“Did you see the size of that guy?” Hadrian asked Royce, still glancing over his shoulder as if the giant might try to sneak up on them. “I’ve never seen anyone that big. He had to be a good seven feet tall, and that neck, those shoulders, and that axe! It would take two of me just to lift it. Maybe he isn’t human; maybe he’s a giant, or a troll. Some people swear they exist. I’ve met a few who say they have seen them personally.”
Royce looked at his friend and scowled.
“Okay, so it’s mostly drunks in bars who say that, but that doesn’t mean it’s not possible. Ask Myron, he’ll back me up.”
The two headed north toward the Langdon Bridge. It was quiet here. In the respectable hill district of Colnora, people were more inclined to sleep at night than to carouse in taverns. This was the home of merchant titans, affluent businessmen who owned houses grander than many of the palatial mansions of upper nobility.
Colnora had started out as a meager rest stop at the intersection of the Wesbaden and Aquesta trade routes. Originally, a farmer named Hollenbeck and his wife had watered caravans there and granted room in their barn to the traders in return for news and goods. Hollenbeck had an eye for quality and always picked the best of the lot.
Soon his farm became an inn and Hollenbeck added a store and a warehouse to sell what he acquired to passing travelers. The merchants deprived of first pick bought plots next to his farm and opened their own shops, taverns, and roadhouses. The farm became a village, then a city, but still, the caravans gave preference to Hollenbeck. Legend held that the reason was their fondness for his wife, a wonderful woman who, in addition to being uncommonly beautiful, sang and played the mandolin. It was said she baked the finest cobblers of peach, blueberry, and apple. Centuries later, when no one could accurately place the location of the original Hollenbeck farm, and few remembered there had ever been such a farmer, they continued to remember his wife—Colnora.
Over the years the city flourished, until it became the largest urban center in Avryn. Shoppers found the latest style in clothes, the most exquisite jewelry, and the widest variety of exotic spices from hundreds of shops and marketplaces. In addition, the city was home to some of the best artisans and boasted the finest, most popular inns and taverns in the country. Entertainers had long congregated there, prompting Cosmos DeLur, the city’s wealthiest resident and patron of the arts, to construct the DeLur Theatre.
Crossing the district, Royce and Hadrian halted abruptly in front of the theatre’s large white painted board. It depicted the silhouette of two men scaling the outside of a castle tower and read:
THE CROWN CONSPIRACY
HOW A YOUNG PRINCE AND TWO THIEVES SAVED A KINGDOM
EVENING SHOWS DAILY
Royce raised an eyebrow while Hadrian slipped the tip of his tongue along his front teeth. They glanced at each other, but neither said a word before continuing on their way.
Leaving the hill district, they continued along Bridge Street as the land sloped downward toward the river. They passed rows of warehouses—mammoth buildings emblazoned with company brands like royal crests. Some were simply initials, usually the new businesses that had no sense of themselves. Others bore trademarks, like the boar’s head of the Bocant Company, an empire whose genesis had been pork, or the diamond symbol of DeLur Enterprises.
“You realize he’ll never be able to pay us the hundred?” Hadrian asked.
“I just didn’t want him to think he was getting off easy.”
“You didn’t want him to think Royce Melborn went soft at the sight of a little girl’s tears.”
“She wasn’t just any girl, and besides, he saved her from Ambrose Moor. For that alone he earned one life.”
“That’s something that has always puzzled me. How is it Ambrose is still alive?”
“I’ve been sidetracked, I suppose,” Royce said in his let’s not talk about it tone, and Hadrian dropped the subject.
Of the city’s three main bridges, the Langdon was the most ornate. Made from cut stone, it was lined every few feet by large lampposts fashioned in the shapes of swans, which, when lit, gave the bridge a festive look. Now, however, with the lights out, the stone was wet and appeared oily and dangerous.
“Well, at least we didn’t spend the last month looking for DeWitt for nothing,” Hadrian said sarcastically as they crossed the bridge. “I would have thought—”