Hal - The Duellist #1

Chapter Forty-One: Degaré

The dregs of grey evening light disappeared as they approached the gates of Dal Reniac. Hal was relieved, for as Franc had explained, the darkness offered cover.

"Good evening to you," Franc addressed the guard who sat shivering at a desk in his customs booth.

"Oh, it's not such a good one, Sir, now the cold's setting in. Is this wheat you're bringing to the city, Sir? Mind if I take a look?"

"Wheat and barley. Be my guest." The guard unfastened one of the bags and dipped his hand inside, lifting it in the air and allowing the grains to slither through his fingers. "And where might this wheat be coming from?"

"It's mine. I'm the Master of Hannac and this here is one of my tenant's lads. We have papers," he added, pulling a bundle of documents from inside his coat.

The guard scanned the documents by candlelight. Hal noticed his expression harden, becoming more cunning, less compliant. He handed them back. "Sure it's finest quality, if it's from the Brennac plains. But I don't need to remind you, Master Hannac, that Lord Nérac's keen on knowing who supplies his city. And he tends to favour grain from the west to wheat from the Nests."

"I'm aware of that. And I'm sure I don't want to cause you any trouble. Not with the cold winter setting in as you say and you, no doubt, a large family to feed. Here, take this." He reached under his seat and produced a pouch of coins. "Maybe the news won't reach him so quickly. After all, I'm just here to trade some bags of grain and catch up with a few old friends."

The soldier eyed the money bag with appreciation. "Well, I don't see any harm in that." His gaze fell on Hal. She returned the look with as much composure as she could muster, although her stomach performed cartwheels.

"Young Halac's shown a bit of a head for business – thought I'd let him practise some trading." Franc followed the guard's gaze.

"One to watch out for, is he?"

"Could well be. Well, if that's all, gentlemen?"

"I believe so, Sir. Safe stay in the city."

To Hal's relief, he waved the cart through.

"We're in," Franc whispered. "Wasn't so difficult, was it?"

He directed the wagon along some narrow, half-deserted streets which ran parallel to the base of the main defensive walls. She strained to make out the city-scape with its practical, homely dwellings built of stone and slate. Occasional shafts of moonlight pierced the clouds as the wagon rattled its ponderous way past bolted doors and shuttered windows, until Franc pulled up outside what seemed little more than a shack.

"My safe house," he explained. "The more modest the better in this city."

Hal helped him to secure the horses in an adjoining building which served for both storage and stables. Then they unloaded the wagon, muscles weakening with every sack of grain as they swung them to the ground and lugged them across the floor. After nearly half an hour of back-breaking work, they returned to the house itself, and Franc rapped several times on the door.

It was opened by a dark-haired man who looked to be in his early twenties. He peered nervously into the street, his fearful expression resolving into one of relief as soon as he saw Franc. "Thank the ancestors!' he whispered. "I had a feeling you might be some of Nérac's guards. They've been getting a little too enthusiastic recently. Come inside ‒ both of you," he added, noticing Hal. His eyes darted, confused, from her to Franc. She slipped past him into the cramped, gloomy interior of the cottage.

Franc followed her inside and the young man checked to make sure that they had not been observed, before closing the door and locking it. The chamber they now entered was low-beamed and simply-furnished, with just a pair of chairs facing the dying embers of the hearth. On their right a wood-burning stove was set into the wall of a cramped, poky kitchen. A rickety ladder stood between the rooms, which she guessed led up to an attic as the roof of the building was so low.