“Now then,” said Wren. “I understand you want to join my company specifically. Why?”

  Murtagh straightened further. “Everyone says it’s the best in the city, sir. And I’d like to be of some use again, aside from just guarding caravans.”

  “Very commendable of you. Gert seemed impressed with your swordsmanship, and it takes a lot to pry a compliment out of that old goat. He also says you have some experience. So tell me, Task, where did you serve?”

  It was a question with many meanings, and they both knew it. Murtagh noted that the captain had been careful not to ask with whom. “At the Battle of the Burning Plains,” he said quietly. “And I were also at Ilirea when it fell.”

  Wren nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the vellum. As Murtagh had expected, the captain didn’t inquire further. Most of the men in Galbatorix’s army had been conscripts forced to swear oaths of loyalty to the king in the ancient language. Since the king’s death, and since Eragon had used the Name of Names to break those oaths, the many thousands of soldiers had been free to pick their own path. The majority returned to their homes. But a significant portion opted to continue their profession as men-at-arms, and Nasuada’s current regime was not so well established that they could afford to turn away so many trained men.

  Besides, there were plenty of people throughout Nasuada’s realm who still held sympathies for the Empire and who regarded the Varden with no small amount of ill will. It was possible that such was the case with the captain.

  Either way, it would have been impolitic for Wren to press for more details as to Murtagh’s past service. Knowing that, Murtagh had avoided mentioning his presence at the Battle of Tronjheim, for the only notable human forces there had been among the Varden, whereas humans had fought on both sides at the Burning Plains and Ilirea.

  Captain Wren said, “How were you trained?”

  “As a footman, but I’m better with a blade than a spear or pike, and I’m more than passable with a bow.”

  The captain nodded, making another note. “And why are you looking to serve again, Task? Yes, you wish to be of use. But why now? I assume you’ve not marched under a banner since Ilirea.”

  “No, sir…I wanted to see my family. I’m from a village called Cantos, in the south. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it….”

  Wren shook his head. “I can’t say I have.”

  “Well, it’s not a big place, sir. Or, it wasn’t. There weren’t much left of it when I got there.” Cantos had been the village Galbatorix had ordered Murtagh to burn, raze, and eradicate; he’d fled before obeying, but he knew the king would have found someone to commit the crime all the same.

  “I see. I’m sorry to hear that, Task.”

  Murtagh shrugged. “It were a hard war, sir.”

  At that, a flicker of some indefinable emotion appeared in Wren’s eyes. “That it was, Task. That it was.” The captain leaned back in his chair and gave Murtagh a thoughtful look. “Have you any of your old kit?”

  Murtagh gestured at his bedroll. “A shirt of fine mail, sir, but that’s all.”

  “It’s better than most, Task. There are some required items you will have to purchase of your own, but with your reward for Muckmaw, you have more than sufficient funds. The rest of your equipment can be provided, assuming…”

  Murtagh cocked his head. “Assuming what, sir?”

  Wren rested his elbows on the desk and placed one gnarled hand over the other. “If you’re serious about joining my company, Task, you’ll have to swear fealty to the queen, to Lord Relgin, and to this unit, with myself as its commander. Do you understand?”

  A sick feeling formed in Murtagh’s stomach, and the back of his neck went cold. I should have realized. Something of his reaction must have shown, because Wren’s expression hardened. “Is that a problem for you, Task?” He picked up his quill again.

  “That depends, sir. Does the queen require swearing in this tongue or…or…”

  Wren’s expression cleared. “Ah, I take your meaning. No, the queen does not believe in enforced loyalty. After all, a man’s word should be an unbreakable bond, no matter what language he speaks. One’s honor and reputation are more valuable than the greatest of riches, as I’m sure you agree.”

  “Yes, sir.” Murtagh couldn’t help but think of his own reputation among the common folk, and he suppressed a grimace.

  The corner of Wren’s mouth quirked in a partial smile. “Of course, the reality isn’t always as pure or shining as the ideal, but we must trust in the goodness of our fellow men. And we must allow them to make what mistakes they will, without corralling them with magical enforcement.”

  What are you playing at? Murtagh wondered. It sounded as if Wren were criticizing, if only indirectly, the means and methods of Du Vrangr Gata. Or perhaps he was trying to assess Murtagh’s own sympathies. Which reinforced his impression of the captain being a cautious, clever man.

  “In that case, sir, I’ll be happy to swear.” He wouldn’t be, and wasn’t, but Murtagh couldn’t see a way to avoid it.

  “Excellent,” said Wren, and started to shuffle through the sheets of parchment on the desk. “Pay is given on the twenty-first of every month. For that, you’ll have to see Gert. Leave is subject to our duties, but normally you will have every fifth day to yourself, and harvest days and queen’s celebrations are divided among the company. Someone has to stand watch, but you are guaranteed leave for at least half those days.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Again, Murtagh found his gaze drawn to the masks on the wall, as if their empty eyes contained secrets worth learning. There was something odd about the masks that he couldn’t quite identify; looking at them was like looking at objects through a slightly warped mirror.

  Wren noticed his interest. “Ah. You find my humble collection interesting, do you?”

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like those masks before,” Murtagh confessed.

  The captain seemed pleased. “Indeed. They’re not easily found in Alagaësia. It took me over ten years to acquire these few. The masks are made by the nomads who frequent the grasslands. Their artisans produce all sorts of arcane objects that are unknown to the rest of us.”

  “They seem quite lifelike, in a curious sort of way,” said Murtagh.

  Wren’s eyes brightened. “Oh, it’s more than that, Task. Look.” He reached out and pulled a mask from the wall, the one carved in the likeness of a bear. Wren placed it over his face, and in that instant, his appearance shifted and warped, and he seemed to swell in size—shoulders widening, growing sloped and heavy and shaggy—and the mask moved with his face as if it were made of flesh and bone, and not wood, and an overpowering sense of presence made Murtagh fall back a step. It was as if the essence of bear had enveloped Wren, burying the man beneath a bestial cloak.

  Then the captain pulled the mask away, and the impression vanished. Once again, he was just a man sitting at a desk, holding a wooden mask in his twisted hand.

  “That…What is that, sir?” said Murtagh.

  Wren chuckled and rehung the bear mask. “A powerful glamour, Task. I don’t know why the tribes make them, but I can tell you they’re not for hunting. Animals react quite badly if they see you wearing one of the masks. Dogs and horses especially. They go mad with fear.”

  “I see, sir.”

  Wren went back to searching the contents of his desk and, after a moment, produced a sheet of parchment covered with lines of runes. “Ah, there we are.” He rang a small brass bell and then dipped his quill in the inkpot. “Let’s see. Task Ivorsson, was it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain was already writing the name on the parchment. It was a form; Murtagh could read some of the upside-down words, but he pretended otherwise. A common foot soldier wouldn’t be likely to know his letters.

  The door to the study opened, and a young guard entered. At first glance, he reminded Murtagh of a friendly, overeager hound: jowly and red-cheeked, with a shock of straw-colored hair and a ready smile. “You wanted me, sir?”

  “I do, Esvar. Task here is joining our merry band, and I need you to stand witness.”

  Esvar saluted and stood at attention next to Murtagh. “Sir, yes sir!”

  Wren gave him a tolerant smile. Then he read from the parchment. It was a contract outlining Murtagh’s responsibilities to the company and the company’s responsibilities to him. He barely listened; he was familiar with the terms. What bothered him was the part to follow….

  “—and make your mark here,” said Wren, handing him the quill and pointing to a blank spot near the bottom of the parchment.

  Murtagh drew an X.

  “Good. Now, Esvar.”

  Murtagh passed the quill to the young guardsman, who also made an X on the contract.

  “Excellent,” said Wren, and took back the quill and signed the parchment himself. Only he used runes; the captain had had a noble’s upbringing and education, Murtagh guessed. Or that of a particularly well-off merchant.

  Then Wren placed his knotted fist over his heart, and Murtagh followed suit. And the captain said, “Repeat after me. I, Task Ivorsson, do hereby swear—”

  Murtagh’s voice caught in his throat, and it was only with conscious effort—and not a small one—that he was able to obey: “I, Task Ivorsson, do hereby swear—”

  “—my fealty to Queen Nasuada—”

  “—my fealty to Queen Nasuada—”

  “—and to Lord Relgin—”

  “—and to Lord Relgin—”

  “—and to the city guards of Gil’ead, as commanded by Captain Wren.”

  “—and to the city guards of Gil’ead, as commanded by Captain Wren.”

  “And I swear to uphold all laws and orders—”

  “And I swear to uphold all laws and orders—”

  “—such as I am subject to as a member of this force.”

  “—such as I am subject to as a member of this force.”

  The captain smiled, showing his strong, straight teeth, and extended his crooked hand. “Welcome to the company, Task. You’re one of us now.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Murtagh said, forcing the words past the constriction in his throat.

  “Esvar will get you settled into the barracks, and then he’ll see to it that you’re properly kitted out.” Wren gave the guardsman a mock-stern look. “Do see that he’s kitted out, Esvar.”

  “Yessir!”

  “Oh, and, Task, do you know if you have any wards on you? Charms against magical attacks or a spear to the skull? That sort of thing.”

  “Not that I know of, sir, but then, how would I know?” Murtagh hoped the answer was vague enough to save him trouble later on.

  Wren waved a hand. “No matter. We’ll see to it that you’re charmed up tomorrow. I can’t have my men walking around vulnerable to the slightest piece of magic.”

  Startled, Murtagh said, “You have a spellcaster in your ranks, sir?”

  “Hardly,” said Wren. “We coordinate with Du Vrangr Gata. Their magicians provide wards for everyone who follows the queen’s standard.”

  “I see. Thank you, sir.”

  Wren waved a hand. “That will be all, Task. Dismissed.”

  CHAPTER IX

  Uniforms

  “The captain’s hands, have they always been—”

  “You don’t ask about the captain’s hands,” Esvar said firmly. “Not unless you want Gert to beat the tar out of your hide.”

  “That’s good to know. Thanks.”

  Esvar gave a companionable nod and pointed toward the far barracks as they exited the stone tower. “Thatwise is where we’re headed.”

  The yard had emptied during Murtagh’s interview with Captain Wren, and the shadows had shrunk beneath the midday sun. Someone had removed the cart with Muckmaw’s head.

  Murtagh glanced at the deep blue sky. It had been only a few hours, but he already missed Thorn. They were too far apart to easily exchange thoughts, and he didn’t want to risk shouting with his mind when there were those within Gil’ead who might notice. I hope he’s safe. He could barely feel his connection with Thorn—just enough to know that Thorn was alive and not in pain.

  Esvar gestured at the yard and the high fortress wall that backed the compound. “This all is ours. Captain Irven has command of the other half of the guard, at the grounds ’cross the fortress, but this here is Captain Wren’s fiefdom.”

  “Do the captains get along?” Murtagh asked.

  “Not hardly. But that’s all right. Lord Relgin favors our captain, so you chose the right company, Task.”

  “I’m just glad to be one of you.”

  Esvar laughed. “Say now, you killed Muckmaw! No one in their right mind would turn you away.”

  Murtagh made as if he were embarrassed. “I got lucky, but thanks. So have you been part of the guard for long?”

  Esvar beamed with pride. “Two months, an’ I’ve loved every day of it, even the drilling. Even the standing watch, though it does get mighty miserable when it’s raining.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “An’ where do you hail from? Your tone’s not from around here.”

  “Far to the south,” said Murtagh as they entered the barracks. It was a long, half-domed room with rows of cots, each with a wooden chest at the foot. A number of men were on the cots, playing runes, napping, or oiling their boots. Shields hung on the walls, and a rack of pikes and spears stood by the door. At the back of the barracks, as Carabel had said, was a stone archway and, through it, a staircase that led down into darkness.

  That’s where I need to go. But finding an opportunity was going to be difficult. Either the barracks would have to be empty or he’d have to wait until the men were asleep.

  A knot of anxiety twisted within Murtagh’s gut. Would Silna even still be in the compound by the end of the day? He could always try to ambush any group that left the enclosed grounds, but he had no means of knowing all the ways in and out, and in any case, an open attack would make further subterfuge impossible.

  He was tempted to reach out with his mind, to see if he could detect Silna’s consciousness underneath them, but he resisted the urge. There were too many people around, any one of whom might notice the touch of his thoughts.

  Esvar walked him through the room, introducing him to the men, who varied from friendly to standoffish to outright hostile. But they all wanted to hear the story of how he’d caught Muckmaw, and Murtagh found himself regaling them with the same account he’d given Captain Wren. The men seemed well enough impressed, but they followed up with plenty of comments about the state of his clothes, or else joked about him being fish food. He accepted the remarks with good grace, for he knew who he was. A certain amount of ribbing and gibing was normal for an outsider. Until he proved himself, the men wouldn’t trust him.

  Of course, he wasn’t going to be there long enough to prove himself. For some reason, the thought caused him an obscure sense of regret.

  Three-quarters of the way through the room, Esvar stopped by an empty cot. “You can bunk here for now. If’n Gert or the captain likes you, y’ can request a change, but I wouldn’t bother were I you. It doesn’t serve to be too close to the front; someone or other is always getting up in th’ night to visit the privy.”

  That could be a problem, Murtagh thought. He glanced around as he dropped his bedroll on the cot. “Where does that go?” he asked, pointing at the archway at the back.

  “Down t’ the catacombs,” said Esvar.

  “There are catacombs?” Murtagh said, feigning surprise.

  Esvar bobbed his head. “Oh yes. We use ’em for all sorts. The captain an’ the other officers meet down there every week, an’ we use ’em for storing supplies an’ such.”

  “I see.”

  A doleful expression formed on Esvar’s face. “It’s not so nice. Th’ catacombs are dark an’ full of spiders, an’ the captain insists that we keep watch on th’ storerooms. He says no fighting force is prepared ’less they know their weapons an’ supplies are secured.”

  “The captain sounds like a wise man.” Privately, Murtagh cursed Wren’s cautious nature. It wasn’t going to make it easy to find out what was behind the closed door.

  “That he is!” said Esvar. “An’ speaking of supplies, I ought t’ get you your kit. Thisways!”

  Murtagh hoped the younger man might take him down into the catacombs, but instead Esvar headed back out of the barracks and led him toward a small storehouse set against the fortress’s outer wall.

  Esvar was still talking; he never seemed to stop. “The catacombs were built ages ago. They say it were the elves that first quarried ’neath here, but I’ve never seen no elf digging in the ground or cutting stone. But Gil’ead has more ’an its share of history, yes it does. Right on th’ other side of that wall is where Morzan an’ his dragon were killed, near on twenty years ago.” He gave Murtagh a wide-eyed look. “It were before my time, but my ma, she says the whole city shook, and there were fire and flames and lightning like a great storm.”

  Cold tingles ran up Murtagh’s arms. Right through there, he thought, staring at the wall. That’s where his father had died while trying to track down the dragon egg—Saphira’s egg—that the Varden had stolen from Galbatorix.

  Esvar seemed encouraged by Murtagh’s expression. “It’s true! A magician came to Gil’ead an’ challenged Morzan to a duel. No one knows his name, only that he wore a hooded cape and carried a wizard’s staff, like in th’ stories.”

  “I wonder who it was.” But Murtagh knew: Brom. The old man had lost his dragon during the fall of the Riders, but he had still been a clever spellcaster. Not clever enough to ward off the Ra’zac’s dagger, though.

  Esvar shrugged. “Probably one of the Varden. Or maybe a sorcerer from th’ plains. Captain Wren says nomads know all sorts of magic.”