The farmer's cart slows to a stop and he nudges his boy. "We're home, son. Wake up. Make yerself useful and start unpacking, ya hear?"
Jervin, who is not asleep, slowly climbs down off the wagon. He had sorted it all out in his head on the ride home and had determined that the only thing in this area worth having a map of is the mines, not more than a couple hundred yards east of his family's farm. Which made sense. Riders had been passing almost daily lately. Soldiers, mostly. All headed toward the mines. He wasn't sure what the big fuss was, but he knew it had to be big. Word was that the Merchant Prince himself was due to arrive any day to deal specifically with the matter.
And now someone who had a map of those mines was very likely dead. Very likely because of that map. His fourteen years had taught him enough. When items exchange hands at the price of blood, blame soldiers of fortune. When that's not as obvious as it seems, blame the government. And sometimes, blame both.
"Coming, father."
