A sound in the distance caught Erik’s ear. A midday coach was coming along the western road from Krondor, the Prince’s City. Erik knew that the chances were excellent it was Percy of Rimmerton at the reins, and if so, he would be putting in to the Pintail for refreshments for his horses and passengers. The driver was a rail-thin man of enormous appetite who loved Freida’s cooking.
As Erik had anticipated, within minutes the sounds of iron-shod wheels and hooves echoed loudly as the commercial coach approached the courtyard. Then it turned in and with a loud “Whoa!” Percy reined in his team of four. The commercial coaches had begun their travel between Salador and Krondor five years previously and had proved a great success for their innovator, a wealthy merchant in Krondor named Jacob Esterbrook, who was now planning a coach line from Salador to Bas-Tyra, according to gossip. Each coach was essentially a wagon, with a covered roof and sides, and a small tailgate that when lowered provided a step into the wagon. A pair of planks along the sides provided indifferent seating, and the ride was lacking any pretense to comfort, as the wagons were rudely sprung. But the journey was swift compared to that by caravan, and for those unable to secure their own mounts to ride, almost as rapid as horseback.
“Ho, Percy,” said Erik.
“Erik!” replied the coachman, whose long thin face appeared to have been frozen in a grin surrounded by road dirt. He turned to his two passengers, a man dressed well and another in plain garments. “Ravensburg, sirs.”
The plainly dressed man nodded and moved to the rear of the coach as Erik obliged Percy by unlatching the tailgate. “Are you lying over?” he asked the driver.
“No,” answered Percy. “We go on to Wolverton, where this other gentleman is bound; then we are done with this run.” Wolverton was the next town in the direction of Darkmoor, and less than an hour away by fast coach. Erik knew that the passenger would be unlikely to welcome a meal stop this close to his destination. “From there I’m going empty to Darkmoor, so there’s ample time and no hurry. Tell your mother I’ll be back in a few days, gods willing, and I’ll have an extra of her best meat pie.” Percy’s grin continued to split his thin face as he patted his stomach, miming hunger.
Erik nodded as the driver turned his team and quickly had them up to a trot and out of the courtyard. Erik turned to the man who had dismounted the coach, to ask if he required lodging, and found him vanishing around the corner of the barn.
“Sir!” Erik called, and hurried after.
He circled the barn and reached the forge, finding that the stranger had set down his bag and was removing his travel cloak. The man was as broad of shoulder and thick of arm as Erik, though he was a full head shorter. He had a fringe of long grey hair receding from his bald pate, and a thoughtful, almost scholarly expression. His brows were bushy and black, and his face was clean-shaven, though the stubble grown while traveling was almost white.
And he inspected everything carefully. He turned to see the young man standing at the door and said, “You must be the apprentice. You keep an orderly forge, youngster. That is good.” He spoke with the odd flat twang typical of those from the Far Coast or the Sunset Islands.
“Who are you?” asked Erik.
“Nathan is my name. I’m the new smith sent up from Krondor.”
“From Krondor? New smith?” Erik’s expression showed his confusion.
The large man shrugged as he hung his travel cloak on a wall peg. “The guild asked if I wished this forge. I said yes, and here I am.”
“But it’s my smithy,” said Erik.
“It’s a baronial charge, boy,” said Nathan, his tone turning firm. “You might be competent in most things—you might even be talented—but in time of war you’d be mending armor and tending the barony’s mounts, as well as taking care of farmers’ draft horses.”
“War!” exclaimed Erik. “War hasn’t touched Darkmoor since it was conquered!”
The man took a quick step forward and put his hand on Erik’s shoulder, gripping him firmly. “I think I know how you feel. But law is law. You’re a guild apprentice—”
“No.”
The smith’s brows lowered. “No? Didn’t your master register you with the guild?”
With conflicting emotions, anger and ironic amusement, Erik said, “My former master was drunk most of the time. I’ve conducted the business of this forge since I was ten years of age, Master Smith. For years he promised to take the journey to Krondor or to Rillanon, to register my apprenticeship with the guild office. For the first three years I begged him to send a message by Kingdom Post, but after that . . . I was too busy to continue begging. He’s been dead for two months now, and I’ve done well enough tending the barony’s needs.”
The man stroked his chin and then shook his head. “This is a problem, youngster. You’re three years older than most who begin their apprenticeship—”