“I’m thinking of the Lion,” Agis said, hoping an abbreviated name would suffice.
The woman’s eyes narrowed, but before she could press for more detail, Marda said, “He means the Lion’s Back, ma’am.”
“We didn’t ask you,” snapped the woman’s companion.
Marda lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to help. I’ve met milord there many a morning.”
The posture of both templars grew less tense, and they shrugged at each other. To Marda the woman said, “I’ll let your mistake pass this time, but let us know if you see any other strangers in the quarter. A Tyrian left his giant in the fields of House Balba, and the oaf refuses to leave. Lord Balba is offering five silvers to anyone who delivers the scoundrel to his mansion.”
With that, the two templars returned to their escort. As soon as they left the quay, every sailor in the group spat into the bay.
“My thanks for protecting me,” Agis said, secretly amused by the image of a Balican lord attempting to persuade the stubborn Fylo to leave his lands.
“We weren’t protecting you,” said Marda. “We were repaying the king for his ill treatment of us.”
“Andropinis won’t let more than five of us leave port in a day,” added Salust. “And when we get back, his templars confiscate half our cargo.” He nodded toward the shore, where the templars’ heads and shoulders protruded above the ratany hedge as they moved down the street.
“Tariffs,” growled another sailor. Again, they all spat into the bay.
Agis nodded in sympathy, then looked to Marda. “Could your bark catch the fleet carrying my criminal?”
The sailor shook his head. “Not mine, or the ship of any man here,” he answered. “But rest assured, no one on that fleet, including the man you seek, will live to set foot on solid land again. The giants’ll see to that.”
“Perhaps, but that won’t satisfy the people he’s wronged,” Agis said. “I must return him to stand before those whose laws he has broken.”
“Then you’ll have to hire a smuggler,” said Salust. “That’ll be no easy task for a stranger.”
Agis reached into the purse beneath his cloak, withdrawing a silver coin. “Perhaps you could help me?”
“I might show you where to look,” said Salust, reaching out to take the coin.
Marda slapped the hand down. “Don’t waste your silver, stranger. You can’t trust any smuggler who consorts with the likes of Salust.” He pointed toward one of the many buildings on the close-packed harbor front. “If you want to find one who won’t slit your throat for the coins in your purse, go to the Furled Sail tavern and ask for Nymos. He knows that side of the harbor better than most.”
“Many thanks.”
Agis started to hand the coin to Marda, but the sailor shook his head. “Save it for Nymos,” he said, smirking at Salust. “You’ll need it.”
The noble slipped his silver back into his purse, then stepped off the quay into the crowded harborside lane. Despite the ratany silt-break, several inches of pearly loess covered the walkways, and so much dust clung to the building placards that Agis could barely make out the pictures engraved on their surfaces. Nevertheless, he could usually tell the nature of the business he passed by peering inside. In the tackle shops, ropes, sails, oars, pulleys, and a thousand similar articles hung suspended from the ceiling, so that the patrons had to stoop over or push merchandise aside as they moved around. The warehouses contained huge bundles of untwined giant hair, stacks of rough-cut lumber, mounds of freshly shorn wool, and almost any product that could be traded for a profit. Only the taverns did not seem busy, with closed doors and window shutters fastened tight against blowing dust.
Agis came to a sign bearing the image of a sail furled over a yardarm. Like the other taverns, this one appeared closed, but the noble heard chairs scraping against stone as someone cleaned the floor. He knocked on the door, then stepped back to wait.
A moment later, an unshaven man with a round stomach and red nose peered out the half-opened door. In one hand he held a broom, in the other a sword of sharpened bone. “What?”
“I was told to ask for Nymos,” Agis replied.
“So?”
“I have something for him,” the noble said, withdrawing a silver coin from his purse.
The innkeeper’s face lit up. “Good,” he said, snatching the coin from Agis’s hand. “I’ll put this toward his bill.”
With that, the man pulled the door open and stepped aside, then waved the noble toward a ladder in the back of the inn. “I let him stay on the roof. Keeps the birds off.”
Agis climbed the stairs and stepped onto the inn’s roof. It was a relatively flat surface of baked clay, enclosed by a waist-high wall and littered with shattered broy mugs. In one corner, the sun-bleached bones of hundreds of dustgulls lay heaped around the blackened scar of a small cooking fire, with a water jug and a few pieces of chipped crockery sitting nearby. A short distance away, a canopy of untanned hide hung over a nest of gray straw.
At the front wall stood a jozhal. The short, two-legged reptile had cocked his slender head to one side, and he held a three-fingered hand cupped to his ear slit as though listening to something in the street below. He had an elongated snout full of needle-sharp teeth, a serpentine neck topped by a jagged crest of hide, and a long, skinny tail. In contrast to his bony arms, he had huge, powerful legs, each ending in a three-clawed foot. His eyes were covered with the milky film of blindness, and his free hand rested atop a slender walking stick.
“The innkeeper said I’d find Nymos up here,” Agis said, walking to the reptile’s side.
The jozhal jumped as if someone had shouted into his ear, bringing his walking stick around to defend himself. Agis blocked the swing, then grabbed the cane to prevent the creature from making another attack. As the noble did so, he glimpsed the reptile slipping a small, spiral-shaped shell into a skin pouch on his belly.
The jozhal disengaged his walking stick from Agis’s grasp. “I’m Nymos,” he grumbled. “What do you want, Tyrian?”
The noble drew a second silver coin from his purse and placed it in Nymos’s small hand. “Marda said you could use this,” he said, guessing the jozhal had identified him by his accent. “I’m looking for a smuggler with a fast ship who can follow the fleet that left last night.”
Nymos rubbed the coin between the three fingers of his hand. “It’ll cost you more than a silver.”
“I’ll give you another when I find a captain I like,” Agis countered, wondering how the blind reptile could tell that he held silver instead of gold or lead.
Nymos slipped the coin into his stomach pouch. “I’m more interested in magic,” he said. “You wouldn’t have anything enchanted, would you?”
“I have nothing like that,” Agis replied. “I’m no sorcerer.”
The jozhal sniffed Agis’s satchel and belt purse, then shook his head in disgust. “Like trying to squeeze water from a stone,” he snorted. “I’d expect someone of your reputation to have an enchanted dagger or something.”
“My reputation?”
“Of course,” Nymos said. “Even in Balic, the bards sing of the noble who fought to free the slaves of Tyr-Agis of Asticles.”
The noble’s jaw fell slack in surprise. “What makes you think that’s me?”
The jozhal held out his bony hand. “Answers cost.”
Scowling, Agis gave him another coin.
“The streets are full of templars looking for the Tyrian who left his giant in Lord Balba’s field,” said the jozhal.
“So I’ve heard, but that isn’t the answer I paid for.”
“Your giant is less discreet with names than he ought to be,” replied Nymos. “Especially considering who you are.”
“I’m Tyrian, but that doesn’t mean I’m that one,” he said. “There must be a hundred men from Tyr in this city. Any of them could be Agis of Asticles.”
“True,” replied the jozhal. “But I suspect Agis is the only one with reason to follow Tithian.” At the mention of the king’s name, Nymos extended his hand for another coin.