None of which had anything to do with Walker’s primary reason for choosing to come here rather than to one of a dozen other shipbuilding ports along the coast. What brought him to March Brume was the nature of the shipbuilders and designers who occupied the seaport—Rovers, a people universally disliked and distrusted, wanderers for the whole of their history, who even as mostly permanent residents still came and went from the seaport whenever the urge struck. Not only were they the most skilled and reliable of those engaged in shipbuilding and flying, but they accepted work from all quarters and they understood the importance of keeping a bargain and a confidence once engaged.
Walker was about to test the truth of this generally held belief. His instincts and his long association with Rovers persuaded him that it was his best option. His cousin, the Elven Queen Wren Elessedil, had been raised by Rovers as a child and taught the survival skills that had kept her alive when she had journeyed to the doomed island of Morrowindl to recover the lost Elven people. Rovers had aided various members of Walker’s family over the years, and he had found them tough, dependable, and resourceful. Like him, they were wanderers. Like him, they were outcasts and loners. Even living in settled communities, as many of them were doing now, they remained mostly isolated from other peoples.
This was fine with Walker. The less open and more secretive his dealings in this matter, the better. He did not think for a moment that he could keep secret for long either his presence or his purpose. The Ilse Witch would be seeking to discover both. Sooner or later, she would succeed.
Hunter Predd managed a fire in the crumbling hearth of the old trapper’s cabin, and they slept the night in mostly dry surroundings. At dawn, Walker gave the Wing Rider orders to replace their dwindling provisions and to wait for his return from the village. He might be gone for several days, he cautioned, so the Wing Rider shouldn’t be concerned if he did not reappear right away.
The day had cleared somewhat, the rain turned to a cold, damp mist that clung to the forests and cliffs like a shroud, and the skies brightened sufficiently to permit a hazy glimpse of the sun through banks of heavy gray clouds. Walker navigated the woods until he found a trail, then the trail until it led to a road, and followed the road into the village. March Brume was a collection of sodden gray buildings, with the residences set back from the shoreline toward the woods, and the shipyards and docks set closer to the water. The sounds of building rose in a din above the crash of waves, a steady mix of hammers and saws punctuated by the hiss of steam rising from hot iron hauled from the forge and by the shouts and curses of the laborers. The village was crowded and active, residents and visitors alike clogging the streets and alleys, going about their business in the damp and gloom in remarkably cheerful fashion.
Walker, wrapped in his cloak to hide his missing arm, was not remarkable enough to draw attention. People of all sorts came and went in March Brume, and where a Rover population dominated, it was best to mind your own business.
The Druid moved unhurriedly toward the docks through the businesses at the center of town. Federation soldiers dressed in silver and black uniforms lounged about while waiting to take delivery of their orders. There were Freeborn soldiers, as well, not so obvious or bold in revealing their presence, but come to March Brume for the same reason. It was odd, the Druid thought, that they would shop at the same store as if it were the most natural thing in the world, when in any other situation they would attack each other on sight.
He found the man he was looking for in a marketplace toward the south end of the village, not far from the beginnings of the docks and building yards. He was a scarecrow dressed in brilliant but tattered scarlet robes. He was so thin that when he braced himself against the occasional gusts of wind that blew in off the water, he seemed to bend like a reed. A wisp of black beard trailed from his pointed chin, and his dark hair hung long and unkempt about his narrow face. A vivid red scar ran from hairline to chin, crossing the bridge of his broken nose like a fresh lash mark. He stood just off the path of the traffic passing the stalls, close by a fountain, head cocked in a peculiarly upward tilted fashion, as if searching for guidance from the clouded skies. One hand held forth a metal cup, and the other gestured toward passersby with a fervor that suggested you ignored him at your peril.