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of strapping build, easily two or three inches taller than Geran and fifty pounds heavier. “M’lord Geran—and m’lady,” he said, touching his knuckle to his brow. If he was surprised to see Geran riding with a pretty young yoman in the front of his saddle, he didn’t say anything. “It was the Cinderfists. A gang of ‘em tried to fire the Troll during the night, but they made enough noise to rouse my brothers. We drove ‘em off and saved most of the building.”
    Geran studied the damage and frowned. “Anyone hurt?”
    “The Cinderfists carried off two or three o’ theirs, but I don’t think no one got killed. My brother Stunder took a bad cut, but he’s patched up now.” Brun Osting shook his head. “There’s trouble in the making, m’lord. Mark my words. The Cinderfists try burning out good Hulburgans again, and there’ll be killing over it.”
    “I hear you,” Geran said. “Is there anything I can do to help? The Hulmasters are in your family’s debt.”
    The young brewer waved his hand. “It’s just a few hours’ work to cut some new shakes and planks, m’lord. The Troll wasn’t that handsome to look at anyway, but I’ll bet the smell of smoke’s going to be in the rafters for years.”
    Geran shook his head and rode off, allowing the brewer to get back to his morning’s work. When they were out of earshot, Nimessa glanced up at him. “Who are the Cinderfists?” she asked.
    “You might call them a guild or militia, or you might call them a gang. They’re mostly newcomers to Hulburg, men from places like Melvaunt and Mulmaster. Many work in the smelters and foundries.” During the troubles of the past spring, Geran had spurred the common folk of Hulburg to band together against the mercenaries of the foreign merchants. It hadn’t taken long for the poorer foreigners to copy their example and begin organizing their own guilds and militias to protect themselves too. The Moonshields—the native Hulburgan militia—were loyal to the harmach. The Cinderfists, on the other hand were largely dependent on foreign merchants for their livelihood. “I can’t prove anything, but I suspect House Jannarsk and their Crimson Chain allies are behind them. Hulburg is full of poor men from other cities who just want a chance to do better for themselves, but there are a few that came here for different sorts of opportunities.”
    “Have they caused a lot of trouble?”
    “Some,” Geran admitted. “But Brun Osting’s right—there’s more on the way if things keep going on as they are.” They rode into the small square at the foot of the causeway leading up to Griffonwatch. Geran reined in again and looked down at Nimessa. “Can I offer you the hospitality of Griffonwatch? I’m sure that we can find you something better to wear. Or would you rather go to your family’s holding now?”
    “The Sokol concession, please,” Nimessa answered. “I have to tell our people there about Whitewing and send word to my father right away. But I thank you for the offer.”
    “As you wish. Consider it a standing invitation.” Geran hid his disappointment behind a small nod. He found that he was reluctant to part company so soon. Once he escorted her to the Sokol compound, she would be back among the people and surroundings she was familiar with.
    He’d check on her in a few days, and if she recovered as well as he thought she might then he’d leave her be. It would likely be for the best.
    Then again … he’d been haunted for almost two years now by the memories of Alliere. Maybe some part of him was hoping that Nimessa was not interested, simply so that he could go on dreaming about the elf princess he would never see again. Or was he afraid of what Mirya Erstenwold might think, if he were to start courting again? He frowned behind Nimessa, unhappy with his musings. He’d never been one to puzzle out the workings of his own heart. All he knew was that he’d spent two years living like a cloistered