Caj followed after Narm slack-jawed and half-witted, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Narm had just spent enough money to feed a small family for a year and had produced it from seemingly nowhere. Narm, for his part, was limping along down the road, whistling an aimless tune. Any time in the last five minutes that Caj had tried to question the amount of money being spent, he had been waved off irritably, but he tried once more, genuine concern in his expression and tone. Had old age finally gotten to Narms wits? He wasn’t a young man by any means, pushing sixty-five by Caj’s estimation, and the Reaper knew that for all his seeming spryness, Narm was not as young as he used to be.

“Narm,” he asked hesitantly, “Are you sure you are feeling alright? Maybe we should go home and play a few games of stones and relax for the rest of the day.” Narm glanced over his shoulder, or, rather, he tried to, but he turned his head left rather than right, displaying his eye-patch rather than his one green eye. He always said that he had never gotten used to missing an eye, and he occasionally demonstrated it by doing something like this. He rolled his head in an exaggerated, somewhat comical motion so that he was peering at Caj with his one remaining eye. Then, slowly, deliberately, he rolled that bright green orb for all it was worth, and grinned at Caj wolfishly, as always.

“I appreciate your concern Caj, I really do,” he said as he turned back to the road, “But I have not yet taken leave of my senses. I promise, as soon as I decide to do that, you’ll be the first one I tell.” He snorted a chuckle, and Caj opened his mouth once again, he was now all but certain that Narm was mad. That marked the third time today that the man had laughed, and just a few seconds ago he had been whistling! But Narm cut off his words before he could take a breath. “And… We’re here. Wait out here while I run inside Caj, this should be considerably faster that the smithy, I already ordered what work I want done.” Caj was left standing on the doorstep that either belonged to a very eccentric tailor, or a very bawdy inn. The sign over the door was carved with a jumble of clothes, with a bright pink corset standing out prominently among the mess, possessing a tear down one side. Beside the carving, the name of the shop was simply inscribed as, THE TORN BODICE. He desperately hoped it belonged to an eccentric tailor.

A few minutes passed with Caj standing awkwardly outside THE TORN BODICE, and trying not to think about whether or not he was getting strange looks. After about ten minutes, Narm walked out of the building carrying a bundle of what looked like wrapped clothing, with two large flasks stacked atop them. Apparently, The Torn Bodice was home to a very bawdy inn, a tailor’s shop, and a very very eccentric tailor.

“Remember Caj,” Narm said, dumping the cloth bundle into the youth’s hands, “Mistress Esha does the best clothing work this side of the great sea, and possibly the other side too. And,” he added, snagging a flask from the top of the bundle in Caj’s hands and taking a long swig, “Her brother Hoodah makes the best Firewater and bourbon on either side of the Reaper’s harvest.” Caj rearranged the bundle that lay atop his arms distractedly, and merely grunted his assent. If Narm thought so, then it must be so. He had never known Narm to exaggerate. Of course, he had also never known Narm to laugh, smile, and joke overmuch, and he certainly had never heard the man hum, sing, or whistle anything that didn’t sound a funeral dirge, and Narm had been doing all of those things for the past several hours as they traversed the city. He refocused to find Narm speaking again, although whether to Caj, random passerby’s or the departed souls not swept up for the harvest, the Reaper himself knew.

“-of course, most people don’t like to do business with them, since they can be real trolls half of the time,” he snorted as though he had said something particularly witty, “but all that aside, Hoodah and Esha do good work.”

“What the hell kind of name is Hoodah?” Caj muttered under his breath, before cutting off in a rush of whispered obscenities as a third container he hadn’t seen, a glass bottle this time, nearly rolled off the top of the bulky parcel. Narm’s knuckles knocked against his head in a rebuke, surprising him enough that the bottle actually did roll off the top of the bundle, leading Caj into another rush of whispered curses. Narm’s right foot shot out and the bottle landed in the crook of his ankle. He kicked upwards, sending the bottle flipping end over end through the air, then, as casually as though he were doing nothing at all, his right arm seemed to flow outward, holding the large flask of “Firewater” between his first two fingers and thumb, and plucked the bottle out of the air between his ring and pinky fingers. Despite the fact that he had caught, and thrown the bottle with his bad leg, and that he had leaned slightly forward to catch the bottle, he did not overbalance, and continued strolling forward in that smoothly dangerous-looking limp of his. Several bystanders actually applauded. Caj just stared in sullen silence. Every time he thought that he had adjusted his worldview enough to encompass everything Narm could do, the old man would pull something like this. He hadn’t even looked like he was moving particularly fast. In fact, he hadn’t even moved particularly fast. He just moved perfectly. As always.

“Watch your language when you’re in public Caj. You know I don’t mind a little roughness when it’s just you and I, but manners dictate that you watch your language in public.” Caj sighed irritably. He knew that plenty of noblemen swore in public and more did worse. Strictly speaking, Narm was breaching etiquette by drinking in public. He knew better than to say anything though. If he did, Narm would look at him all doe eyed and innocent like, sure as sure, and insist that he was nothing but “an old, crippled undertaker, my good sir,” and that one as lowly as himself, “Could not be expected to always remember such things”. This followed by a healthy swig of whatever Firewater was, and he would have crafted himself a satisfiable excuse. Well, satisfiable to any who didn’t know him. Caj sighed again, dispassionately this time. He didn’t have the energy or will to be irritated with Narm for much longer than that. The man was no courtier, the half a dozen scars hidden beneath his vest, his missing eye, and ropey forearms attested to that, but he knew how to play them like a piper on a flute, that was sure as sure.

Caj and Narm fell into a comfortable silence after that, the sort of silence that can only be borne of years of working with one another, and the surety of mutual affection, however rough around the edges that affection might be. After a while, Caj forgot to be concerned with the state of Narm’s sanity, and Narm forgot to try and make the mood festive by being more cheerful than usual. Then they could’ve been going into the city for business of the regular sort, and the bundle in Caj’s hands wouldn’t be full of mysterious clothing, but burial shrouds, or patched journeyman vests. Yes, it almost could’ve been a normal daytrip to the city, save that they weren’t headed toward the outskirts of the east side of Goldstern, where the largest graveyard in the country, possibly on the continent, was located. They were headed instead towards the center of Goldstern, where the city market and fairgrounds could be found just outside of the StormHolme Estates, where the current Duke of the Sea, Adarian Mac’Niel, made his home. Caj though about asking where they were going, but decided against it, preferring the comfortable silence that wrapped him and Narm. He would know when they got there, and that was good enough for him.

After about three hours of fighting through the traffic that always clogged the streets of the Central District, which was considerably busier than the Merchants District, they came to the large open square that was the Goldstern fairgrounds. The Goldstern fairgrounds were a large open space directly in front of the gates to the StormHolme Estates, and they served two main purposes. The first was that they served as an amazing place to gather a large amount of the populace for a speech, or public execution. The second purpose was as a last defensive measure. If an attacking force wanted to capture or kill Duke Mac’Niel, they would have to pass through a wide-open space with no cover from archers and crossbowmen. Across the Fairgrounds, the Market square could be made out, a twisting maze of stalls and tents filled with all manner of daily goods and oddities for the folk who couldn’t afford the prices of the craftsmen and women that worked in the Merchant’s quarter.

As Narm and Caj broke into the interior of the fairgrounds they both let out a sigh of relief. The Fairgrounds were still plenty crowded, you couldn’t walk but three paces in any direction without running into somebody, but at least they could actually see more than a half step in front of them. Narm retrieved his purse from the front of his breeches, where he had shoved it after the fifth pickpocket attempt. After that there was only one other attempt to get at his purse, by a filthy little urchin boy whose left ear had been burned away, along with half of his hair. He was missing his left hand also, which marked him as a thief, and standing behind him had been a tiny wisp of a girl, no more than five, who looked like she hadn’t eaten in a week. Narm surreptitiously slipped the boy all the Copper pennies he had, along with a single silver crown, and a whispered instruction not to spend it all in one place or at one time, lest someone think he stole it. The boy nodded gravely, not saying a word, but wide eyes speaking volumes and he and his sister slipped away almost before Narm finished speaking.

Narm reattached his purse to his belt and put his hand on his hips, jerking Caj’s mind from the little boy with a burned face and starving sister. Caj looked at Narm curiously. The grizzled old man in the black vest of an undertaker was scanning the fairgrounds as if looking for something, no… as if looking for someone. Narm snapped his head around at the sound of hooves clopping on flagstones. If Caj didn’t know better, he would’ve said that Narm was about to pounce on the incoming horses. Caj turned to see what had caused the suddenly gleeful, feral gleam in his companion’s eyes. About ten feet from them, pushing their way out of the throng and into the fairgrounds, five mounted officers of the City guard were trotting into the open space, and shaking off the crowds of the Central District like a duck shedding water. Every man wore a thin summer cloak, inscribed with the black and red shark that was the Mac’Niel family crest, now the crest of the duke of the sea, in the center of the backs of their yellow and white livery. every man had knots of rank hanging from their shoulders, and every man carried a gilded longsword and halberd. They moved with stately grace, sitting their mount’s like professionals. Suddenly Narm’s training bellow split the air directly beside him, sending Caj into a jump, immediately trying to identify what was wrong and needed to be rectified to avoid further discipline, but Narm’s words weren’t directed at him.

“Hey you!” Narm’s voice was like a whip, and all five of the men on horseback jumped too, ruining their show of grace. They all looked around anxiously. “Yes! You! In the gilded underclothes! No not you captain! The one with the claymore! Who’s sitting his horse like a sack of oats with sea-urchins under his backside!” The apparent leader of the group turned. He did indeed carry a claymore, in addition to his longsword and halberd. His brown hair was streaked with gray in large quantities, and his shoulder held five intricately woven knot’s, marking him as the Colonel in command of the guard. Caj’s stomach dropped. He knew whose face he was about to see before the man had even fully turned. Knew the man’s face just like any and every Child in Goldstern who had ever played at swords, and lord and lady as children. He had seen the face in a hundred charcoal drawings, and once or twice at a soldier’s funeral. The angular features, thin mouth, and hooked nose of Pietre Nolis, the Lord of Spears for the Duke of the Sea, the best swordsman this side of the continent, Commander of the City guard of Goldstern, as well as the fourth division of His Majesty’s Army, was looking directly at Narm and Caj. The man’s sigil of three crossed Harpoons skewered the air in their direction as much as his mismatched eyes, one green, and one brown. Those eyes did not look happy, sure as sure. Caj suddenly started worrying about Narm’s sanity again. And His life.