Tom had gotten the earliest start that he could manage, since it would take all of Oneday and a bit more to reach Rivermarch if he understood the distances right. It felt strange being completely alone on the road. He kept glancing over his shoulder for a while, half expecting to see the others following him.

He practiced his Elvish, talking out loud to himself. He had a good memory; he needed it, since he couldn't read or write. Maybe I should be trying to say things more exactly right. Out of necessity, they had been coping with a mix of pantomime and baby talk. Eventually, they should have time to get the details correct. I guess I'm going to be spending a lot of time with the elves. Months at least. He found that he liked the prospect.

About two hours after he left the hollow, he reached Copper Road. He bought some travel food and pushed onward. He would have liked to stay longer and get a feel for the town, but didn't want to be stuck camping if he could possibly make it to Rivermarch.

As the day wore on, he started to see more traffic: riders, people walking with packs, a few wagons. The trees got thinner and thinner until he was clearly out of the Great Oak Forest and descending into a valley, much of which was farmland. He took note of the crops and the conditions of the fields out of old habit. This part of the kingdom was having a good year.

No one called out to him; everyone was busy with their own work or errands. Likewise Tom didn't try to start up conversations with anyone until very late in the day. Eventually, he addressed a thin woman with a basket walking past him. “Excuse me, ma'am. Could you tell me how much farther to Rivermarch?”

The woman looked at him, turned and looked at the setting sun. “You're still two hours out. Keep going this way, and you should make Blue Spring Village before full dark.”

“Thank you, ma'am. Good evening to you.”

“And you, big fella.”

Blue Spring Village didn't have an inn, but a small saloon held people who directed him to one William Farmer, a middle-aged family man who was happy to put him and his ox and wagon up for the night for a silver, throwing in a small dinner and the promise of a big breakfast. Tom gratefully ate a hot meal with soup and day-old bread, and supplemented it with the rations he had bought back in Copper Road.

The vacant horse stall had fresh hay and was plenty warm enough. Tom lay down, but sleep eluded him for a while, because of the fear of something bad happening. The last time he had been surprised at night he had almost died, after all. He suspected his difficulties would have been even worse if he hadn't been forced to fall asleep again and again while being healed.

He was also worried about what would happen the next day. I hope I don't screw this up. The guilt at the guards' failure gnawed at him, but finally exhaustion won out and he fell into a heavy slumber.

∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘

Twoday morning Tom woke to find that no disasters had befallen him during the night. The wagon had not been stolen, nobody had tried to kill him, and no wild animals had attacked. The breakfast was simple fare but there was plenty of it, so Tom fueled up for the day. He left an extra ten copper as thanks and to ease any hard feelings over how much he had eaten.

On the road, he had to pay more attention, as there was significant traffic, and a lot of smaller roads so that he had to take care that he didn't wander off course into someone's farm. Some people were leaving Rivermarch for points south, and many were walking into the city for work. It took him a bit over an hour to reach the city's south gate.

There was a line to enter, and brief questions from two guards. When Tom got to the front, he put on a smile. “Good morning, guys. What do you need?”

“Name and purpose of visiting?”

“Tom Walker, delivering fabric to Whistler's.”

One of the guards lifted the wagon cover and started counting bolts of cloth. When he finished, he stood there, his eyes distant, as he argued with himself, struggling with math. Some people were touchy about it the way he was about being illiterate, so Tom knew better than to offer to help.

“Forty silver,” the man declared finally. “Tax for the city.”

Tom wasn't confident that that was right, but for all he knew the man was undercharging him. He didn't press the issue other than to ask for a token showing he had paid forty, so that he could be repaid on delivery. The guards were understanding enough and when he gave them four large silvers they handed him an oblong disk made of oak. Tom could feel runes carved into it with his fingertips. He pretended to look at it and nodded, then tucked it away.

“Thanks guys. Can you tell me which way to Whistler's shop?”

“It's in Middle Town…basically, cross one bridge only. If you cross two bridges you're either back here or in North Town. Whistler's is halfway up the hill, in Prince Vorn Square.”

“Thank you. Is this a busy day for you?”

The first guard glanced at the line. “No, this is about the usual.”

“Wow. All right, thank you!”

Normally, Tom would have struck up more of a conversation, but if he had he would have to explain why he was alone and he didn't want to tell the tale yet. Besides, there was a line and he was holding it up. Tom clicked his tongue and moved the reins, and the ox plodded into Rivermarch.

It took a few minutes to realize the shape of things. Rivermarch straddled the Lasha River, but there was a wide tall island in the middle where the river split in two briefly. The major parts of the city including the keep had been built up on that hill. The pieces of the city were presumably North Town, Middle Town, and South Town, going by the guard's description.

His progress slowed due to the huge amount of traffic. Rivermarch was one of the biggest cities Tom had ever seen. He had plenty of time for his nervousness to grow and his stomach to churn as the ox trod onward.

Crossing on a very high, very sturdy stone bridge, Tom could see a few boats pass underneath him, drifting downstream. He would have to come watch that for a while if he had a chance. It probably looked very different at different times of day, too, the way the light shifted.

Once in Middle Town, Tom headed uphill. There was more than one plaza; he had to ask a few people for better directions. He noticed urchins zipping around, including one that looked at him and the wagon before running off in the same direction Tom was headed. He took a deep breath, and drove carefully into the narrow alley to the side of a shop with a painting of fabric and dresses on the front.

He spotted a side door to the building and swallowed the lump in his throat. Before he could even get down, the door swung open with a bang, and a large woman charged out. “PHILIP! Philip, my love…!” She stopped, looking over the wagon and the alley. They looked at each other.

The news apparently was obvious from his expression. Her face crumpled. “No…” she murmured, and stared at him, desperately willing him to disprove her fears. He shook his head slowly.

“I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Whistler. We tried…our best.” Tom was having trouble getting the words out, and to his shame he knew that there were tears in his eyes. The Widow Whistler sank to the ground and began to sob.

∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘

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“Mrs. Whistler?” A woman probably a few years older than Tom came to the side door next. She took in the tableau and furrowed her brow in confusion for a few moments before her expression changed to shock. “Oh, no…”

For a minute, both of them stood there, neither sure what to do. The younger woman was blond, bony and tall. She stood very close to the widow and stepped down so that she could comfortably rest one hand on Mrs. Whistler's shoulder. Finally, the young woman pushed a lock of blond hair out of her eyes and demanded, “what happened?”

“Bandits, Miss.” Tom took a breath, and steeled himself to explain. “Almost a week ago, a day into the forest out of Middleton.” Mrs. Whistler grew quiet with an obvious effort. She clearly wanted to hear, even if she couldn't bring herself to speak.

“Where were the guards?”

“Slaughtered, Miss. Almost to a man. We killed fifteen of the bastards, but were wiped out ourselves.”

“How did you get away?”

“I was left for dead, miss. They took out our sentries and started murdering us in our sleep. If our boss Kurt hadn't woken up and yelled…I'd have been dead too.”

“But you have the wagon. And why are you alone?”

Tom took a breath. “I managed to kill one before they took me down. When I opened my eyes again, the wagons were gone and everyone else was dead.”

“Then what happened?”

“I went after them, miss. I didn't want to die until I'd avenged my friends and everyone else. Late that night, I snuck up on them and did to them what they did to us; there were only six of them left, and two had run off apparently. I killed the sentry, and the other three. I think the sentry was the leader.

“Then I lay down to die, but I woke up again. A healer found me, a good one. They worked on me for days, and then some people helped me to bring most of the wagons closer to Rivermarch. I decided to bring this wagon first and deliver the cargo to you. It's not much, but it's all I could do.” Tom had run out of things to say, and paused awkwardly.

“Did he suffer?” Mrs. Whistler asked suddenly.

Tom blinked. He wouldn't have thought of the question, but it made perfect sense that she would ask. “No, Ma'am, I am sure he did not. They killed most of us in our sleep. I'm certain it was over in an instant, with no time to feel pain.” Tom was hugely grateful that he could say at least one good thing in this horrible duty.

The younger woman glared at Tom. “Why didn't you save Mr. Whistler?”

“Vanity…” Mrs. Whistler murmured.

“We tried, Miss. We tried. He was a nice man. I would have saved him if I could.”

“How many survived?”

Tom swallowed. “Just me.”

“Out of the entire caravan? Guards and merchants?”

Tom nodded.

Vanity glared. “So there's no one to confirm your story. How do we know you're not one of the bandits?”

Tom blinked, not expecting the question. It took him a moment to answer. “Well…for one thing, I brought you the wagon…”

“And I suppose you want a reward for that,” Mrs. Whistler said coldly, slowly climbing to her feet with help from Vanity.

“No, Ma'am. I couldn't do that.” The women paused. Tom felt his face get hot. “We failed you. I am …ashamed, Ma'am. I don't deserve any reward.

“This wagon and everything in it was your husband's, so it belongs to you. I don't have…I'm not…” Tom trailed off, not sure what he was trying to say. He just hung his head. “I know it doesn't help anything at all, but…I'm sorry.”

There was silence for a few moments.

“What is your name, young man?” Mrs. Whistler asked, finally.

“Tom Walker, Ma'am.”

“Francesca Whistler. This is Vanity Taylor.” Tom nodded politely. “Come…” The widow's voice cracked, and she simply gestured for him to follow. Tom scraped his boots on the step, then went with the two women.

“I'll close the shop, Ma'am,” Vanity murmured.

There were two main rooms on the first floor. The one on the left faced the street front, and was the shop itself. Mrs. Whistler led Tom into the other room, a sewing workroom with many bolts of cloth piled up in bins of different shapes and sizes along the walls, and several work tables in the middle. The older woman seemed unable to stand up straight, and made it into a chair at one of the largest tables before she would have fallen.

“Did you…did you recover…anything…?”

“Oh. Yes, Ma'am. I don't know what belongs to who; I had to ask someone else to gather the personal effects. I couldn't even be there. But this,” he pulled out a pouch, “is everything that was collected from all the merchants' bodies. Um, may I?” She nodded, and Tom gently slid most of the contents out of the pouch onto the work table. “If any of this is familiar to you, please say.”

There was silence for a minute. Mrs. Whistler moved very slowly, running her fingers over items. She picked up a couple of items and put them back down. “I don't…I don't see his ring. Did…?”

“Oh, uh, the bandits gathered up everybody's coin and valuables. I think I saw…” Tom poured out the coins from his money pouch, and with them came several rings and a couple of hairpins. Mrs. Whistler reached out and picked up a thick gold ring, clutching it in her fist. Then she bowed her head and wept.

This was one of the most painful conversations of Tom's life. He simply sat there, unsure of what to say or do. A couple of minutes later he heard the large front door of the shop close with a rattle, and soon Vanity was back. She looked at them and the table for a moment, then at her employer's hand. “His ring?” she asked softly, and Mrs. Whistler nodded without speaking. Vanity turned to Tom.

“What…happened to his body?” Vanity asked Tom quietly.

“We didn't want to leave them for the animals, but we didn't have the people to dig graves, so we had to make a funeral pyre. I'm sorry if that…” Tom trailed off as Mrs. Whistler straightened up in her chair, nodding.

“I understand. My apologies for my lack of composure.” Her voice was only a little rough.

“Of course.” Tom hesitated, then brought up the next point. “The bandits gathered up a total of twelve gold from everyone. I don't know how much was whose; there were six wagons, so I thought two gold was a guess at Mr. Whistler's share of it.”

“More like three gold, I expect,” Vanity put in.

“…as you say.” Tom pulled out three gold coins from the pile and set them in front of the women, then started gathering up the rest into his money pouch again.

“His personal things?”

Tom hesitated. “Everything was a mess, but I had them save anything with writing at least. I'm sure some of it was Mr. Whistler's, but…none of us could read.”

“Vanity? Would you…?”

“Of course, Ma'am.”

∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘

Vanity had Tom bring the bolts of cloth in from the wagon and place them in the bins along one wall while she read the papers. It was simple, easy work, and Tom was grateful to be spared the necessity of making conversation for a while. He carried the fabric, reminded by the partially used bolts of another thing to discuss with Mrs. Whistler.

Meanwhile, Vanity quickly identified which papers were Mr. Whistler's and took them. She handed the rest back and asked Tom to leave for the moment. She had to take care of Mrs. Whistler, whose brave front was starting to crumble. “Can you come back tomorrow?”

“I…yes, of course.” Tom wasn't sure whether he had any more business with Mrs. Whistler, but she probably had more questions for him. He took the papers back. Disliking the thought of waiting a day, he cleared his throat. “Actually, could you refer me to a trustworthy reader? That way I can get the information without bothering you. I have a lot of other questions too.”

Vanity glanced at Mrs. Whistler, then hesitantly and quietly said, “Simon Law, at the Keep. Pay him five silver and he'll answer all your questions in strictest confidence.”

Tom blinked. Five silver was two days' pay for him…but he was dealing in values of gold coins now. Adapt, Tom. “Thank you. I'll be back again…at some point this week, and I'll answer any questions and settle up if I owe you more. Mrs. Whistler, again, I'm…very sorry for your loss.”

He backed out through the side door and hefted his pack. As he left, Vanity summoned an urchin to find someone to take care of the ox and wagon. Tom made sure he wasn't leaving anything behind in it, and walked out of the alley.

That was rough.

Tom tried to think about his next steps. Simon Law, at the Keep. Shall I trust him? Or do I find someone else? Someone working at the Keep might whisper in a noble's ear and that could be trouble. But ‘strictest confidence’, she said.

Well, who else am I going to find? Another person might be cheaper, but they might spill secrets, or worse, lie to me, depending on what is written.

Tom mentally shrugged, and headed uphill the short distance to the city Keep. The door had a guard, but there was no foot traffic at the moment. He took a deep breath and made himself smile.

“Good morning! How do I find Simon Law, please?”

The guard looked pleasantly surprised. A lot of people said really useless things to start like, “is this the Keep?” Tom knew that from his own time as a town guard.

“You want the second floor, go left, and speak to the clerk.” The guard pointed at the stairs.

“Thanks!”

A minute later, the clerk explained that he would have to wait for an opening in Mr. Law's schedule. Having nothing better to do, Tom sat down on a bench. He practiced his Elvish in his head to pass the time.

A while later, but still before lunch, the clerk sent him through a heavy oak door into an office. He didn't demand payment in advance, which surprised Tom only a little. The rich had their own rules.

On one wall were more books than Tom had ever seen in his life. He felt a moment of avarice even though he couldn't read. That's a fortune, right on the wall. Rivermarch must be a very wealthy city.

A thin man with white hair and a serious expression sat behind a desk, looking at him. He was dressed in elegant gray and black. “Good morning, young man. I am Simon Law. How may I help you?”

Tom stepped up to the desk and faced the man. “Hello, sir. I'm Tom Walker. I have some questions that I would like answers to and privacy about both questions and answers.”

“Do the questions touch on the safety of the city or the kingdom?”

Tom thought for a moment, looking off to one side. “I don't think so…”

“In that case, for five silver I will hear your case and answer your questions to the best of my ability, and no one will ever hear from me anything about what we have discussed without your permission. I promise it by my gods and my honor as a noble.”

Tom breathed a small sigh of relief. All right. Here we go.