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He suspected he had been badly underpaid for the work he had done in the last few towns, but as a beggar, to all intents and purposes, what could he do about it?

Here, though, he had a chance to do better — maybe.

“What sort of help?” he asked suspiciously.

“Oh, just help,” the guard said, exchanging a smirk with his comrade.

It couldn’t hurt to check it out, Kelder thought. “Where?”

“Senesson of Yolder, on Carter Street,” the guard said, pointing. “Down the hill here, turn left at the little blue shrine, turn right on the second cross street, and look for the shop with the green tile over the door.”

“Green...” Kelder said. “Green what?” He had never encountered the word for “tile” in Trader’s Tongue before.

“Green roof,” the guard said.

That Kelder understood. “Thank you,” he said, with a polite half-bow.

Down the hill he went, strolling slowly until he spotted the blue shrine — it was a fountain, built into the outside corner of a bakery, with a bright blue ceramic glaze lining it and a small golden statuette of a goddess, no more than a foot tall, set into the wall behind it. The gold leaf on the idol had flaked a little, and the water that sprayed from beneath the goddess’ feet was slightly discolored. He turned left, between the bakery and an iron-fenced garden.

The first cross-street was a muddy alleyway, but he counted it anyway, and turned right onto a narrow, deserted byway. He had gone almost three blocks, and was just deciding that he should not have counted the alley, when he spotted a shop with a rather complex facade. A five-sided bay window, its innumerable small panes hexagonal in shape, took up most of the ground level front, while the upstairs displayed turrets and shutters with elaborate carvings. The front door, just beyond the bay window, was of oiled wood bound in brass, with designs etched in the metal and monstrous faces carved in bas relief on the wood.

And above this door was a small decorative overhang, and on top of the overhang were three rows of curved green tile.

There was no signboard, and the window display was an incomprehensible array of arrangements of silver wire, but it looked like the right place, and when he stepped up to the door he found that the design etched into the brass bar at eye level included a line of Ethsharitic runes reading, “Senesson of Yolder, Wizard Extraordinary.”

Kelder was about to knock when the door swung open; before he could react even enough to lower his fist, a girl charged directly into him, knocking him back a step.

“Get out of the way, stupid,” she snarled in Ethsharitic.

“Excuse me,” Kelder said in the same language, “but I wanted to work...”

“So did I, but I won’t do it here!” She tried to push past him, and Kelder stepped back, but then he reached out and caught her arm.

She whirled, aiming a punch at his belly, but he sidestepped in time to miss most of it, keeping hold of her other wrist. She was short and thin, her strength unremarkable, so maintaining his grip was not particularly difficult.

“Wait a minute,” he said, inadvertantly slipping into the Trader’s Tongue he had been using almost exclusively for more than a sixnight, “I need to talk to you.”

She yanked her arm free, and he let it go. “I don’t speak that,” she said, still in Ethsharitic, “whatever it is.”

“Sorry,” he said, switching back to Ethsharitic. “I need to talk to you.” For the first time it occurred to him that she might have been speaking the Krithimionese patois — but then she would have understood Trader’s Tongue, surely.

“No, you don’t,” she said, turning away.

“Wait!” he called. “What’s wrong with working here?”

She took one step, then stopped and turned back. “You don’t know?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Are you from around here?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m from Shulara.”

“I never heard of it,” she said.

There was definitely, he noticed, something a little different about the way she spoke Ethsharitic; she spoke slightly faster than he had heard it before, and slurred the consonants a bit. It was not at all like the Krithimionese he had heard spoken around town. “It’s southeast,” he said. “Where are you from?”

“None of your business,” she said.

He raised his hands, conceding the point. “All right,” he said, “but what’s wrong with the work?”

She glowered at him, standing with her hands on her hips, considering, and then snapped, “You don’t know?”

“No,” he said. “The guards at the castle told me I could earn money here. That’s all I know.”

She snorted. “They were joking,” she said. “Either that, or they were trying to insult you.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said, her tone turning sarcastic, “you probably don’t qualify for the job.”

“Why not?”

“Senesson isn’t looking for workers,” she explained. “He’s buying materials.”

“What materials?” Kelder asked, still puzzled.

“Virgin’s blood,” the girl said angrily.

Kelder blinked, and looked the girl over.

She was roughly his own age, he guessed, despite her diminutive stature; she had long black hair that flowed down across her shoulders in flamboyant masses of darkly-shining curls, a heart-shaped face and a long straight nose, a full bosom, narrow waist, and lush hips.

“It’s none of my business,” he said, “but...” He stopped.

He had intended to ask if she qualified any more than he did, but that hardly seemed like an appropriate question to ask a stranger.

If she did, he thought, he’d be surprised. She was no incredible beauty, certainly not in Irith’s class, but she was attractive enough.

“You’re right,” she said, “it’s none of your business.”

He smiled. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He turned away from the brass-trimmed door.

“Aren’t you going to knock?” the girl asked.

“No,” Kelder said, “I don’t think so, not if that’s what he wants.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I could be lying,” she said. “You don’t have to take my word.”

“No, I believe you,” Kelder said. “Do you know of anywhere else I might find work?”

She shook her head.

“Where are you going, then?” he asked.

“Back to the market square,” she answered.

“Me, too,” he said.

“All right,” she said, and together they strolled up the street, away from the shop with the green tile overhang.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It was half an hour before he got around to asking her name.

“Azraya,” she said, throwing another pebble at the dove by the fountain, “Azraya of Ethshar.”

The bird fluttered up into the air, then landed and turned to peck at the pebble, seeing if it was edible.

“You’re from Ethshar?” Kelder asked, leaning back on the bench.

“I just said so, didn’t I?” Azraya snapped.

“No,” Kelder replied mildly, “you said that was your cognomen, not that you came from there.”

“Same thing,” Azraya said, only slightly mollified.

“I suppose it is,” Kelder agreed. “Sorry.”

They were still speaking Ethsharitic, having discovered that Azraya spoke no Shularan, Trader’s Tongue, Aryomoric, Uramoric, or Elankoran, and that Kelder spoke no Tintallionese or Sardironese. Neither of them spoke Krithimionese, but Azraya could sometimes follow it, and Kelder, knowing both its constituent tongues, understood it pretty well. Still, Ethsharitic was the only language they had in common.