The Barrowland lies far north of Charm, in the Old Forest so
storied in the legends of the White Rose. Corbie came to the town
there the summer after the Dominator failed to escape his grave
through Juniper. He found the Lady’s minions in high morale.
The grand evil in the Great Barrow was no longer to be feared. The
dregs of the Rebel had been routed. The empire had no more enemies
of consequence. The Great Comet, harbinger of all catastrophes,
would not return for decades.
One lone focus of resistance remained, a child claimed to be the
reincarnation of the White Rose. But she was a fugitive, running
with the remnants of the traitorous Black Company. Nothing to fear
there. The Lady’s overwhelming resources would swamp
them.
Corbie came limping up the road from Oar, alone, a pack on his
back, a staff gripped tightly. He claimed to be a disabled veteran
of the Limper’s Forsberg campaigns. He wanted work. There was
work aplenty for a man not too proud. The Eternal Guard were
well-paid. Many hired drudgework taken off their duties.
At that time a regiment garrisoned the Barrowland. Countless
civilians orbited its compound. Corbie vanished among those. When
companies and battalions transferred out, he was an established
part of the landscape.
He washed dishes, curried horses, cleaned stables, carried
messages, mopped floors, peeled vegetables, assumed any burden for
which he might earn a few coppers. He was a quiet, tall, dusky,
brooding sort who made no special friends, but made no enemies
either. Seldom did he socialize.
After a few months he asked for and received permission to
occupy a ramshackle house long shunned because once it belonged to
a sorcerer from Oar. As time and resources permitted, he restored
the place. And like the sorcerer before him, he pursued the mission
that had brought him north.
Ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day Corbie worked around town,
then went home and worked some more. People wondered when he
rested.
If there was anything that detracted from Corbie, it was that he
refused to assume his role completely. Most scutboys had to endure
a lot of personal abuse. Corbie would not accept it. Victimize him
and his eyes went cold as winter steel. Only one man ever pressed
Corbie once he got that look. Corbie beat him with ruthless,
relentless efficiency.
No one suspected him of leading a double life. Outside his home
he was Corbie the swamper, nothing more. He lived the role to his
heart. When he was home, in the more public hours, he was Corbie
the renovator, creating a new home from an old. Only in the wee
hours, while all but the night patrol slept, did he become Corbie
the man with a mission.
Corbie the renovator found a treasure in a wall of the
wizard’s kitchen. He took it upstairs, where Corbie the
driven came up from the deeps.
The scrap of paper bore a dozen words scribbled in a shaky hand.
A cipher key.
That lean, dusky, long-unsmiling face shed its ice. Dark eyes
sparkled, Fingers turned up a lamp. Corbie sat, and for an hour
stared at nothing. Then, still smiling, he went downstairs and out
into the night. He raised a hand in gentle greeting whenever he
encountered the night patrol.
He was known now. No one challenged his right to limp about and
watch the constellations wheel.
He went home when his nerves settled. There would be no sleep
for him. He scattered papers, began to study, to decipher, to
translate, to write a story-letter that would not reach its
destination for years.
The Barrowland lies far north of Charm, in the Old Forest so
storied in the legends of the White Rose. Corbie came to the town
there the summer after the Dominator failed to escape his grave
through Juniper. He found the Lady’s minions in high morale.
The grand evil in the Great Barrow was no longer to be feared. The
dregs of the Rebel had been routed. The empire had no more enemies
of consequence. The Great Comet, harbinger of all catastrophes,
would not return for decades.
One lone focus of resistance remained, a child claimed to be the
reincarnation of the White Rose. But she was a fugitive, running
with the remnants of the traitorous Black Company. Nothing to fear
there. The Lady’s overwhelming resources would swamp
them.
Corbie came limping up the road from Oar, alone, a pack on his
back, a staff gripped tightly. He claimed to be a disabled veteran
of the Limper’s Forsberg campaigns. He wanted work. There was
work aplenty for a man not too proud. The Eternal Guard were
well-paid. Many hired drudgework taken off their duties.
At that time a regiment garrisoned the Barrowland. Countless
civilians orbited its compound. Corbie vanished among those. When
companies and battalions transferred out, he was an established
part of the landscape.
He washed dishes, curried horses, cleaned stables, carried
messages, mopped floors, peeled vegetables, assumed any burden for
which he might earn a few coppers. He was a quiet, tall, dusky,
brooding sort who made no special friends, but made no enemies
either. Seldom did he socialize.
After a few months he asked for and received permission to
occupy a ramshackle house long shunned because once it belonged to
a sorcerer from Oar. As time and resources permitted, he restored
the place. And like the sorcerer before him, he pursued the mission
that had brought him north.
Ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day Corbie worked around town,
then went home and worked some more. People wondered when he
rested.
If there was anything that detracted from Corbie, it was that he
refused to assume his role completely. Most scutboys had to endure
a lot of personal abuse. Corbie would not accept it. Victimize him
and his eyes went cold as winter steel. Only one man ever pressed
Corbie once he got that look. Corbie beat him with ruthless,
relentless efficiency.
No one suspected him of leading a double life. Outside his home
he was Corbie the swamper, nothing more. He lived the role to his
heart. When he was home, in the more public hours, he was Corbie
the renovator, creating a new home from an old. Only in the wee
hours, while all but the night patrol slept, did he become Corbie
the man with a mission.
Corbie the renovator found a treasure in a wall of the
wizard’s kitchen. He took it upstairs, where Corbie the
driven came up from the deeps.
The scrap of paper bore a dozen words scribbled in a shaky hand.
A cipher key.
That lean, dusky, long-unsmiling face shed its ice. Dark eyes
sparkled, Fingers turned up a lamp. Corbie sat, and for an hour
stared at nothing. Then, still smiling, he went downstairs and out
into the night. He raised a hand in gentle greeting whenever he
encountered the night patrol.
He was known now. No one challenged his right to limp about and
watch the constellations wheel.
He went home when his nerves settled. There would be no sleep
for him. He scattered papers, began to study, to decipher, to
translate, to write a story-letter that would not reach its
destination for years.