I WAS MORE ALERT NOW than ever, and as I rode through Lan Shui, I tried to take stock of the town. Though the wall was poorly kept up, it was manned, with several archers pacing its length. But though the guards looked alert and wary, they were few. It would have been easy to slip past them unnoticed, if that was the aim. It gave the air that this town was wary and watchful, but was unused to being either.

Armored soldiers walked the town’s streets as well, but they wore neither the king’s livery nor the red armor of constables. I guessed they were locals, pressed into service to guard the town. But against what? Had the Shades passed this way? Or had some rumor of their coming reached these people? I could think of no other threat that would have put them so on edge. But I saw some people weeping in doorways and in alleys, clearly in mourning.

“What has happened here?” I said, hardly meaning to speak the words aloud.

“In many places across Dorsea may be found the consequences of war,” said Mag.

“Yet Dorsea makes war on no one but Selvan these days,” I said. “And this town is far from those battles.”

“It must have something to do with the Shades, then.”

I shook my head. “If that were the case, and the town had been attacked, Yue would never have let us in.”

“Then guess at the answer yourself, if you are so wise,” grumbled Mag. “One thing we told Yue was the truth: I want a bed to sleep in, and quickly.”

We had a fair bit of coin on us—with the excellence of Mag’s ale, she had never wanted for money—and so we asked after the Sunspear and found it before long. Its sign hung over the door, a spear thrusting up with a red-rayed sun in the background. I glanced at the spear on Mag’s saddle and bit my tongue. A girl at the stables took our horses, and we purchased dinner in the common room for a handful of pennies. The food and ale were fine enough, but I found myself longing for Sten’s cooking and Mag’s brew.

Before we had finished eating, an old man walked into the common room. There were only a handful of people there aside from the two of us, but they all looked up eagerly. The man’s eyes were grey and blind with age, and he picked his way through the room with a walking stick. One patron quickly moved a chair from his path to ensure he would not strike it as he walked. Though the top of his head was entirely bald, he had thick, bushy grey brows and a long grey beard down to his waist. He wore deep blue clothes in a common Dorsean style, with a shirt that tied at the side and loose trousers collected at the ankle. Despite his stooped figure and slow walk, his lips curved in a smile that seemed nearly permanent.

The old man sat on a small platform near the unlit hearth, sitting with his legs folded and his walking stick across his knees. A barman appeared beside him with a bowl of broth and a cup that looked to be filled with wine. The old man took a few sips of the broth and a deep swig of the wine, and then settled himself on the platform. I noticed that he had not paid for the meal.

And then he leaned back, lifted his head, and began to sing.

From the very first notes, I knew I was in the presence of a master. Here was a man who had been singing—and, unless I missed my guess, telling tales—for decades before I was even born. Though his frame was diminutive, his voice was thick and powerful, and I could feel it thrumming in the wooden chair upon which I sat.

He sang some songs I knew by heart, and others I had never heard before. He sang some songs I knew, but to strange tunes, and some songs with new words, but set to tunes that were as old as the hills. I had to keep reminding myself to eat, for I kept staring at him, spellbound by the sound of his voice and his effortless command of melody. I was not the only one. All conversation in the common room ceased as everyone listened to the old man. Mag, who had far less appreciation for song and story than I, was yet as entranced as I was. Though the man sang alone and without any instrument, it seemed to me that I could almost hear a troupe behind him: a pipe and a lute and one steady, thudding bodhran.

After mayhap a quarter hour, the man subsided into silence and reached again for his broth and wine. I shook myself as if waking from a dream and turned back to my stew. It had very nearly gone cold.

“That was astounding,” I said, surprised at the reverence in my own voice.

Mag smiled at me. “Sky above, you look jealous. I always said you would have made a better bard than a mercenary.”

I pointed my spoon at her. “That was not a compliment when you first said it, and it is not a compliment now. Where would you be if I had pursued a life in a king’s court, and had not been there to look after you?”

Her eyebrows shot for the ceiling. “Oh, I would surely have perished long ago,” she said, straining mightily to hide the joke in her voice.

“And do not forget it.” I glanced over my shoulder at the old man, who was still resting before he resumed singing. “Besides, it is hard to say that I should have been a great and renowned bard when in the presence of one who deserves the honor so much more.”

“If you are so enchanted with the man, go and speak to him,” said Mag, chuckling.

“In fact, I think I shall,” I told her. “And not just for my own entertainment. We want information, and who better to give it to us than a man who tells tales for his supper?”

So saying, I stood and went across the room to sit beside the old man. He heard me coming, and his head tilted up as he listened to my footsteps approach. His milky eyes looked just over my left shoulder, and I smiled, entirely forgetting he could not see the expression.

“Greetings, friend,” I said. “I wished to give you my praise for your songs, and your voice. I have rarely heard a singer so fine.”

“Rarely?” said the old man. His grin revealed a few missing teeth in the back. “I am losing my touch, then. I must work harder until it becomes ‘never.’ But I thank you for your kind words.”

I chuckled and pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “That would be a tall order. I have traveled to many lands and been in many fine courts of nobility.”

The old man’s bushy brows rose. “Courtly bards,” he scoffed. “If you ask me, they are limited in skill to the moment when some foolish noble hires them. They think they were hired for the songs and stories they already know, and so they never bother to learn any more.”

“That is an interesting thought, and I am somewhat glad to hear it,” I said, smiling still wider. “I sometimes think I should have become a bard, but if it would have stunted my skill, I am glad I never did.”

He laughed at that, and then he held out his hand. I grasped his wrist and shook firmly.

“They call me Dryleaf here in this town,” he said.

“And what do they call you elsewhere?” He smiled and did not answer. “I am Albern of the family Telfer.”

“Telfer?” he said, cocking his head. “From Calentin then, are you?”

That made my heart skip a beat. Of the many people I had met across the nine kingdoms, only a handful had ever recognized the name Telfer. Even when they did, it was rare they could place the kingdom it came from.

I tried to speak easily, passing off the moment of hesitation. “I am indeed,” I told him. “But you do not look like a man from my homeland.”

“Nor am I,” he said. “I am from everywhere, as they say. In my day I was a wandering peddler who roamed all over the nine kingdoms. But one day my eyes went”—he pointed to the milky white orbs—“and once they started going bad, it happened fast. I was on my way north, but I was injured crossing the Blackwind just outside this town—I had an uppity horse, and it threw me, and my leg broke. It was not such a bad injury, but old bones are slower to heal. By the time I was ready to ride again, my traveling days were over. Since then, I have waited for anyone traveling to Selvan, hoping I could beg to come along, but the opportunity has never presented itself. It must be … three years now? Lan Shui does not lie on any of the great roads that cross Underrealm. We rarely see travelers at all—and even more rarely, lately.”

His mention of Selvan dampened my mood. Even now, the Shades would be pursuing Loren through the Birchwood, and I doubted anyone who lived there was safe. I thought to myself that it was a good thing Dryleaf had never reached his destination. Sometimes fate is kind in cruel ways.

But the last thing he had said caught my attention. “I thought something seemed amiss when I came here. Why is everyone so afraid? We were questioned quite closely by the constable when we arrived.”

“Yue, you mean?” said Dryleaf. “She is a good sort, if a bit stern. But if she let you in, you will have seen that for yourself.”

I noticed that he had deftly avoided answering my question. “A good sort indeed. But why did she suspect us so?”

Dryleaf pursed his lips and nodded a few times, as though bobbing his head in time to some beat I could not hear. His bushy brows had drawn close together. “I am not so sure I should speak of it,” he said. “After all, you are a stranger, if an exceedingly polite one. Some strangers are folk of pure intent, but others are less so.”

“And have you met any of the latter sort?” I asked. “Anyone in the town who seems not to have the best interest of the people at heart?”

He shook his head, but he did it with a little smile. “I am sorry, but I will not say more. Not yet. If you remain here for a while, we might discuss matters in more detail. But for now I think it is best if you look to yourself, and I do the same.” He shifted where he sat and reached for his meal. “And now, if you will forgive me, I must have a few bites before I get back to what earns my meal. I wish you well, and I hope we speak again.”

Despite his courtesy, the end of the conversation came so abruptly that I felt myself at a loss for a moment. Yet it seemed clear that I would glean nothing more from him just now, so I politely excused myself and returned to Mag.