The carriage wheels came to a halt.
Alaric reached for the black cloak folded beside him on the seat.
He fastened it at his neck. Drew the hood up partway, enough to shadow his features without looking suspicious.
The door opened. He stepped down.
"Wait here."
He instructed coachman.
The man nodded. "Yes, young master."
Alaric turned away. Let himself be swallowed by the crowd.
Trade in Gramwell flowed through specific channels. Official channels. And those channels left records.
The Trade Registry sat two streets over from the main square. A squat stone building that handled all of that.
He pushed through the heavy door. The interior was dim after the bright afternoon. Smelled of old parchment and ink.
A clerk sat behind a desk.
"How may I help you?"
Alaric approached. Kept his posture humble.
