Gaborn glanced around the room. No one in the room could be a target for assassins—no one but him. Yet he felt certain he was not their target. He’d traveled in disguise all day. Bannisferre was full of, wealthy merchants and petty lords—the assassins could be hunting one of them, or could even be tracking one of their kinsmen from the South.

Gaborn was not properly armed to fight such men.

He rose without explanation and left the inn to search for Borenson. Just as he stood, the serving boy brought a passable dinner of roast pork and fresh bread with plums.

Gaborn left it, made his way into the streets, his Days rising drunkenly to follow after.

Whereas in the morning the city had seemed cool, invigorating, alive, now the heat of the day had intensified the odor. The smell of evaporating urine from pack animals filled the market, along with the scents of dirt and human sweat. The closeness of the buildings in the market held the stench in.

Gaborn hurried down the street to the stables, where an old horseman from Fleeds brought Gaborn his dun-colored stallion. The horse neighed on seeing Gaborn, held its head high, and raised its blond tail. It seemed as eager to be off as Gaborn did.

Reaching out a hand to stroke his horse’s muzzle, Gaborn inspected the stallion. It had been well tended. Its coat was brushed, tail and mane plaited. Even the teeth were clean. Its belly was fat, and it was still chewing hay.

A few moments later, the stablemaster brought out the Days’ white mule. Though it was no force stallion with runes of power branded into its neck, the mule looked as if it had been well groomed, too.

Gaborn kept glancing over his shoulder, looking for signs of more assassins, but spotted nothing out of the ordinary here by the stables.

Gaborn asked the stablemaster, “Have you noticed any men ride into town—men of dark complexion, traveling in pairs?”

The stablemaster nodded thoughtfully, as if just struck by the answer, “Aye, now that you mention it, four like men ’ave their horses stabled wit’ me, and I seen four more ride nor’, through Hay Row.”

“Is this common, to see such men?” Gaborn asked.

The stablemaster raised a brow. “To tell ye true, I would not ’ave noticed them, ‘adn’t you mentioned it. But two like gentlemen galloped through town late last night, too.”

Gaborn frowned. Assassins all along the road, heading north. To where? Castle Sylvarresta, a hundred miles away?

As he left town, Gaborn became more concerned. He took his dun stallion over the Himmeroft Bridge, a picturesque bridge of stone that spanned the broad river. From its top, Gaborn could see large brown trout sunning in the deeper pools, rising up to leap at flies in the shallows, in the shade of the willows. The river here was deep, with cold pools. Peaceful.