city, and stopped, leaning over the wall and looking down into the clear water that passed below. A boat drifted under the bridge, the pilot pushing it forward with a long pole which had been painted in green and red spirals running all along its length. He imagined that during busy times this would be one of the best ways to traverse from one side of the city to the other, but the city was quiet now, and whilst he didn't exactly have the bridge to himself, it certainly felt like it.
Rampton turned and walked on. Clean, he thought. And boring.
Shops lined the road; a vegetable seller with a stall outside the shop covered in a riot of colour; a baker from which the smells of baking bread drifted out through the open doors and down the street. Between them both sat a hat-maker. The latter's signage jutted out from the wall at the front of the building; a large carved beret-type hat with a feather, formed from more timber, poking out towards the back. As if there could be any mistaking the shop's purpose, the sign at the front said ''Milliner'', painted in bold black letters. Apparently, at least according to the smaller characters written at the bottom of the sign, this particular business was "By appointment to The Queen''. Not any more, he thought.
Houses faced the street along this road too. Rich, tall and neatly painted dwellings in pastel hues of blues and greens, cool and calm, as were the men and women that strolled in either direction over the bridge. Something was missing, though. No children played on the streets but they were here, walking, well-behaved children, carrying books or holding the hand of their parents together with their well-behaved siblings. In fact, he realised, there was a distinct lack of angry colours in everything he saw; there were no reds, oranges, or yellows in the buildings themselves, and only the vegetables in the window of the shop next door to the hat-maker shouted the loudest. He had seen enough and pressed on.
The street ended abruptly at an intersection and he stopped, looking up and down the road. If the directions that the owner of his lodgings had given him had been correct then he should turn left. Rampton carried on, around the bend and past more of the same houses and people, who, like the dwellings were calm and subdued. The news of the appointment of the new King had reached the streets, he knew, and then it struck him why they were the way that they were. They were worried. It was the calm of a people frightened for their futures, unsure of how a new ruler would change their lives for better or for worse. They meant to keep their heads down; attracting attention to themselves at this time of uncertainty could well lead to a dangerous future.
The White Horse tavern, the destination of his journey, came into view. Emperor Frederick had said that Marek used the taverns in the city, so this would be a good place to start, and when all was said and done, it was the only lead that he had so he had no option but to follow it. The outside of the alehouse was not like any that he had been in before. It had been well kept for a start, and the stonework was prim and proper, the pointing between the stones sharp and recent. On the front of the building hung the sign: a well painted white horse on a green background, raising itself off the ground on its back legs.
Rampton carried on, looking up and down the road, trying to glean some sort of feeling as to the kind of person that Marek might be. In truth he had no idea who he was looking for but he hoped that his gut would tell him. So far, at least though, it was telling him nothing.
As he pushed his way through the door to the inn, the few voices that he could hear stopped and the heads of the patrons turned to see who it was that had disturbed them. He had been in this position before, and personal experience told him that it was probably not him in particular that they had a problem with but rather who it might have been. Suspicion, it seemed, went hand in hand with the new order that had cast a shadow over the city of White Haven. Or at least it would do until the people felt safe again.
No patrons stood at the bar and the keeper was busy with a towel, wiping the glass tankards, holding them up to the light to check that he had removed all the specks of dust and smears from the cleaning. Glass was expensive back home in Highport, so either it was cheap here, or there was plenty of money to be had, and by the looks of the things he had seen on the way here it would most likely be the latter.
Rampton made his way across to the bar and waited for the barkeep to finish his task. A moment passed, then the man placed the towel and vessel down on the counter top before making his way over.
The barkeep looked at Rampton and smiled, cocking his head to one side.
'What would you like?' he asked, as he waited for Rampton's order.
'Anything,' Rampton said. 'Mead?'
The keep nodded and grabbed the same tankard that he had been working on when Rampton arrived. He stepped across to the barrels lined up against the wall behind the bar and pulled out the stopper from the filling pipe. The amber liquid bubbled as it filled the vessel and Rampton watched it with anticipation, licking his lips. Once the tankard was full, the barkeep replaced the stopper and brought over the drink.
Rampton placed some coins onto the counter top and picked up the jug. He raised it to the man behind the bar.
'Your good health,' he said.
The man nodded. 'Get you anything else?'
'No,' Rampton said, and he raised the glass to his mouth taking a deep drink. It was good. When he had taken enough, he placed the half-empty vessel back on the surface of the counter. 'Actually, yes,' he said.
The barkeep leaned on the bar, his arms wide apart as if he was about to begin some sort of exercise regime.
'I have a question.'
'Go on,' the man said.
'Have you ever heard of someone called Colen Marek?'
The barkeep pulled a face, frowning as he seemed to be thinking about the name.
'A man?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'Is that his real name?'
'I don't know,' Rampton replied.
'What does he look like?'
'I don't know.'
'But you're sure he's in White Haven?'
Rampton smirked. 'I don't know.'
'And you know no more about this man?'
'No.'
'Then good luck with your search, my friend.'
The barkeep turned his back on Rampton and walked over to where he had placed the towel, picking it up. He reached down below the counter and pulled out another glass tankard, identical to the first, and stuffed the end of the towel into it, turning it to clean the inside.
Great! Rampton sighed, and lifted his vessel to take the rest of his drink in one go and he swallowed hard. He looked around the faces of the other patrons but aside from a couple of groups chatting away to the side of the tavern no one paid him any heed.
'And you're definitely sure, you don't know of this man?' he said once more to the man behind the bar.
The barkeep looked over at Rampton and shrugged, shaking his head at the same time.
'Sorry, friend,' he said.
oOo
The door to the tavern banged closed behind Rampton as he stepped out onto the street. He pulled his jerkin down over the top of his trousers. What a piss-take, he told himself. Still, as far as he knew, and certainly according to the instructions of the barkeep, it wasn't far to the next tavern. There was one consolation, though, and it was that even if he could not find this Marek character then he would at least get a good drinking session out of all of this.
He looked up and down the street; there were a few more people around but they too seemed quiet and sullen, just like those he had seen earlier. The road ran away in a gentle slope, towards the canal bridge that he would have to cross to get to the next watering hole and he set off in its direction.
Almost all of the buildings in White Haven seemed to be crammed against the street edge itself or else up against a narrow flagstone walkway that served as a pavement. There were very few alleys between the buildings to break up the frontage but where they did exist they seemed typical of all such features; dark and uninviting.
He continued on alo
ng the street towards the bridge and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Something in the back of his mind told him to glance around. Was that a figure he saw diving into that last alley? He felt sure it was. It couldn't have been his imagination. He could not be that wrong, he told himself, after all, he had only had one drink.
Rampton turned to his right and darted towards the nearest building, doubling back towards the entry to the alleyway where he thought he saw the figure disappear. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, waiting. If he was being followed then before too long his tracker would have to show his face or risk losing him as he made his way to his next destination.
It was only a moment or two before a head popped out, and the man's eyes opened wide in surprise, he was clearly not expecting to see Rampton standing there.
Rampton smiled at the man. 'If you wanted to talk to me you only had to ask.'
The man smirked at him, and looked down at his feet, sheepishly. 'You're good,' he said, 'I'll give you that.'
'I'm just the suspicious type,' Rampton replied. 'If you are following me, then perhaps you might have the common decency to tell me what it is you want?'
'Who says I want anything from you?' the man said.
'Well, if you mean to rob me then feel free. You're quite welcome to keep any coins you find but you'll be hard pressed to get anything worth taking.'
'I don't mean to rob you,' the man replied. His dark-brown eyes, looked back at