Stepping forth from the low two-storey hall of the Notary Office, Máric closed his hand tight about the two silver pennies that now lay once more in his keeping. He lifted his eyes to the street that stretched before him.
This was the chief way of Greyleaf, running from the Middle Ward toward the Heart-ward; the most seemly road in all the town. It was laid with clean gravel, broad enough for two wains to pass abreast, far other than the mire-choked lanes of the Outer Ward where he had dwelt aforetime.
Trash yet lay heaped by the wayside in places, yet compared with the filth and foulness of the Rim-lands and the Outer Ward, this thoroughfare seemed almost fair.
Deep winter gripped the land; the north wind swept keen across him, bearing a chill that cut to the marrow.
Few folk walked abroad; those that did were muffled deep in their cloaks, hastening on their way.
Beside him Ulfang raised a hand and laid it upon his shoulder. His voice carried a hidden note, as of one who speaks half counsel, half warning:
"Lord Aethan dwells in Attic the Ninth. I counsel you to seek him out."
"Since you and he are both of the Sidar folk of the South, this may be the very chance to turn your fortune."
Having spoken thus, Ulfang drew his thick rabbit-fur cloak the closer about him and turned toward Yeastward Lane.
"Master Ulfang, tarry a moment."
Máric stepped forward and stayed him, asking plainly: "Know you where a man might find lodging for hire in the town? I would first secure a roof over my head."
To seek out Aethan? That Máric would not do.
Even if the lord harboured no ill will, he would scarce act openly within the bounds of Greyleaf.
Yet to deliver himself to the man's door unbidden, that was to walk blind into shadow, and the end thereof none could foresee.
Ulfang turned; his brow creased, and surprise touched his voice:
"You mean not to go to Lord Aethan?"
He stood silent a space, as though weighing whether speech were wise.
At length he answered slowly: "A dwelling in the Middle Ward lies beyond your purse. You might ask in Shanty Row, down in the Rim-lands."
"But mark this: two silver pennies will not keep you long within the town walls."
With that he spoke no more.
He turned and melted into the thin stream of folk by the roadside, making for Yeastward Lane.
Máric watched his back until it was lost to sight. He drew a long breath; the white mist of it vanished swiftly in the frosty air.
Steadying himself, he turned and set his face the other way, toward the road that led down into the Rim-lands.
First he must find shelter.
As for coin, he feared little.
Once the Death Warriors answered his call, ways enough to gather wealth would open before him.
The Middle Ward was the greatest quarter of Greyleaf in breadth.
Yet it touched not the Rim-lands directly.
A wall of four or five fathoms' height stood between them, even as a yet loftier barrier parted the Middle Ward from the Heart-ward.
To pass outward was simple; to return, not so.
The Rim-lands had their own outer wall in name, but that "defence" had long since fallen to ruin.
It was but rammed earth mingled with stones, scarce ten feet high in most places; many stretches had crumbled away, leaving only low banks no higher than a man's waist.
No towers rose above it, nor any proper gates; only a few rough gaps served for passage, offering little safeguard.
The wall's true purpose had ever been to mark bounds, that the town-wardens might number the folk and gather tax, rather than to hold back foes from without.
Time wore on. Máric trod the road, less than three leagues, for nigh upon an hour without halt.
When he passed through the gate of the Middle Ward, the militia-men there spared him but a dull glance, too idle even to question him.
The moment he stepped into the Rim-lands, the press of living souls rose about him.
Though the Middle Ward covered more ground, the Rim-lands teemed thickest with life in all Greyleaf.
Before his eyes lay a warren of mean row-hovels, pressed so close that scarce a gap remained between them—crude, sagging shelters thrown up for the lowly and the outland-born.
Though he had trodden these ways before, the reek of refuse and ordure heaped carelessly by the paths still rose to his nostrils, sour and heavy, making his brow crease and his stomach turn.
Stepping wide of the foul streams that ran beneath his feet, Máric made toward the densest cluster of shanties.
After a moment's watching he quickened his pace and stayed a man of middle years who passed by.
"Sir, I crave pardon for the trouble."
Máric spoke calm and clear, yet his words came swift; all the while his eyes marked every shift upon the other's face.
"I am come from the South, a stranger here, and seek to hire a small chamber or hovel in the Rim-lands. Know you of any such place?"
At the words "hire a dwelling," the man's first look of impatience changed. His eyes brightened.
His gaze flicked to Máric's pale gold hair, then down across his worn garments and boots; his brow furrowed briefly, then eased as he asked: "You wish to rent?"
Before Máric could answer, the man pressed on:
"I have one to let, here, close by. One hundred and eighty coppers the quarter."
Máric shook his head at once: "Sir, that price is too high."
Coppers meant copper pennies; one silver bought nigh two hundred of them.
The man's eyes had slid aside as he spoke, plainly marking Máric for a newcomer and thinking to take advantage.
Máric gave him no opening to argue.
"I have passed through many towns and hired many roofs. In the Rim-lands of such a place as Greyleaf, a hovel fetches eighty coppers the quarter at the most."
He spoke more slowly now, each word clear and sure, letting fall the tone of one well-acquainted with the market.
At that the man's thought of overreaching faltered.
He paused, eyeing Máric more keenly.
This fair-haired outlander was not so green as most who came fresh to the town.
Before he could reply, Máric set his terms plainly, his voice steady:
"I offer one hundred coppers the quarter. Half as earnest-money now, the rest when I take possession."
"If that suits, I will go with you now to see the place."
"If not, I will seek elsewhere. Your roof is not the only one for let in the Rim-lands."
As he spoke he let his glance fall,seemingly careless, upon the ring of copper keys that hung at the man's belt.
By naming his price first, setting the manner of payment, and hinting at other choices, Máric had seized the upper hand in the bargain, though he knew little of Greyleaf's ways.
The man's brow creased again. He rubbed the leather pouch at his belt.
After a few heartbeats of silence his tone softened:
"One hundred is too low."
"My place has fresh thatch; the roof holds watertight, and it is cleaner than most hovels here."
"One hundred and twenty coppers, no less."
"One hundred," Máric answered without pause.
Then he added the hook the other could not refuse: "Yet I will pay the full sum at once, and take it for two full quarters."
"Of course I must first see the house, to be sure the roof is sound and the walls free of cracks, for I mean to dwell long in Greyleaf."
At those words the man's doubt melted away.
Full coin in hand and a long lease assured, such was profit certain.
The struggle faded from his face. He clicked his tongue and nodded:
"Very well, one hundred coppers."
"Come. I will show you the place."
Máric inclined his head and spoke no further.
He followed the man without delay, threading deeper into the tangled warren of shanties that lay at the heart of the Rim-lands.