Chapter 21: Distant Servants

The mansion district of Greyvor sat on an artificial hill east of the city. The buildings here were about fifty years newer than the old quarter—lighter stone, wider windows, most with wrought-iron fences and neatly trimmed laurel hedges.

The people who lived here shared one common trait: enough money to live comfortably, but not enough power to appear on the capital's social registers. Guild masters, retired officers, provincial agents of eastern nobles—these were Greyvor's respectable folk.

A three-story townhouse stood on one corner, its iron railings overgrown with withered ivy—a stark contrast to the meticulously maintained hedges of its neighbors.

The neighbors had whispered about it a few times. The family had moved in recently. No one had seen the master leave. No one had seen visitors arrive. Just a butler and a maid.

That morning, the butler sat in his study as usual, handling correspondence.

He sat upright behind a mahogany desk by the window, his back straight, one hand resting on a stack of envelopes weighted by a brass letter opener, the other holding a fine-nibbed quill. He looked about twenty-five. His black hair was combed without a strand out of place, his sideburns trimmed to the exact height of his earlobes. His black tailcoat was buttoned to the top, a strip of white shirt cuff visible at his wrists—no wrinkles, no loose threads.

He had a fixed procedure for opening letters: place the envelope face-up, cut along the seal with the opener, unfold the paper, read it twice, mark the upper right corner with a symbol, and file it in the corresponding folder.

That morning he'd already processed four—a property tax notice from Greyvor's revenue office, a promotional letter from a security agency claiming to have been "long concerned with the safety of your residence," a trade route notice from the Seville Merchants' Guild, and an unsigned letter bearing only an address.

The notice went into one folder. The promotional letter went straight into the fireplace. The trade notice he read twice—it mentioned that caravans departing from Seville were recruiting adventurers for escort to Hamelwall.

The study door opened.

"Sir Fitzpatrick..."

"Leon is fine... Matilda Fairfax..."

"Yes... Leon..."

A maid entered carrying a lacquered wooden tray. Her grey hair was pinned beneath a starched white linen cap, which set off her youthful face. Her steps were light and steady; the tray kept perfect balance at her fingertips—her posture flawless enough to shame any head housekeeper in the capital's noble households. She set a freshly brewed cup of black tea on the desk's right side, within easy reach of Leon's hand—precise, elegant, the cup and saucer making no sound as they touched the wood.

Leon didn't look up. He was writing on the just-sealed envelope—not an address, just a line of small text. His handwriting was neat, his strokes clean.

Matilda drew the tray back to her chest and glanced at the line. As she tilted her head, the shadow of her cap brim fell across her face, revealing her eyes—pale silver-grey irises, with thin, almost invisible veins of dark red shifting in their depths, like aged wine sealed in crystal.

Matilda took the letter but didn't leave immediately. She walked to the window and parted the heavy crimson velvet curtains with two fingers. Outside lay Greyvor's grey autumn morning—early risers already on the streets, going about their business, none noticing the ivy-covered grey brick house across the way.

"Humans are interesting," Matilda said, her voice carrying a faint, almost imperceptible amusement. "Their lives are so brief, yet they keep chasing things with no meaning. Like ants building a nest that rain will wash away—they know it, but they build it anyway. And each time, they build it prettier than before."

Leon wiped the letter opener clean and returned it to the holder. "Our master's final orders haven't changed. Serve the princess. Confirm her safety."

"I think the princess may no longer need our service..." Matilda picked up his thought.

She looked at the letter, silent for a moment.

"We haven't confirmed the order."

"The order hasn't changed. No confirmation is needed." Leon's tone remained steady. "The world is not what it used to be."

Leon finally raised his eyes to look at her.

"Our contract is not with the princess."

A brief silence. A log in the fireplace let out a small crack. Matilda tucked the letter into her apron pocket, picked up her tray, and paused at the study door.

"Leon. Do you think she's changed?"

Leon didn't answer. He picked up his quill again and began processing the next letter. Matilda waited a few seconds, then pushed the door open and left.

Leon sat alone in the study, his quill hovering over the paper for a long moment. The candlelight reflected in the depths of his pitch-black pupils—like the only faint reflection in a starless night sky. Then he resumed writing. His handwriting was as neat as before.

---

At Seville's north gate, the caravan was making its final preparations.

Three heavy freight wagons, reinforced with planks and iron bands, stood in the loading area inside the gate, each pulled by a pair of sturdy draft horses. The drivers were securing cargo with coarse rope and leather straps—the first wagon carried sealed wooden crates of herbs and spices, packed with hay for cushioning; the second carried orichalcum ingots wrapped in oilcloth, each bundle tied separately with twine, stacked neatly; the third carried the caravan's own supplies—tents, cookware, feed, spare axles, and waterskins.

Christopher Montgomery stood by the first wagon, cane in hand, reviewing the route map with the lead driver. His leg seemed stiffer than usual in the morning cold, his body tilted slightly—but he stood steady.

Vaste arrived early. Her gear was already sorted. She walked to each wagon and inspected them in turn. The lead driver—a stocky man in his fifties—started to say "you don't need to worry about this," but when he saw Vaste crouch to check the axles—one hand on the frame, her right thumb hooked into the joint, moving it slightly up and down to test the play—he shut his mouth.

"The right rim on the third wagon has a crack." Vaste stood and tapped the spot with her knuckle.

The lead driver leaned in, rubbed the crack with his calloused thumb, was silent for a moment, then shouted a curse at his apprentice and told him to fetch a spare rim.

Glaze wore her new pale green coat today. She held half a loaf of bread—the innkeeper had pressed it into her hands, saying "a long journey needs extra food for a child." She took a bite and stood by the first wagon, looking up at the crates stacked higher than her head. A driver on top was kneeling on a rope's end, hauling it tight with both hands. As the rope tightened, hay dust sifted from between the crates and drifted down onto Glaze's hair.

Glaze tilted her head, switched the bread to her left hand, and caught a falling piece of hay dust with her right. She held it up to her eyes, examined it, then looked up again. The driver's hands stayed frozen on the rope for a moment, then he continued pulling. Glaze placed the hay dust on her palm, blew gently, and watched it float upward—and land on Vaste's shoulder.

Vaste was crouched on the other side of the wagon, checking the draft horses' shoes. She felt something land on her shoulder, didn't turn, just picked it off with two fingers and glanced at it—hay dust. She flicked it away and continued her inspection.

"Vaste."

Vaste looked up. Glaze stood before her, holding the bread to her mouth. "This is really good. It has a lot of nuts inside," she said. "Take a bite."

"...I already ate."

"The one you ate was sour. This is different."

Vaste took a bite. Glaze watched her swallow, tilted her head, and studied her eyes. "How is it?"

"...Fine."

"Just fine?"

Vaste stood and unclipped the horse's reins to check the leather. "Better than yesterday's," she said, glancing back at Glaze.

Glaze nodded, took a bite from the same spot Vaste had bitten, then continued walking, still gazing up at the cargo. Another piece of hay dust fell. She caught it, held it in her palm, blew gently—this time it landed on no one's shoulders.

Renda Ashby, Simon Gerald, and Dierdre arrived on time.

Renda carried his greatsword across his shoulder today, right hand on the hilt, the scabbard tip swaying slightly in the air. His steps were light—his footfalls on the cobblestones were quieter than most people carrying similar weight.

"Hey!" Renda spotted Vaste and Glaze already there, quickened his pace, and waved at Glaze. "Your scarf's not dragging on the ground today—you look more alert than yesterday! Sleep well?"

"Very well," Glaze said.

"Good—so, little sister, where are you from? Norvic?"

"No." Glaze shook her head, tilted it in thought. "Somewhere colder."

"Further north? Further than Norvic? Then—" Renda's question was cut off by Simon's hand on his shoulder—not hard, but enough to stop him mid-sentence.

"Ask fewer questions," Simon said, shaking his head at Renda. "No one likes that kind of prying."

"How can you say that? It's team bonding!"

Dierdre stood at a distance, her yew longbow slung across her back. Her hood still covered most of her face, but her gaze was clear—she was looking at Glaze.

Glaze had crouched by the roadside, poking at a dandelion growing from a crack in the stone. She touched its stem with her finger—it swayed. She touched it again. The corner of Dierdre's mouth twitched—hard to tell if it was a smile or something else, but she was definitely watching. Glaze seemed to feel her gaze, looked up, and their eyes met. Dierdre didn't look away—just gave a small nod. Glaze nodded back, then returned to studying the dandelion.

Christopher Montgomery walked to the center of the group, cane in hand, and cleared his throat. "Everyone's here. Before we leave, I'll review the route once more—from Seville, along the Empire's southwestern trade road. First stop: Greyvor, estimated three days. Then past Melros, and at the last waystation before the steppe, we switch to camels. Total duration: three to four weeks, depending on weather and road conditions. Any questions?"

No one asked. Christopher nodded, turned on his cane, and waved toward the gate. The drivers climbed onto their wagons, the draft horses' hooves clattering against the stone, and the three wagons rolled slowly out of Seville's north gate.

Vaste walked in the middle of the formation, her right hand on her hilt, her gaze sweeping across the shrubs lining the road and the distant hill contours. Glaze followed two steps behind, looking up at the wide autumn sky beyond the gate. The clouds were thin. The sky was very blue.

---

By evening, the caravan had set up camp on a sheltered slope beside the southwestern trade road. The drivers arranged the wagons in a semicircle and rigged oilcloth over the tops for shelter. A campfire rose between the wagons, casting a warm orange glow across the surrounding dry grass. Dinner was dried meat stew, bread, and dried fruit.

Renda rested his greatsword across his knees and was wiping it with a cloth as he chatted to Glaze. "You know how good this blade is? The smith forged three swords, and only this one passed—he smashed the other two himself. This thing is so sharp, an apple would split in half just by looking at it. I've cut down—"

"Do you use it to cut fruit?" Vaste sat across the fire, honing her small knife on a whetstone.

"Of course not."

"Then why mention apples?"

Renda paused. Simon, adding wood to the fire, let out a low grunt from his throat—not a cough, but a sound honed by years of experience, somewhere between exasperation and tolerance. He turned his head and muttered under his breath: "Brother, if you're going to brag, at least pick a better example." Renda raised an eyebrow, still smiling. "What do you mean, brag? It's called—introduction."

Glaze sat beside Vaste, sipping water from her waterskin. Her gaze crossed the firelight to the far side. Dierdre sat opposite, her hood faintly orange in the firelight, the yew longbow across her knees, her fingers sliding slowly along the bowstring—checking its tension, pausing slightly at each length, feeling the resistance. Her hands were practiced; each pause was deliberate. Beside her lay an open oilcloth packet containing candied dried fruit, bought from the Seville market before departure. Her fingers moved from the bowstring to the packet, picked up a piece, and put it in her mouth.

Glaze watched the packet for a moment, tilting her head.

"Do you like those a lot?"

Dierdre looked up, met Glaze's gaze for a few seconds.

"Not especially..."

"But you've eaten quite a few."

Glaze stood, walked around to Dierdre's side, and sat down beside her. Dierdre said nothing, but her face flushed slightly beneath her hood.

"Maybe I do..." She pushed the packet toward Glaze.

"Want one?"

"Sure."

Glaze didn't hesitate—she picked one up and popped it into her mouth.

"Vaste, want one?"

"Pass." Vaste watched Glaze's sticky, sugar-coated fingers. She was silent for a moment, then pulled a clean piece of cloth from her pouch and handed it over. "You've been eating all day," she said, then stood, sheathed her honed knife. "I'll take first watch tonight."

The caravan-issued canvas tents slept two each. Glaze used her pack as a pillow, shifting a few times before finding a comfortable position. Outside, Renda's voice carried his story of his hometown mill, followed by Simon's silence, followed by Renda's gradually fading protests.

Vaste sat on an exposed rock at the camp's edge, her cleaver across her knees. The campfire behind her had shrunk from bright yellow flames to dark red embers. Above the camp, the late autumn sky was crisp and cold, the Milky Way stretching from the northeast down toward the southwestern steppe. She turned her head and glanced at Glaze's tent. The flap wasn't fully closed—a gap about a handspan wide.

She turned back and continued watching the darkness beyond.