Its lower walls were made of thick, strong stone every bit as sturdy as a watchtower’s, and its upper stories were well-fitted hardwood, with beam-ends carved into leaping dolphins and vigilant hounds—images of commerce and good fortune. Sergen Hulmaster glanced up as his coach rolled under the expensive carvings overhead; there was a gold dragon’s head over the front door that he liked best of all. In the fading afternoon light it took on a striking orange gleam. “We’re here, Lord Hulmaster,” his driver said. The coachman reined in the team, and Sergen’s footman hopped down to hold open the door for him. Two Council Watch guards who rode on the coach’s running boards climbed down and arranged themselves on either side, ready to fall in and escort him. The watchmen looked competent and crisp in black tabards over breastplates of browned iron. They might not have been a match for the professional sellswords Veruna and the other companies employed, or even the harmach’s Shieldsworn, but Sergen intended to remedy that soon enough.
