The middle section was as he’d remembered it. Cluttered, the cobbled streets narrowed and began to curve, no longer following the neat, straight lines of the outer sections. Few people roamed about, and those who did were split between beggars wearing clothes layered in dirt and grime, workers in clean clothes passing through with armed escorts, and the residents of the middle section who wore clothing everywhere in between.

Hurrying along, he had long since lost track of Gosfrid, who had taken to the roofs almost immediately. He did not envy the man; heights were never Caldwell’s forte.

He wore simple clothes. Not his soldier’s dress, which had entirely too much metal and was easily spotted from the distinct robes worn over top, nor did he wear the clothing he usually wore during breaks. Neither set of clothing fit in with the crowds, would have acted like a sign saying “I’m from out of town, come rob me senseless.” No, instead he wore a newly purchased brown coat of fine, if cheap, make, and trousers and shoes to match, underneath which rested his chainmail. Caldwell did not expect to be stabbed today, but he never discounted the possibility.

Near halfway to the mines Caldwell stopped, sucked in the vile air that would only grow worse as he approached the steelsmiths, and looked ahead at the group resting comfortably on the front steps of a building he didn’t recognize. The faces, however, he did recognize. Friendly faces, once.

Of the group of six he recognized only two. Friends, once, before he’d left Coalben. And one more than friends, for a short time.

“Widmund, Haunild,” he said. The group turned to him with confused faces, studied him. Haunild’s face lit up as she gave a toothy smile. Widmund only grunted his recognition.

“Caldwell,” Widmund growled. He stood up, and Caldwell fell back a step. Widmund had been a butcher’s boy in his youth, which meant lots of food and plenty of heavy carcasses to carry. All the things needed for a boy to grow. He’d been big then, all those years ago. But he was bigger now.

He stood half a head taller than Caldwell, the muscles of his arms and necks bulging slightly and speaking of years of hard labor and enough coin to keep his body fueled. He had lost the fat somewhere along the way, and now looked like an ox in human form.

At his side was a short sword and Caldwell couldn’t help but wonder if the big man knew how to use it. Probably not, he thought. Widmund was a brawler.

“What’chu doin’ in Coalben? Thought you’d wanted to get away.” Widmund said.

“I’m a soldier, now,” he replied, “and soldier’s go where they’re told.”

“War’s more than a hundred miles from here, last I heard. And ol’ Harhold don’t want no part in it.”

“Doesn’t much have a choice, way things are going. And I could use the help, if you’re willing.”

Widmund stared at Caldwell, eyes squinting tight. They eased, and Widmund grunted. “Not my business. Ask Haunild if ya want help.”

He took his spot on the stairs once more and yawned. The others exchanged glances and shrugs, then carried on with their conversation. There would be no fight, it seemed.

“So what do you need?” Haunhild asked. Standing on par with Caldwell, Haunild had changed over the years. She had always been a rough girl, as ready to stab you as she was to greet you and the cause of more fistfights than was worth mentioning. Even in love Haunild had not been soft. Their fling had lasted only a short while and ended bitterly, at least from Caldwell’s perspective. Haunild had never enjoyed being with him physically, as much as they got along, and some part of his pride had never recovered from that. It shouldn’t have bothered him the way it did. It had been his first time, and mastery couldn’t be expected of beginners. But it hurt nonetheless.

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Even now ideas of what could have been swirled in Caldwell’s mind, though by looks he’d say he wasn’t missing much. Haunild had been rough before, and the years had only made her rougher.

There was not an ounce of womanly charm left in her, if there had ever been any to begin with, and she seemed as much a man as one could be without a full beard. Tall, well-muscled, and bearing sun weathered skin and a head of short, poorly trimmed hair, Haunild looked every part the guard and gangster, same as the rest of them. She looked more the part, really, had the air of dominance that most of them lacked. And, spotting the short sword at her side, Caldwell did not need to wonder if she knew how to use it. The answer was yes, and likely better than himself.

“Can’t say much, except that I’m looking for some people. Newcomers to the city. Think they might be in the middle section.”

Haunild scratched her chin in thought. A nervous action, one Caldwell remembered clearly. She knew something.

“Please,” he said.

Her shoulders fell as she sighed, then turned back to the group of men sitting on the stairs. “Fine. Come with me.”

They moved down the street a ways, just out of earshot, though still visible. There was a tension to her movements now, the fluid confidence she’d once had gone. She was afraid, he believed, or as close as Haunild could be to being afraid.

“The Bloody Hands went missing the other day,” she said, voice low, barely a whisper.

“Missing?”

“Dead, I mean. Leader’s missing.”

“How’d you find out?”

“I work with Other Siders now,” she said. Caldwell flinched at the name, remembering his previous dealings with them. “Don’t give me that, you know how it is here.”

There was more truth in that than he’d like to admit. “Fine. What happened?”

“The Hands were fuckin’ with one of our warehouses, so we were heading over for negotiations. Standard shit. Except when we get there the whole fuckin’ place is a massacre. Dead bodies everywhere, all of’em Bloody Hands as far as we could tell. Don’t know who the fuck’s responsible, either. The new guys, I’m thinking, but it’s hard to say.”

“Do you know where they might be?”

Haunild paused, her lips pressed tight. He would not like her suggestion, he knew already.

“Maybe,” she said.

“What?”

“Ryhrtwold,” she said.

Caldwell took a step back. “Fuck,” he said.

It just had to be Ryhrtwold, he thought. Absent-mindedly, Caldwell touched the scar underneath his eye. Ryhrtwold had been the one to give it to him.

“How’s that son of a bitch still alive?”

“Dumb bastard fucked the Hands over last I heard. They started doing a new thing lately with putting people in barrels and shooting arrows into them. Must’ve been what was gonna happen to him until the Hands got attacked. Then we show up, someone knocks the barrel over, and bam, Rhyrtwold’s sprawled out on the bloody floor like a newborn. Then the fucker ups and runs while we’re trying to figure out what in the Gods’ name is going on.”

“Know where he is?”

“If I did, he’d be in an Other Siders cell somewhere. We’ve got people looking for him but haven’t seen him. But if you find him, he’ll know what the fuck happened.”

“That’s a big if, Haunild.”

“It’s all I got.”

Caldwell nodded. “It’ll do, then. Thank you.”

“Be careful.”

He left, walking fast down the mostly barren streets, glancing occasionally to the rooftops. He could not see Gosfrid though, after giving the signal to talk, Gosfrid appeared a short ways down the street from around a corner, appearing like a specter.

“Got what we need?” Gosfrid asked. Caldwell nodded, explained the details. Finished, Gosfrid grinned. “Good work, lad.”

“Don’t congratulate me just yet. I know the bastard we need to talk to, but not where he is. Finding him’ll be a pain in the ass.”

“It’s something we didn’t have before. That’ll have to do for the moment.”

“I suppose.” Undeniably, it was something. Yet, just as undeniably, it was not enough. Ryhrtwold had been a crafty son of a bitch when Caldwell had lived in Coalben, always escaping the notice of rival gangs and city guards at every opportunity. There was not, to Caldwell’s chagrin, any discernible way to find him. With, he hoped, one exception.

He gave the signal for Gosfrid to follow and began his journey down the streets toward the steelsmiths, hoping against hope that his hunch provided results. Where Caldwell had been the son of a miner, Ryrhtwold’s father had been a man of slightly higher status, a status Ryrhtwold had lorded over Caldwell for years in their youth; Ryrhtwold’s father had been a steelsmith and, though the man had been dead for several years now, he had worked with his brother over the years. A brother that very well could have still been alive.