“I know.”
“It may be several days before he appears.”
“I know.”
“He won’t want to be caught,” the gnome added worriedly. “He’s got to know the city council will hang him if they get their hands on him.”
“I know,” Ulin said. He finished wrapping a sash belt around his waist and put his hands on Notwen’s shoulders. “I’ll be careful, and I’ll have you to watch my back.” He slid the rose glasses over his nose and tucked several small packets into the folds of his belt. When he was ready, they doused the single candle, closed the door, and headed for the Golden Carp.
A black night had settled over the river when they approached the gangplank. A narrow ramp had been tied to the bank and extended to the upper deck of the boat. Ulin saw now that the boat was really a barge meant to be towed up or down the river, probably by mules or a horse. Five or six canoes and several flatboats were tied near the shore, and a picket line under the trees held five horses. Voices rang from the open widows of the barge, and somewhere within someone was playing a lute. Badly.
The guards met them at the gangway. “If you plan to play,” one demanded, “you must show us your money and check your weapons at the door.”
“And if we don’t plan to play?” Ulin inquired.
“You will leave,” the second replied in a tone that brooked no argument. “Now.”
Ulin had not brought his sword, guessing this would happen, but he turned over his dagger and drew out his coin bag to show the guards his coins. He did not mention the knife in his boot. They waved him through, searched Notwen, and let them pass.
Trying to look nonchalant, Ulin wandered toward the bar. Notwen stayed close behind him to attract as little attention as possible. The main room of the gambling boat was arranged with tables and chairs set about them. A large bar made from heavy planks and saw horses sat at the bow-end of the room. The room was smoky and disheveled. The few brass lamps that hung from the ceiling beams did little to dispel the gloom. Sawdust covered the floor. Perhaps fifteen to twenty people-mostly humans, a few dwarves, and two small baaz draconians-sat at the playing tables or stood by the bar. Kender were not allowed in the door.
A tired-looking woman in a stained dress served mugs of beer and spirits. She saw Ulin and said, “What’ll it be? Beer or torquil?”
Ulin winced. The beer was bound to be bad in a place like this, and torquil, a rot-gut fermentation of some cactus-juice preferred by the Khurs, gave him a fiery headache every time he tried it. “Beer,” he said. At least his head would not explode.
She slid a coarse stoneware mug across to him. “What’s with the funny glasses?”
“Pink eye,” he growled.
She shook her head and took his coin without another word. He was right. To a palate raised on Caramon’s brews, this beer was bad. He drank it anyway, leaning back against the bar, and he studied the customers one by one. First he looked at each person over the rim of the spectacles then through the rose glass. He saw no difference.
He sat for perhaps two hours nursing his beer and watching the activities. People came and left, new games were started. Notwen wandered over to a khas table by the door and soon became engrossed in a game with a trapper. There was still no sign of anyone in a disguise of any sort or anyone even close to Kethril Torkay’s description. Ulin knew he couldn’t sit at the bar much longer without buying another beer or joining a game. The bartender was giving him evil looks and the serving woman suggested several times that he order another drink or leave.
The leaving option sorely tempted him. The lute player had not improved with time and had given Ulin a pounding headache. The beer was foul. Then again, if he didn’t throw some money around, the guards might get suspicious and not allow him back on the boat another night. He glanced around at the game tables to find something he could play, and at that moment, his decision was made for him.
Three Khurs staggered in the door arm in arm, laughing uproariously. They were full of gaiety, comradeship, and raucous pleasure, and obviously full of beer or something harder. They spotted a table under one of the brass lamps and unceremoniously dumped its occupying drunk in a corner and claimed it for their own.
“Torquil!” bellowed the tallest man with an eye patch and a full beard. “Torquil for my desert friends.”
Ulin’s eyes narrowed at the odd phrasing. Carefully, he studied the man over the rim of his spectacles. When he tilted up his head and looked at the same man through the rose-colored lenses, the difference was striking. The black hair, swarthy skin, rugged features, and bearded countenance of the tall man blurred and faded to reveal a white-skinned, fair-haired man with paler eyes and smoother features-an exact match of Lucy’s description. As if to complete the identification, the “Khur” raised a gloved hand to bring out a deck of cards and slap them on the table.
After all the miles he had traveled to find this man and all the stories he heard, Ulin found it very strange to see the man himself sitting in a rickety chair, moving and breathing, very much alive. The disguise was excellent. Too good to be simple false hair and skin dye. Ulin wondered if Kethril was in the possession of certain magic artifacts. Lucy never said her father was a mage, but maybe he’d learned enough to wield the old magic in artifacts.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Notwen murmured at his elbow. “He won’t come easily.”
“No, not yet,” Ulin agreed. “He won’t come willingly, and he may have friends in this place. I have an idea, though.” He showed his teeth in a feral grin. “I owe myself this one.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In a hushed voice, Ulin told Notwen what he intended to do. The gnome bobbed his head in understanding and, as instructed, drifted off to melt into the background.
Ulin removed the pink spectacles. He checked the layers of his sashed belt to be certain the small packets were still there and easy to reach, then he took his mug and sauntered over to the table to watch the card game.
The men were playing a variation of Bounty Hunter, a high stakes game that involved skill and a high measure of luck. Silently, Ulin placed himself where he could see Kethril’s cards and his hands, and where, if Kethril paid attention to his peripheral vision, he could be seen by the gambler.
Ulin watched the game through a number of hands until he began to understand how it was played. He also noticed Lucy’s father won steadily. The man seemed to have an innate knowledge of when to bet and when to fold. He played carefully, planning each move in advance. His opponents played hard, trying to beat him, betting more and more heavily as the game progressed, and their faces turned redder and more annoyed every time the “bounty” of coins and trinkets moved to Kethril’s pile. Ulin also noticed that Kethril rarely touched his mug, while the others drank a steady stream of torquil. He was a cool player, without a doubt.
Finally, a rotund Khur in dark robes slammed his palms on the table to end his play and stamped off to find a more accommodating game. The other one grimly held his seat and passed the cards to Kethril for a new game. A third player saw the empty chairs and came to join them.
The gambler cocked his head slightly to see Ulin. A brown eye twinkled at him from under a black arched brow. “There’s one chair left. Are you going to play or just gawk?”
Ulin gave a shrug, pulled out a fat bag of coins, and plopped it on the table with a solid chunk. “I don’t know this game. Could you tell me the rules?” He took the chair vacated by the Khur and pulled up to the table beside Kethril.
The other Khur smirked. Here was his chance to recoup some of his losses. The new man, an old mercenary by the look of the scars on his face and the knotted muscles under his leather vest, helped himself to the pitcher of torquil and shoved the pitcher over to Ulin. “Help yerself,” he grunted.