LORD REGAN had ridden northeast toward Dornan, following the main road and staying at inns along the way. March and Holywell picked up his trail simply by inquiring after a foreign lord. If anyone asked why they were looking for him, Holywell had a simple response: “He’s an acquaintance. The sort who owes us money.”
March was surprised how most people quickly took their side just from this comment. Holywell laughed and said, “Regan looks rich. People don’t trust the rich; they want to believe the worst of them and hope they get a good kicking from time to time, whether they really deserve it or not.”
The journey to Dornan had taken Regan five days, though March and Holywell did it in half that, so it seemed Regan was not in a desperate rush to hand over the prince’s seal. Pitoria was greener than Calidor, and cooler, but also bigger. The roads seemed wider, the rivers deeper, the towns larger and more prosperous. Holywell may have said that people resented the rich, but here everyone seemed well fed and well satisfied.
They arrived in Dornan in the early evening. March had thought Westmouth busy but really no more so than Calia on market days. However, here the streets of Dornan were so crowded with stalls it was hard to move. The pavements thronged with men with colored hair—some bright red (they were the sheriff’s men) and many teal, showing they were with the local lord.
March and Holywell were directed to a field and temporary stable, where they were charged more to stable their horses than they’d paid for a night in a roadside inn. There was no alternative though, and this was the end of their journey. Soon they would find Regan. Holywell asked for the best inn in town and they went there, March listening in on the conversations, practicing his new language in his head.
At the inn, Holywell said he was looking for a friend from Calidor, just arrived today.
“You from Calidor too?” the innkeeper asked, staring at Holywell’s eyes and then at March’s.
“Indeed,” Holywell replied, adding, “but our friend has brown eyes.”
“Whatever color they are, they ain’t here. We’re full and been full for the last week. In fact, we’re more than full. Some rooms have four or five in ’em. And I can’t see any other inn being different.”
Holywell led the way to the next inn. However, after two more it was obvious that the inns really were full, and it didn’t matter how rich or noble Regan was—there wasn’t a room to be had. They learned that there were beds available in private houses or in tented accommodations on the outskirts of town.
“Hard to find him if he’s staying in someone’s home,” said Holywell.
“He won’t do that,” replied March. “The great Lord Regan bedding down in the house of some common man? Never. We should try the tents.”
* * *
The sleeping tents were large marquees with rows of narrow camp beds, partitioned by curtains and with a heavy metal chest at the foot of each bed to store clothes and possessions.
Holywell eyed them doubtfully. “Poor lodgings for a lord.”
March shook his head. “Regan is a soldier. He’ll fancy himself as being back on campaign. Look—there!”
March had spotted Regan emerging from one of the compartments farther down the tent. He lowered his head and turned as casually as he could, diverting himself and Holywell out of Regan’s path. Regan might not have recognized March’s face, but his eyes were too distinctive. Regan strode past without a glance in their direction, and Holywell and March followed in the crowd.
Regan walked around the fair, as if assessing the whole place. He had a meal in a food tent but didn’t meet anyone or seem in a hurry to find his man, and when it was dark he returned to his sleeping marquee. Holywell took a bed in the same tent, but March didn’t want to risk Regan spotting him, so he told Holywell, “I’ll find somewhere else.”
“Don’t go far. Our man may be up early. If the prince’s boy is here, we must be prepared to act quickly. We can’t let him go with Regan.”
“I understand.” March felt he should be more assertive, so he added, “I’ll do what needs to be done.”
“And if what needs to be done involves the removal of someone? Regan, for example? Your conscience will not suddenly rise up and stop you?”
March felt a tightening in his stomach. He’d half known this was going to be part of Holywell’s plan. Lord Regan might not be enthusiastic about the task he had been given, but he would do it and he would kill all those who tried to stop him. He was a lord of Calidor, friend to Prince Thelonius, and an honored soldier. He was a formidable opponent, and March and Holywell would have to use force to stop him.
“Regan supported Prince Thelonius when Thelonius sacrificed Abask and all our people were killed. My conscience will be clear. My conscience says, ‘Why have you waited so long to get your revenge?’”
Holywell smiled. “You’ll have your revenge, brother.”
March left Holywell and wandered through the fair, excitement growing within him that he was finally going to do something, finally going to act rather than wait. Holywell would kill Regan and he, March, would assist him. And it was the right thing to do. He was a fighter, an Abask. Why shouldn’t he punish those who had betrayed his countrymen? Regan deserved no favors from him. He’d had a long and privileged life. March’s brother, Julien, had not.
March watched other men talk and laugh. Holywell was now his friend, his only friend. It helped to remember that Lord Regan was a close friend of Prince Thelonius. Regan’s death would hit the prince hard. That, coupled with the loss of his wife and sons, would be a double blow. March tried to remember the friends he’d had growing up in Abask. It was getting harder to remember their faces, but he went through their names: Delit, Hedge, Anara, Amark, Granus, Tarin, Wanar. All dead. For them and for all Abasks, Regan would pay.
March looked at the excellent pies, meats, and cheeses on offer, but he wasn’t hungry. He watched stilt walkers and acrobats, and slipped into a tent devoted to men dancing, but he found nothing that could distract him from his thoughts until he passed a barber’s tent, where a group of men were having their hair dyed scarlet. He stopped and had his own hair cut in the Pitorian style, longer on top and shaved round the neck. The result made him feel less conspicuous. Then he went to the woods to the north of the fair and laid his bedroll down and again thought of his brother and his family and all the friends he’d known in Abask, and told himself, This is right. This is for them.
But, still, sleep was a long time coming.
* * *
March woke at dawn and went straight to the sleeping marquee, waiting at a distance from the entrance. When Holywell appeared, he came straight to March and pulled March’s hood off. March thought he’d laugh at him, but Holywell just said, “You almost pass for a Pitorian.” They bought porridge at a nearby stall and ate while the fair began slowly to wake up.
“What do we do?” March asked.
“We keep an eye on Regan and see where he goes.” Holywell grinned. “And here he comes now. Let the fun begin.”
Regan came out of the marquee, ignoring the food stalls and walking quickly toward a part of the fair March hadn’t visited the night before. It had a different atmosphere. Here the tents were big and beautiful, bright with flags and pennants. Some even had gold and silver decoration, while others were trimmed with crystals. Wind chimes chimed and guards stood around. The clientele here was different too: older and definitely richer. It was also much quieter, making it more difficult for March and Holywell to remain unseen. They kept well back, and watched Regan go up to a small food stall. He ate a pie and then stayed standing there.
“Is he waiting for someone?” March asked Holywell.
Holywell shook his head. “He’s watching that tent, the one with the red and gold pennants. How about you go and make some inquiries about who owns it?”
March went over to another food stall and bought his own pie.
“Good morning, sir.” The pie seller stared at him. “You’re from Abask, is it, with those eyes?”
March nodded.