Unlike those guards in Luskan, though, Wulfgar suspected that Auckney’s crew would follow through with the threat if they figured out who he was. So for the sake of Colson, he took great pains to disguise himself as the trading caravan wound its way along the rocky road in the westernmost reaches of the Spine of the World, toward the Auckney gate. He wore his beard much thicker, but his stature alone distinguished him from the great majority of the populace, being closer to seven feet tall than to six, and with shoulders wide and strong.
He bundled his traveling cloak tight around him and kept the cowl up over his head—not an unusual practice in the early spring in that part of the world, where the cold winds still howled from on high. When he sat, which was most of the time, he kept his legs tucked in tight so as not to emphasize the length of the limbs, and when he walked, he crouched and hunched his shoulders forward, not only disguising his true height somewhat, but also appearing older, and more importantly, less threatening.
Whether through his cleverness, or more likely sheer luck and the fact that he was accompanied by an entire parade of merchants in that first post-winter caravan, Wulfgar managed to get into the town easily enough, and once past the checkpoint, he did his best to blend in with the group at the circled wagons, where kiosks were hastily constructed and goods displayed to the delight of the winter-weary townsfolk.
Lord Feringal Auck, seeming as petulant as ever, visited on the first full day of the caravan faire. Dressed in impractical finery, including puffy pantaloons of purple and white, the foppish man strutted with a perpetual air of contempt turning up his thin, straight nose. He glanced at goods but never seemed interested enough to bother—though his attendants often returned to purchase particular pieces, obviously for the lord.
Steward Temigast and the gnome driver—and fine fighter—Liam Woodgate, stood out among those attendants. Temigast, Wulfgar trusted, but he knew that if Liam spotted him, the game was surely up.
“He casts an impressive shadow, don’t he?” came a sarcastic voice from behind, and Wulfgar turned to see one of the caravan drivers looking past him to the lord and his entourage. “Feringal Auck….” the man added, chuckling.
“I am told that he has a most extraordinary wife,” Wulfgar replied.
“Lady Meralda,” the man answered, rather lewdly. “As pretty as the moon and more dangerous than the night, with hair blacker than the darkest of ’em and eyes so green that ye’re thinking yerself to be in a summer’s meadow whenever she glances yer way. Aye, but every man doing business in Auckney would want to bed that one.”
“Have they children together?”
“A son,” the man answered. “A strong and sturdy lad, and with features favoring his mother and not the lord, thank the gods. Little lord Ferin. All in the town celebrated his first birthday just a month ago, and from what I’m hearing, they’ll be buying extra stores to replenish that which they ate at the feast. Finished off their winter stores, by some accounts, and there’s more truth than lie to those, judging by the coins that’ve been falling all the morning.”
Wulfgar glanced back at Feringal and his entourage as they wound their way along the far side of the merchant caravan.
“And here we feared that the market’d be thinner with the glutton Lady Priscilla gone.”
That perked up Wulfgar’s ears, and he turned fast on the man. “Feringal’s…?”
“Sister,” the man confirmed.
“Died?”
The man snorted and didn’t seem the least bit bothered by that possibility, something that Wulfgar figured anyone who had ever had the misfortune of meeting Priscilla Auck would surely appreciate.
“She’s in Luskan—been there for a year. She went back with this same caravan after our market here last year,” the man explained. “She never much cared for Lady Meralda, for ’twas said she’d had Feringal’s ear until he married that one. I’m not for knowing what happened, but that Priscilla’s time in Castle Auck came to an end soon after the marriage, and when Meralda got fat with Feringal’s heir, she likely knew her influence here would shrink even more. So she went to Luskan, and there she’s living, with enough coin to keep her to the end of her days, may they be mercifully short.”
“Mercifully for all around her, you mean?”
“That’s the way they tell it, aye.”
Wulfgar nodded and smiled, and that genuine grin came from more than the humor at Priscilla’s expense. He looked back at Lord Feringal and narrowed his crystalline blue eyes, thinking that one major obstacle, the disagreeable Lady Priscilla, had just been removed from his path.
“If Priscilla was at Castle Auck, as much as he’d be wanting to leave, Lord Feringal wouldn’t dare be out without his wife at his side. He wouldn’t leave them two together!” the man said.
“I would expect that Lady Meralda would wish to visit the caravan more than would the lord,” Wulfgar remarked.
“Ah, but not until her flowers bloom.”
Wulfgar looked at him curiously.
“She’s put in beds of rare tulips, and they’re soon to bloom, I’m guessing,” the man explained. “’Twas so last year—she didn’t come down to the market until our second tenday, not until the white petals were revealed. Put her in a fine, buying mood, and finer still, for by that time, we knew that Lady Priscilla would be journeying from Auckney with us.”
He began to laugh, but Wulfgar didn’t follow the cue. He stared across the little stone bridge to the small island that housed Castle Auck, trying to remember the layout and where those gardens might be. He took note of a railing built atop the smaller of the castle’s square keeps. Wulfgar glanced back at Feringal, to see the man making his way out of the far end of the market, and with the threat removed, Wulfgar also set out, nodding appreciatively at the merchant, to find a better vantage point for scouting the castle.
Not long after, he had his answer, spotting the form of a woman moving along the flat tower’s roof, behind the railing.
There were no threats to Auckney. The town had known peace for a long time. In that atmosphere, it was no surprise to Wulfgar to learn that the guards were typically less than alert. Even so, the big man had no idea how he might get across that little stone bridge unnoticed, and the waters roiling beneath the structure were simply too cold for him to try to swim—and besides, both the near bank and the island upon which the castle stood had sheer cliffs that rose too steeply from the pounding surf below.
He lingered long by the bridge, seeking the answer to his dilemma, and he finally came to accept that he might have to simply wait for those flowers to bloom, so he could confront Lady Meralda in the market. That thought didn’t sit well with him, for in that setting he would almost surely need to face Lord Feringal and his entourage as well. It would be easier if he could speak with Meralda first, and alone.
He leaned against the wall of a nearby tavern one afternoon, staring out at the bridge and taking note of the guards’ maneuvers. They weren’t very disciplined, but the bridge was so narrow that they didn’t have to be. Wulfgar stood up straight as a coach rambled across the structure, heading out of the castle.
Liam Woodgate wasn’t driving. Steward Temigast was.
Wulfgar stroked his beard and weighed his options, and purely on instinct—for he knew that if he considered his movements, he would lose heart—he gathered up Colson and moved out to the road, to a spot where he could intercept the wagon out of sight of the guards at the bridge, and most of the townsfolk.
“Good trader, do move aside,” Steward Temigast bade him, but in a kindly way. “I’ve some paintings to sell and I wish to see the market before the light wanes. Dark comes early to a man of my age, you know.”