Aster Wood and the Lost Maps of Almara (Book 1) by J. B. Cantwell Page B

side of us and ran his free hand over the stone walls. “Probably in the city of Stonemore.”
    I looked down the alley towards the street beyond.
    “But how do you know?”
    “I don’t,” he said. “But I’ve seen a schematic like this before. It is likely.” He held the page close to his face, examining each line. “That’s where the next link hides,” he said, pointing at the circle.  
    I began to brush the dirt from my own clothes, but he stopped me.
    “No, stay dirty. Your clothes are already unusual. You’ll blend in better with a little dirt on ‘em. Ready?”
    I folded the map, tucking it into my pocket next to the spell page, and we began to cautiously make our way out to the city beyond. We stayed back, hidden in the shadows, just close enough to observe the bustling lane before joining the foot traffic. This was a busy place. Women walked past the alley carrying bushels of wheat and fruit, children skipping along in their wake. The hooves of enormous horses clacked against the stone; some drew smart coaches, some open carriages carrying items for trade. It looked like a town on Earth from a thousand years ago.
    Aside from the nerves I felt at being in a strange place, again, I was mostly relieved at what I saw. These people were busy going about the daily chores of life. Women chased small children that went astray, scooping them up out of harm’s way whenever a horse passed by. Men and women alike hauled provisions through the streets, some headed for the market, some for home. Shopkeepers with empty shops stood in their doorways watching the crowds amble by, waiting for business. Hopefully nobody would notice our presence here at all. We might be able to slip right through this place, none being the wiser.
    Kiron lead me out into the lane and I resisted the impulse to keep my hand on the blade of the ax. I was a stranger, yes, but would they notice? As I walked I found that, for the most part, they seemed not to. Kiron pretended he knew exactly where he was going, so all I really had to do was keep up and try not to draw attention to myself. I tried to keep my pace at the same time casual and purposeful. If I ran, they would see me. If I gawked, they would see me. If I kept the pace, as they did, I would be, hopefully, invisible.  
    Well, almost invisible. The occasional child stopped and pointed in my direction, tugging at the skirt of his mother to look. What was it? I looked down at myself, and back up at the passersby. My clothes? My boots? My hair? That had to be it. Most of the people here had dark hair; the lightest I saw was a medium brown. And here I was with a mop of white-blond, bursting through like a flashlight in the dark. The adults didn’t seem to notice or care, though, so I continued forward and made a note to rub some dirt into it at the earliest opportunity.  
    People and horses traveled every which way on the lane, but the majority of them were headed in a single direction. We followed the crowd silently, towards what I didn’t know. I studied the city around me. Aside from the roofs of the dwellings and shops, all the buildings here were made entirely of the same mottled, gray stone. Decoration, or color of any sort, was sparse on the storefronts. Either they didn’t care for such embellishment or they didn’t have the means for such things; the grimy, gray dress of the citizens around me made me suspect the latter. These people weren’t living in squalor, though, and aside from the occasional child with muddy cheeks, most faces were scrubbed clean.  
    My eyes scanned the facades as I walked for any sign of Almara, but I found nothing. On one side of the street in front of a small shop, a butcher was cutting fish on a long table. Perched on his shoulder, a small gray tabby cat watched the scene with interest, waiting for the right moment to make his move. A small group of children were gathered around the man, absorbed as he chopped off head after head of the day’s