Slaves waved to him as he passed them in fields of rich black loam as they planted carefully tended green shoots of altaer and filganar before the onset of the spring rains. The grains were native to Fardohnya and the staple diet of much of the population. In Brak's experience, they would grow anywhere there was enough heat and water. Famine was unheard of in Fardohnya; another reason the people didn't seem to mind what their King was up to. It is easy to be forgiving with a full belly.
Talabar came into sight the third day after Brak had traded his demon-melded ruby. Built from the pale pink stone of the neighbouring cliffs, it glittered in the afternoon sun, hugging the harbour like a woman curled into the back of her sleeping lover. Flat-roofed houses terraced the hills surrounding the bay, interspersed with palm-shaded emerald green parks and the tall edifices of the many temples that dotted the city. It was a beautiful city, not so stark and white as Greenharbour, or so grey and depressing as Yarnarrow. Only the Citadel in its heyday could rival its splendour.
It had been many years since Brak had been here. The last time he'd travelled incognito, another faceless soul in a vast city that thought his race extinct. The time before that was when Hablet's great-grandfather was King. He had been known as Lord Brakandaran in those days - feared and respected by kings and slaves alike. He hadn't much liked being known as Brakandaran the Half-Breed, but it was a useful persona at times and, he hoped, in certain circles at least, it had not been forgotten.
Brak rode through the gates of the city without being questioned. The guards were more interested in those bringing wagons, which the soldiers searched with varying degrees of enthusiasm, depending on the wealth of the merchant and the size of the bribe they would collect to turn a blind eye. Corruption was something of an institution in Fardohnya. No self-respecting merchant expected to do business without paying somebody something.
He rode through the crowded streets and let the feel of the city wash over him. One could learn much from the atmosphere of a crowded market place, a boisterous tavern or a bustling smithy. He picked his way past the glassworks, where furnaces glowed red in the dark, cavernous workshops; past the noisy meatworks where the butchers sang their thanks to the Goddess of Plenty before slashing the throats of their hapless victims with an expert flick of their wickedly sharp knives.
Talabar felt much the same as it always had. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary.
His horse shied from the smell of fresh blood that drained from the slaughterhouses into Talabar's complex underground drains. From there it ran into the sea to feed vast schools of fish, who gorged themselves on the unexpected bounty, only to head lazily back out to sea where the fishermen waited with their long hemp nets.
The streets widened as he entered the clothing district, although the traffic did not thin noticeably. The clackety-clack of the looms in the busy workhouses filled the air like a pulse. A few streets later he was forced to dismount. He smiled as he led his gelding past a heated argument between a merchant, whose wagonload of baled wool had overturned and spilled across the street, and a very large, irate seamstress who was denouncing the poor fellow and his drunken habits loud enough to be heard back in Medalon.
Brak swung back into the saddle and soon entered a relatively quiet residential area. The streets were paved and the houses, although built close together, were those of prosperous merchants. They were not quite wealthy enough to own estates close to the harbour, and preferred to live near their places of business in any case. Their houses were in good repair, and many of them had slaves sweeping the pavement in front of the houses, or beating rugs from wide balconies that looked out over the street, and were shaded by potted palms and climbing bougainvillea.
By mid-morning he reached the most salubrious part of Talabar, closest to the harbour and the Summer Palace. A hundred generations of Fardohnyan kings, anxious to curry favour with the gods, had dedicated themselves to building ever more impressive temples in this city. Jelanna was Hablet's personal favourite, so her temple had received the bulk of the King's largesse. It had been faced with marble since Brak saw it last and an impressive pair of fluted columns now supported an elaborate portico carved with cavorting demons at the entrance. It had done him little good, Brak knew. Despite almost thirty years of trying, he had yet to produce a legitimate son, although he had sired enough bastards to fill a small town.
Finally, Brak turned into a discreet, single-storey inn that sheltered almost directly under the high pink wall surrounding the Summer Palace. A slave hurried forward to take his mount in the shaded courtyard and he tipped the lad generously. There were slaves that owned more wealth than their masters in Fardohnya, and one could, if one chose to, purchase one's freedom. Many did not. There was a degree of job security in being a slave that was hard to beat in the uncertain world of the free man.
The interior of the inn was dim and cool, the entrance separated by a whitewashed trellis from the low hum of conversation emanating from the taproom. The owner hurried forward, took in Brak's travel-stained appearance, noticed the jingling purse tucked in his belt, did a quick mental calculation, then bowed obsequiously.
“My Lord.”
Brak was quite certain he looked nothing like a nobleman in his current state, but the innkeeper was covering himself against the possibility that this new arrival was a gentleman of means.
“I require rooms,” he announced.
“Certainly, my Lord. I have a vacancy in the north wing. It is closest to the palace walls. One can hear the joyous laughter of the princesses at play, if one listens closely.”
Brak thought that highly unlikely. “I also need to contact someone from the Assassins' Guild.”
“Did you want anyone in particular?”
“I need to speak with the Raven.”
The little man's eyes narrowed. “The head of the Assassins' Guild does not meet with just anybody, my Lord.”
“He'll meet with me,” Brak assured him confidently.
“You know him then?”
“That's none of your business.” Actually, Brak had no idea who now held the post, and did not particularly care. The Assassins' Guild was simply the best source of intelligence in Fardohnya.
“Of course not, my Lord!” he gushed, wringing his hands. Only the wealthiest of noblemen could afford to deal with the Assassins' Guild. Brak had just gone up considerably in the innkeeper's estimation. “Forgive me for being so forward. I will show you to your rooms at once. If there is anything I can do...”
“You could be quiet, for a start,” Brak remarked coldly, already annoyed by the man.
“Of course, my Lord! What was I thinking? Be quiet... Oh...” The innkeeper clamped his lips together when he noticed the look on Brak's face.
“That's better. Now, if you could show me the room? I want a bath too. And some lunch.”
The man nodded, wisely saying nothing further. With a snap of his fingers another slave hurried forward to show Brak to his rooms.
Much to Brak's surprise, the contact from the Assassins' Guild was a woman. Fardohnya was notoriously patriarchal and it was rare for a woman to hold any position of note. He was not even aware that they had changed the rules to admit women to the Guild. She was small and slender, the long, pale-green robe she wore concealing what Brak was certain would be a body in superb physical condition. It was hard to judge her age; she might have been twenty, or perhaps forty. Brak suspected the latter. Her eyes were too knowing, too cautious and too world-weary for her to be in the first bloom of youth.