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window. Outside his door familair cloaked figure stood tall against the gathering twilight, holding a horses’ bridle. Opening the forge door, Joseph stepped forward, ready to greet the head of the Shamar.
    Tyrus held up one hand.
    “Our interests lie near Fehale City, Lord Asher,”the man said, firmly. “We have a two day ride... we must make haste.” Leaving the forge door open, Joseph buckled on his sword without a word. He filled his satchel with provisions with military swiftness. Handing the young lord his gray cloak, Tyrus followed him around to Belator’s stall, leading his own horse after.
    Moments later, two horsemen rode away from the darkened forge--towards the highway... black sillouettes heading east against the dark blue sky.

FOUR

    For two days the men rode East around the Great Bay and then inland, along Fehale Highway; finally, they stopped at the small town of Hoggen, just an hour outside the sprawling merchant city of Fehale. Stabling their horses at the town’s one inn, the two Shamar made their way to the public house’s entrance.
    Outside the inn door, Tyrus paused and turned to Joseph.
    “We will seek out the town magistrate, regarding a prisoner named Finch,” the head of the Shamar explained, in hushed tones; he glanced around as he spoke. No one stirred along the dark street; most citizens were in bed at this hour. “He is a peasant, recently incarcerated in the jail house,” Tyrus continued. “We know him to be present at the attack on Marshall Redsen, and we believe he has information about who gave the order to kill the Marshall.”
    Joseph glanced up at the inn.
    “I assume the magistrate frequents this place?” he murmured. Tyrus shook his head, slightly.
    “No. But his son does. The magistrate is no friend of the king... that much we do know.” Turning, Tyrus opened the door of the Inn.
    The dim interior of the main room boasted a few tables--with barrels for stools. A dozen men sat upon these, most near to the crackling fire. Some drank deep droughts from ale mugs; other spoke and laughed with their fellows. Joseph hung back in the shadows by the door as Tyrus approached the counter. The proprietor shot him a suspicious glare, but answered his greeting with a short nod. Tyrus slipped off his cloak and his knightly demeanor, slipping into the common brogue with a tired remark about the long roads and high tolls.
    “Only thing that makes me travels worthwhile is the fine brew at th’ end of the way,” he lisped. He laid a piece of silver down on the bar. The innkeeper gave him a friendly smile and drew him a pint. Soon the men were engaged in pleasantly mutual complains about taxes.
    Slipping away from the door ,Joseph headed around the tables, toward the fireplace. Taking off his gloves, he warmed his hands, looking around the room. Amid the unfamiliar faces--seated at the tables in the low light--only one caught his eye: a man in his late twenties, half-slumped over a worn table surface, halfheartedly drinking from his mug. As the man wiped his mouth on his sleeve, the fire’s glow lit up one side of his face more clearly, and the long, straight scar that split his skin, from his chin to his ear. The man stared moodily at the wall in front of him, breaking off now and then to speak with one of a group of men seated nearby. Joseph turned away from the fire, making his way back to the counter.
    Tyrus still stood at the counter, taking a drink of his ale. Joseph stood a little ways from him, and ordered a pint as well. While the proprietor’s back was turned, Joseph glanced around. Seeing no one watching, he leaned toward Tyrus and discreetly handed him the Shamar ring--as well as his sword--still in its sheath.
    “Try not kill any one,” Tyrus told him, under his breath. A brief half-smile was all the answer he got.
    His mug of ale in hand Joseph walked deliberately over to a table next to that at which the scarred man sat. Taking a sip of the bitter liquid Joseph turned