the tavern shutters, he counted the night’s takings. It looked bleak in any light. A handful of farthings and a pewter ring so ugly it hurt. He sighed, threw the ring away, and poured the coins into his own purse. He’d be lucky to afford a loaf of bread after paying the Tax.

Suddenly, the back door of the Drum banged open. Joren jumped like a frightened cat and flattened himself against the wall. He watched a heavy, almost spherical silhouette stagger into the alley. It took a few steps, then sagged to its knees, gurgling with misery. A long evening’s worth of wine sprayed back into the gutter, and Joren allowed himself to relax. There was no threat here.

But maybe an opportunity.

Joren took the leather sap from his belt as he crept closer. The silhouette did nothing except groan, struggling to even stay on its hands and knees. But, something was wrong. Where the eye expected to find tunic and trousers, or at least breeches, it instead found a robe. Stained and soiled though it was, Joren could make out the red-on-white markings of a cleric.

He sucked in a sharp breath, alarm bells sounding in his head. Priests were untouchable. He didn’t know why, he didn’t make the rules, but somebody else did and they’d made the ban very clear.

A smart thief would’ve run. He would’ve let this one go, gotten through the day on an empty belly, and tried again after sundown. Joren knew that. He heard the little voice in his head urging him to take the wise course. And, steeped in raw, bottomless hatred, he ignored it.

This fat pig wasn’t going anywhere. If he could afford to drink himself sick, he could afford to donate a hot meal and some winter clothes. There was a fence down the docks who’d take anything without questions and without trying to peg your face. Joren wouldn’t get much, but it beat going hungry.

He spun the sap in a slow, whooshing circle. The lead shot sewn into the tip began to build up speed.

The priest tried to stand up, pushing himself hand over hand up the wall. The acrid smell of sour wine and stomach acid added another note to the alley’s symphony of unpleasantness. He was so far gone he wouldn’t have noticed a horse sneaking up on him.

Joren’s sap connected with a dull thud. It was a quick, clean blow across the back of the head, and the priest dropped like a stone. Didn’t even have time to make a noise. Savage satisfaction glowed in Joren’s heart to see him face-down in the gutter, where he belonged.

Hooking the sap back to his belt, Joren went to work with his tiny cutpurse’s knife. A heavy leather satchel hung across the priest’s chest, which came loose with a bit of sawing and pulling. Disappointment. Nothing in it but a long wooden tube capped at both ends. He took it anyway, not because it looked valuable, but because its owner didn’t deserve it, whatever it was.

There was a pouch on the priest’s belt which jingled promisingly. Joren could only imagine how much the man had wasted on liquid entertainment tonight, but a quick rummage revealed a collection of foreign coins, tiny squares of silver from Lothan and pierced coppers the likes of which Joren didn’t even recognize. Then came the prize piece. Two fat, gold Kyrinian florins.

It was more money than Joren had ever held at one time. Trembling, he tucked them into a secret pocket in his tunic. Then he spied a gold ring on the fellow’s pinky, set with a large triangle-cut ruby.

Now there’s a lovely thing, Joren whispered, wiggling it off the fat finger. He took a moment to admire it in the moonlight. Then he slipped it on himself for a laugh. It would look suspicious if he tried to wear it around, but every thief liked to pretend he was rich once in a while.

One place left to check. Grunting with effort, Joren managed to roll the priest over onto his back, and inspected the clasp of his cloak. Mere polished bronze. Of greater interest was the thin silver chain, half-hidden in the sweaty folds of his neck. Joren gave it a sharp pull. It snapped free, slipping out from under the priest’s tunic.

Dangling from the chain was a pendant. He stared at it, transfixed, the blood turning to ice in his veins. Onyx eyes looked back at him from the twisted, snarling face of a bear, rows of silver teeth exposed in a mighty roar. The face of Barag, the bear god.

There was so much he didn’t want to remember. He kept all the bad things locked up behind a high wall in his mind, where he never had to think about them, but this... This little thing brought it all back, boiling over the top of the wall and pouring into him with battering-ram force.

Years ago, there had been another priest who wore that symbol, a man who oversaw the smooth running of the Small Salvations orphanage in North-Downstream. Oversaw it with the help of a birch switch and a few mean-spirited Sisters of the Cloth. There was a room there, behind the dormitory, with stocks and manacles anchored to the wall. Boys and girls went in there for the slightest infraction. What came out, sometimes days later...

You didn’t dare make friends in Small Salvations. It hurt too much to watch them emerge from that room and recognize what they’d left behind.

Joren remembered how close he’d come himself. He remembered the Sister Superior counting every stroke she dealt, hour after hour. He remembered the screams of the girl across the room when her time came. He remembered the way the Overseer sat cross-legged on his little stool, how he watched, how he smiled in satisfaction at the sin leaving their bodies.

Here, in the present, Joren lost himself. For a few moments he was not a damaged boy, barely seventeen, but an avatar of vengeance. A blizzard of pain, hatred and humiliation blew every other thought out of his mind. He imagined he felt the spirits of a hundred lost souls egging him on.

He grabbed the priest by his hair and dragged the cutpurse knife across his throat. The little blade cut deep enough. It traced an oozing red line under the blubbery chin, opening the man’s windpipe to the outside air. Instinctive, animal panic dragged the priest back to sobriety for the few moments it took him to drown in his own blood.

Joren slowly came back to his senses. He looked down at his stained hands, at the dead body underneath him, and felt nothing. A sense of justice done, maybe. No more. The old stories always said you were supposed to be overcome by crawling horror and remorse, but he couldn’t find a sliver of that anywhere inside him. He’d ended a man’s life and couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

He was at peace, pondering where to rinse the warm, sticky blood from his hands without being seen.

"Gods above, what did you do?" came a voice from behind him, and suddenly, Joren felt lots of things all at once.

Heart hammering in his chest, he whirled around, his little knife still in hand. At the mouth of the alley stood a youth of roughly his own age staring at Joren with huge brown eyes. What was worse, he had a face Joren knew well. Mattal!

Cursing himself for a fool, for letting his concentration wander, he tried to find words which could make this nightmare resolve itself peacefully. Matt, it’s not what you think.

You just signed your own death warrant, Joren, Matt quavered. You think you can hide this from Standish?

I don’t want to hide anything. Joren, inched closer to the boy, and his free hand drifted toward the sap on his belt. He didn’t want to hurt Matt, but if it came down to a choice between Matt’s life and his own, well, what was he supposed to do? He went on, Let me explain. I had no choice.

Matt’s eyes narrowed, and he began to back away. What’s there to explain? Standish knows I was working Downstream tonight. She’ll ask me. I won’t lie for you, Joren.

Please, Matt. Calm down and hear me out. Standish doesn’t have to know.

He almost had the distance. One good lunge, and then...

This whole situation was spinning out of control so fast it made him dizzy. Matt was right. If this got back to Standish, a young thief called Joren would end up at the bottom of the river, but not until she’d pulled out his teeth and flayed him alive.

Joren tensed to spring.

He was already too late. Matt turned on the ball of his foot and bolted out of the alley at full speed.

The frost take that little fool! Snarling in frustration, Joren took off after him. His feet pounded across the wet cobbles, tiny droplets of early-morning mist catching in his hair and eyebrows. His only chance now was to overtake Matt. Maybe if Joren could pin him down, make him listen, he’d see that things didn’t have to be this way. Nobody else would have to die.

And wasn’t that a pleasant little fantasy?

The two boys bulled through the filthy streets and alleys of South-Downstream as fast as they dared, without any kind of grace, each fuelled by his own fear and dread. Matt stepped around a drunk standing in the alley between Backturn and Fisher’s Road. A second later, Joren bowled the man over.

Regaining his balance, he stopped, drew his sap, and considered throwing it vaguely in the same direction as Matt. He didn’t like his chances.

One thing worked in Joren’s favor. Matt was heading toward the river, where it doubled back on itself in a fishhook curve and pinched the land into a tiny peninsula. The Locks. Harbor to every kind of ship, barge and ferry in Kyrin, but no bridges where Matt might escape across the water. Nobody in the Locks would care about two boys chasing each other, and if it came to violence, they never saw a thing.

Best of all, it was far, far away from Standish’s little fortress.

The air turned salty and rotten with the smell of the Tyban. It was Ralon’s Tide, where the sea would backwash for leagues up the river, returning all the city’s festering refuse for a day or two until the next low tide carried it away again. The streets were abandoned, leaving the boys’ footsteps and their ragged breathing as the only sounds.

Then they ran into the fog bank, and Joren suddenly understood Matt’s plan. He lost sight of the boy within seconds in that thick yellow soup. Shortly after, he realized he could no longer hear Matt’s sprinting footsteps. He stopped, gasped for breath, practically choked on the polluted mist.

Matt! he called, but nobody answered. He was long gone.

Panic began to set in. Standish would know everything by daybreak. She’d come for him. Looking at his hands, at the red quickly drying on his skin, Joren was possessed by the urge to scrub it off. That was all he could do now. The one way he might still have a chance. Clean himself up, get rid of his loot and his stained clothes, and deny everything.

A hurried splash of river-sludge later, he planned and plotted as he walked along the embankment. He had a few secret stashes set up in hard-to-find places around the city. He could hide the coins, the tube, the ring, the pendant. The pendant might damn him even if he tried to fence it later. He fished it out of his pocket, balled it up in his fist, and pitched it unceremoniously into the river.

He stood watching the little silver bear recede into the water. He shivered, not because of the cold. The thief in him complained that he should’ve pried the eyes out first, but it got lost in among all the other voices gibbering in terror.

The sinking moon got Joren going again. It reminded him of dawn and his impending doom, barely a few hours away.

He did his best to affect an ordinary, businesslike walk along the river, neither hurrying nor dawdling, neither hiding nor making himself obvious. There was always traffic along the river. This was where the dockworkers and fishmongers lived almost their whole lives. The Locks also served as home on land for sailors and their local wives, so he had plenty of eyes to avoid. He seemed to be doing a good job. The people he met ignored him, and the lantern-lit boats on the water took no notice of anyone up on shore.

There was a small chapel nearby with a nice, easy-to-climb roof, where he’d carved out a little hiding space under a loose board in the bell tower. There wasn’t much in it right now. Times had been tough, so he didn’t own anything worth hiding from Standish and her tax collectors. Only the priest’s odds and ends.

A quick scrabble up the worm-eaten boards, a soundless creep across sensitive roof tiles, a little push on the right chunk of moldering wood, and the board popped free. He wrapped his gold up in an old rag and stuffed it into the stash. He wedged it in place with the priest’s tube and replaced the board. Then he climbed down with equal grace. Nobody had flayed him yet.

By the Gods, that was a relief. Next, the clothes.

Sadly, the washing lines stretched around the Locks were bare. This wasn’t the kind of weather for hanging things out to dry. No choice but to do it the hard way.

The Locks didn’t offer anything as posh as a tailor, but there were always shops for odds and ends, repositories of cast-off things which nobody but the lowest rung of society would want. Most of Joren’s wardrobe came from one shoddy shop or another, usually operated by near-mythical people who could sew whole garments out of twine and old handkerchiefs.

Joren had never visited the one on the corner of Burns and the embankment, but he knew the special knock, rapping his knuckles against the door in a snare-drum pattern. A minute later, an old codger cracked open his door and peered owlishly through the slit.

Now look here, he began.

Joren reached in through the crack, drew out the man’s hand and placed a shilling’s worth of silver in his palm. Suddenly the shopkeeper came wide awake. He raised the grubby coin to his mouth and bit into it. The texture seemed to satisfy him.

See, that’s different. Come in.

Shuffling diffidently through the door, Joren felt the warm light of a candle wash over him. He added, I’m quick, quiet, and not picky.

I can see that. Even in this light, no one could mistake the blood on Joren’s clothes. There should be something to fit you.

The old man and his candlestick disappeared into a forest of crates and boxes, piled high with fabric of indeterminate age or shape. No way to even tell ancient and crumbling from plain filthy. Joren tapped his foot nervously. He hated waiting.

The rummage took an eternity. When the old man returned, he cradled an outfit of crude brown homespun, unwashed and full of holes. He plopped the whole bundle into Joren’s arms and sniffed imperiously.

This for your silver, and you leave what you’re wearing. He squared his jaw like a declaration of war. He knew full well he had Joren over a barrel. Best I can do. Take it or get out.

Staring daggers at the shopkeeper, Joren turned away and began to undress.

A few minutes of burning humiliation later, he was at large again, scratching under his new, flea-infested shirt. He rehearsed his story in his head as he walked. He knew exactly what he’d say. Who would believe an excitable little brat like Matt over steady, dependable Joren?

Someone cleared their throat from the cover of a dark, shadowy porch.

Joren stopped and, with a calm he didn’t feel, turned to face the source of that sound. He squinted at the vague outline of a man, cloaked and hooded to make him near-invisible in the darkness. He was tall and broad compared to Joren, but faded into insignificance next to the other man, who made his presence behind Joren known with a faint scrape. That one cast a shadow which completely enveloped the young thief.

Joren knew them on sight. Vax and Prosser, Standish’s bloodhounds. How in the name of all that was holy did they find him here so quickly?

He forced a smile and waved in what he hoped was a casual way. Good morning, chaps. To what do I owe the pleasure?

The boss wants you, Vax said simply.

Oh? What for?

Don’t know. Vax grimaced. "The boss wants you."

Then you’d better take me to her.

Chapter 2

In general, people didn’t ‘see’ Vax and Prosser. Most made a studied effort to look in every other direction. No one wanted to draw their attention, least of all Joren. He could imagine the gossip making its way around the Brotherhood right now. Everyone would be curious about what Joren could’ve done to invite Standish’s displeasure.

Even the Brotherhood guards and lookouts trod lightly. Their hand signals dripped with respect when they requested the identifying sign. Vax gave it, while Prosser glared at everything from under his sloped brow.

They crossed from Downstream into the slums of Beggar’s Brink, where the stink of the river was replaced by the subtler aroma of sheer, crushing poverty. The little cubbyhole where Joren slept was somewhere in this maze of alleys and backways. Home. He knew the place so well, he could’ve found his way with his eyes closed, by the feel of the street through his soles. It was a talent.

Vax led the way down a dead end alley, and stopped at the last house, a knackered old wreck whose door barely clung to its hinges. He whistled a brief, jaunty tune. Then he headed down into the pitch-black cellar. Joren went next, and got the distinct sensation he was being watched by people he couldn’t see. Armed people.

They arrived at a door, lit by a single guttering candle mounted to the wall. Vax and Prosser stood back. They were here to deliver. They didn’t need to come inside.

Joren’s legs quivered. He raised his hand to knock.

Come in, called Standish in her soft, clear contralto, long before his knuckles touched wood.

The door wasn’t locked. It didn’t need to be. Standish had the kind of protection aristocrats could only dream about. She ruled her criminal empire with an iron fist, and the loyalty of her subjects was beyond question. No one else would have them.

Joren shuffled inside. He’d stood in Standish’s chambers once before, six years ago, at his recruitment. That was in a different building. Standish moved around a lot. But he recognized some of the furnishings now. The ornate silver candlestick on her desk. The ledger and inkwell. A wooden figurine of an eagle, talons outstretched, on the fireplace mantle.

It was warm. Comfortable. It might even have been inviting if not for the lean, angular, predatory-looking woman standing over the desk. She wore leather, not lace, and trousers instead of skirts. Straight blonde hair fell down to her broad shoulders. Her eyes scanned some letters at a leisurely pace, her back to Joren, as if he was worthy of neither fear nor attention.

He kept his mouth shut and waited. For the second time in his life, he focused on the tapestry decorating the wall behind her desk. It was scorched at the corners, and someone had crudely repaired it so it could be hung again, but the delicate design on the front survived.

They tell me you’re wondering why I called you here, Standish said at last. She straightened and clasped her hands behind her back, though she didn’t turn.

On the wall, a man and a woman embraced each other on the crest of an arched bridge between two snow-capped mountains.

Joren swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. I have no idea.

There are two things you should never do, Joren, she mused, her voice deceptively mellow. One is take me for a fool. The other is lie to me.

"I may have some idea."

Bonfires flared on either side of the bridge, tended by soldiers in armor with weapons slung across their backs.

Standish nodded. So did you?

Matt’s a liar.

That’s not what I asked.

A man wearing a robe and crown, a king, stood off to one side, his back to the scene and his face twisted in fury.

Standish, I don’t want trouble.

It was the wrong thing to say. She spun around and threw an open-handed slap across his face. It set his ears ringing, hard enough that he almost lost his feet. Two things, she said, never raising her voice.

The girl looked over her lover’s shoulder, and her expression was one of confusion, of disbelief.

All his plans lay in pieces on the ground. He held his stinging cheek and stared up into Standish’s hard green eyes, his voice barely a whisper as he confessed. Yes.

Better. At least you have the guts to own up.

She looked down her crooked nose at him, overtopping him by at least three inches, and let out a long sigh. No anger. Just disappointment. Backing away, she parked herself on the corner of the desk and made a vague gesture at Joren’s new clothes.

You do like to start trouble for everyone, don’t you, Joren? She didn’t wait for a response. I knew what you did long before I asked. If you’d lied, I would have killed you where you stand. Maybe that would’ve been easier.

What do you mean?

"How long have we known each other? Six years? Hard to believe it’s been that long. I still remember when you first came to me, freshly escaped and bold as brass. Asking, demanding, to be let into the Brotherhood."

Joren continued to stare, uncomprehending.

You’re not the only one, you know, though you might think you are. It takes more than one child to make an orphanage. I know what happened, and I understand why you hate the clergy. However, I cannot have someone in my city, in my service, who defies the rules I set in place! You know the penalty!

Death, he breathed.

Standish allowed a long, pregnant pause. Then she called to the door, Matt.

The boy crept in, hat in hand, looking sheepish and miserable. He didn’t know or understand why he was in trouble. After all, Joren was the guilty party, not him.

She continued to Joren, Mattal worked hard and never held anything back from his Tax. He did everything right. He saw something that shouldn’t have happened, and he came straight to me. Loyal to a fault. Do you understand how much it pains me knowing that I’m going to have to punish him for it?

Punish me? Matt gaped.

Joren couldn’t believe his ears either. Why?

Because you dragged him into it! Standish snarled. Now she was angry. Her voice lashed out like a whip, her eyes as cold as ice. Dozens of people know who was working Downstream tonight. If someone, say an inquisitor, put the screws on Matt, how long do you think he’d last before he talked? Then it would be your head and his, and maybe even mine.

That’s not fair, whimpered Matt.

Life isn’t fair. She spared him a moment before she focused her fury back on Joren. Mattal is the only reason you’re still alive. I can’t keep him here, knowing what he knows, and he’d never make it on his own outside the city. He needs protection. So you see, I have two birds and one stone.

A flicker of understanding sparked in Joren’s brain. You want me to be Matt’s minder?

Yes, Joren. That is exactly right. You’re going to defend him to your dying breath, because if you don’t, I will know. I’ll make you think Small Salvations was a pleasant summer afternoon.

She held his gaze until he dropped his eyes in submission. When Standish talked in her casual way, you could almost forget she was a cold-blooded killer, until she jerked your attention back to that fact with a rude awakening.

Joren knew how serious the threat was. People talked uproariously about hangings and executions all the time, but stories of Standish’s punishments stayed in a flat whisper, and nobody enjoyed the telling.

Matt broke in again, But what about all my friends?

You don’t have any, said Standish. You’re dead. At least you are as far as the Brotherhood is concerned. People have already seen your bodies. She stood up and went to poke at the little fire in the hearth. Anyone could tell she was getting tired of this conversation. I want you both out of the city by noon. If you come back, alone or together, I’ll bury the pair of you in this cellar.

The boys didn’t need to be told twice. They left, still reeling, trying to wrap their minds around what Standish had said. The world was a big and frightening place. The thought of leaving Ralon’s Bend, the only home they’d ever known, all but paralyzed them with terror.

And Joren would be kicking himself every step of the way.

Chapter 3

The morning rolled by while Joren wandered the streets of his home-town, feebly trying to set his affairs in order. Those were, in order of importance, buying back his clothes; collecting the belongings from all his little stashes throughout the Bend; and stocking up on a few things he figured he might need. He hoped he was getting the right stuff. He didn’t know anything about travelling, or what people used to survive out on the road. Just bits and pieces from romantic stories.

He went to an inn where the food was good and asked for provisions that’d keep well. He bought a thick woolen cloak, a new pair of boots and a fresh tinderbox. Then, clutching one of the gold florins so hard it turned his knuckles white, he went to the weaponsmith in Upstream. He really didn’t want to part with so much of his hard-earned money, but certain bits of those romantic stories weren’t very romantic at all. A sap might be enough to get by in the city, but out there? He’d rather part with his money than his life.

People frowned at Joren as he made his way through the paved streets and plazas. Everybody in Upstream frowned all the time. It was the ‘nicer’ part of town, home to the well-to-do merchants, tradesmen and other members of the Bend’s upper crust. Snobs. The Upstreamers hated having to share space with scum from the lower districts, and they made their displeasure known with plenty of upturned noses and clucking tongues.

Joren threw them rude gestures from under his cloak. He wished he could do it open and proud, but it would probably get him arrested, lynched, or both.

Even feigning politeness, he ran afoul of the local constable, a fat man with his thumbs hooked through his straining belt and a penchant for laughing when no one had made a joke. He gave Joren the ‘jolly old copper’ act, to mask the sharpness of his questions and the very real menace he exuded when he caught someone he could really hassle.

Where’s a young fella like you going so early in the morning? he began. He was going to say more, but Joren reached into his own purse and pressed a couple of Lothan silvers into the constable’s hand.

Going to see my uncle, sir, he lied smoothly. Is there some kind of trouble?

The constable studied his palm, then looked back at Joren and shook his head. No, young master, no trouble at all. Give my regards to your uncle.

Joren thanked him and went on his way. He knew how this game was played.

Finally he arrived at the smithy— a bulky lump of stone, brick and tile on the corner of Coronation Square, shaded by the towering statue of King Something-or-Other in his triumphant pose. Smoke poured out of the iron chimney. As he got closer, Joren could feel the heat blasting from the forge and heard the heavy puff of bellows being worked by some unfortunate apprentice. The smith pulled a triangle of hot steel from the coals and placed it on his anvil. There, he began to hammer one side of it down to a thin edge.

I’m busy, he called over the ringing of his hammer.

I need a weapon and I can’t wait.

The smith paused in his work, glowering from under thick eyebrows. Then you’ve come to the wrong shop, friend. I forge on demand. It don’t pay to keep good steel gathering dust on my shelves. He glanced down at Joren’s balled fist as if he could smell the gold florin inside it. Work has been a little slow. If you made an order today, I could finish it by the end of the week.

That was a cold and horrifying possibility. He couldn’t bear to think this whole trip might be for nothing. He could probably find a weapon somewhere else in the Bend if he looked hard enough, but nothing near as good, and there wasn’t time.

Please, he said, I can pay.

Payment’s not the issue. I have nothing to sell you.

I’ll take anything!

Anything? There was a gleam in the smith’s eye.

It was Joren’s turn to frown. I’m from Downstream. We know when we’re being ripped off.

The smith looked down at his cooling axe-head and, with a snort of disgust, thrust it back into the fire. He produced a handkerchief and mopped the sweat off his balding forehead. His apprentice, who’d taken a moment to rest his arms, groaned in misery and got back on the bellows.

Wait here. I might have something in back.

The ‘prentice pumped and pumped till he was sure his master was out of sight, then took another opportunity to rest. He was red in the face, and his bare arms bulged with muscle, like a bunch of melons forced into a sausage casing.

I’ve seen you before, said the apprentice. To Joren’s surprise, he flashed a Brotherhood sign of recognition, a surreptitious little curl and wag of the fingers down at waist level. Joren returned it as per custom. Thought so. Are you here to try and rob old Grumming? Is it fool’s gold?

The question perplexed Joren. No.

Then what’s the game? he demanded impatiently. Grumming’s been kind to me, I won’t have him swindled.

He doesn’t know, realized Joren, and the conversation began to make sense. You’re not a Brother anymore, are you? The ‘prentice shook his head. Well, neither am I.

The smith returned, carrying a blade of considerable beauty. In his upraised palms rested a small scabbard, a polished brown sheath of leather banded with brass. Protruding from the top, the bronzed hilt of a short arming sword, almost more of a long knife, with a hollow ring pommel on the end. He heard the soft creak of leather as he took the grip and drew it out. The blade was slim, sharp, and bright as a mirror.

It possessed an elegant simplicity that made Joren’s heart beat faster. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he could have a sword of his own.

I made this for when my son comes of age, explained the smith. It’s all I have. It has sentimental value, you understand.

Joren was captivated. How much?

Six florins.

Six? A terrible sinking feeling overcame him. It wouldn’t be worth six florins if you wrapped the entire thing in gold leaf!

The smith’s eyes narrowed some more until there was barely anything left but eyebrow. Remember I’m doing you a favor here, my lad. It would be an insult to my son and me, to my entire family, if I took less than five.

Bargaining instinct told Joren to try for four, but he knew it would be a hopeless gesture. He only had two.

Then he remembered. His hand ducked into his pocket and took out the priest’s ring. The fat, triangular ruby came alive in the forge-light. He thrust it at the smith. Would this cover it?

Holding it up to his eye, the smith marveled at the little piece. His voice was hushed when he spoke. Oh aye, that would do. He flashed a quick, suspicious glance at Joren. Where did a boy like you get hold of this?

Do you really want to know? Joren shot back, and returned the look with every bit as much weight. It was a look that said, We both know, and you can see the thing is easily worth what you’re asking. What are you going to do about it?

No, the smith said as he pocketed the ring. No, I don’t believe I do.

He pressed the sword into Joren’s hand and waved him out of the shop. Joren went in a hurry, stumbling as he buckled the scabbard onto his belt. Its weight made him giddy. It was his! A real sword!

His last errand done, he headed for the south gate where he and Matt had agreed to meet. He made it to the square with a few minutes to spare. The sun was almost at its peak, but it would be okay as long as Matt didn’t require too much hand-holding.

He found Matt sitting on a log bench under the shade of an old oak tree. He had a knapsack over his shoulder and a far-away look in his eyes, staring blankly into the middle distance as if he could see through to the great beyond. It gave Joren the shivers. The Matt he used to know was a bright, cheerful boy with an easy laugh and ironclad loyalty. This pale, hollow-eyed creature didn’t even resemble him.

Are you ready? asked Joren.

No response. Joren tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention.

Matt! It’s time to go!

He looked up and noticed Joren for the first time. His voice was barely a whisper when he spoke. Oh.

There wasn’t time to argue. There wasn’t even a minute to bring up the ridiculously small knapsack which couldn’t possibly contain everything he’d need for a long trek to the-gods-only-knew where. Joren pulled him to his feet and marched him over to the staging area where half-laden oxcarts and coaches prepared for the journey. Most of them had already gone by this hour, but with a little bit of pleading and persuasion, Joren got them a ride on the back of a farmer’s cart. All they had to do was keep out of the way of the pig.

We’re leaving, said Matt, dangling his legs off the back of the cart while it trundled through the gate.

Yes, said Joren.

And then it hit him. The morning had gone by like a dream, where the necessities of the moment had let him push down any thought of his exile. He’d buried all that fear and uncertainty as deep as he could, behind the wall where he kept the bad things, but he couldn’t contain it forever. It was too raw and too fresh. The sight of the city receding behind him was a knife twisting in his heart.

So he suffered in silence. There were no tears, of course. Joren had seen other people cry, but was