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watchtower earlier today,” Sergeant Kolton said. “She may not be back tonight. Sergen spends most of his time at his villa out on Easthead, but he’s here now. This way, gentlemen.”
    They climbed a staircase at the end of the hall, where two more Shieldsworn waited. Kolton spoke briefly with them— Geran did not know either man well, but they recognized him and welcomed him home—and then the sergeant led them up another flight of stairs into the third portion of the castle. This was not a true bailey, but simply a small courtyard crowning the hill. The buildings here comprised the Hulmaster residence, and so visitors were not normally permitted to pass beyond the large hall and kitchens below without an invitation or escort. The courtyard was circled by a roofed gallery linking several small buildings—a chapel, a library, a small kitchen, and the Harmach’s Tower itself, which was a good-sized stone keep sited on the highest point of the hilltop.
    “One moment,” Kolton said. He knocked on the library door and entered. Geran and Hamil waited for a short time in the courtyard until the sergeant reappeared. “The harmach’ll see you now.”
    “Thank you, Kolton,” Geran answered.
    The stocky sergeant briefly inclined his head, which passed for a bow in Hulburg. “It’s good to see you home, sir.”
    Drawing a deep breath, Geran let himself into the castle library. It was a small, cluttered space, really, but it did hold the largest collection of books for nearly fifty miles. It also served as the harmach’s study; when Geran thought of his
    uncle, he imagined him in that very room. He remembered the smell from his childhood, the musty odor of damp paper and the sharper scent of pipesmoke. He and Hamil passed through the small foyer and stepped into the study proper. “Uncle Grigor?” he said.
    “Well, this is an unexpected surprise.” Grigor Hulmaster sat behind a cluttered desk by a large window of leaded glass. He was a man of seventy-five years, tall and thin, stooped at the shoulder, with little hair remaining on his head except for a thin fringe that ran from the back of one ear to the back of the other. A knob-handled walking stick leaned against his chair, and his eyes were weak and watery. He pushed himself to his feet and peered at Geran. “Is that really you, Geran? How long has it been since you set foot in Griffonwatch?”
    Geran came close and took his uncle’s hand; a cold tremble weakened the harmach’s grip. “Eight years last summer, Uncle.”
    “Not since your father’s death, then. Your journeys in the south must have taken you to strange and far lands indeed. But, as they say, the traveler who walks the farthest yearns the most for home. I am glad to see you again, Geran.” The older man beamed and turned his attention to Hamil. “And who is this lad?”
    Lad? Hamil demanded silently of Geran. To his credit the halfling kept his outrage from his face.
    “This is my friend and comrade Hamil Alderheart, Uncle Grigor. He is a halfling of the Chondalwood, lately of Tantras. He and I were both members of the Company of the Dragon Shield, and together we run the Red Sail Coster of Tantras. He claims to be thirty-two years of age.”
    “A halfling?” Grigor looked closer and shook his head. “I beg your pardon, good sir. I meant no disrespect. My eyesight is not as keen as it once was.”
    Hamil forced a smile and bowed graciously. “Think nothing of it,” he grated.
    The harmach does not look well, Geran thought. Grigor had never been a vigorous man, really. He was industrious
    and well read, but he had spent his life working with his head, not his hands, and he had never cared much for travel. As a young man a fall from a horse had left him with a badly broken hip that even the clerics’ healing spells had never been able to repair completely. In cold, damp weather—something Hulburg had no shortage of at any time of the year—it pained the old man greatly.
    Does he ever leave