Tyr, Timor shall not hesitate to make the most of it. He is a practiced intriguer, and I lack experience in such things. Here is where I need your help.”
“Then what should be done about this Sorak?”
“That is a task you shall have to delegate to someone else,” she replied. “Someone who can be trusted. Someone clever enough to shadow this Sorak without revealing himself. Someone who knows how to walk softly, think swiftly, and make decisions on his own. Someone crafty enough to counter whatever Timor may attempt as regards this elfling stranger.”
Rikus smiled. “You have just painted a perfect portrait of a very old friend of mine.”
“Is this old friend someone you can rely on?” asked Sadira.
“Without any reservations,” Rikus said.
“That is enough for me. Will your friend undertake this task for us? It may prove highly dangerous.”
“That would merely add spice to it,” said Rikus, with a grin.
“How soon can you enlist this person’s aid?”
Til go at once.”
“Do not stay away too long, Rikus,” she replied. “I am surrounded by smiling faces here, but few of them belong to friends.”
Sorak had never seen anything even remotely like the warrens before. Long accustomed to the peaceful solitude and open spaces of the Ringing Mountains, he had found the market district’s noise and crowded conditions shocking enough. He was not prepared for what awaited him in the warrens.
The streets grew narrower and narrower until they were little more than zigzag dirt paths. These paths led through a maze of two-, three-, and four-story buildings constructed from sun-baked brick covered with a reddish plaster that varied in hue. The colors were a patchwork of earth-tones, muted reds and browns, and many of the walls were cracked where the outer coating had flaked off with time, exposing the bricks underneath.
The buildings were square or rectangular, with slightly rounded corners. The front of almost every building had a covered walkway, with arched supports made out of plaster-covered brick and a roof of masonry or wood. Often, the roof would extend along the entire length of the building front, providing some shelter from the blistering sun. Some of these walkways were paved with brick, some had wood-plank floors, but most had no floors at all. In the shade of many covered walkways, filthy beggars crouched, holding out their hands in supplication. In others, scantily dressed women struck provocative poses.
All of Sorak’s senses were assailed as never before. The smell was overpowering. The people here simply threw their waste and refuse into the narrow alleys between buildings, where it was left to rot and decay in the intense heat, creating an eye-watering miasma of oppressive odors. Flies and rodents were everywhere.
As he was escorted through the narrow streets by Captain Zalcor and a contingent of the city guard, people rushed to get out of their way. There were many unusual sights in Tyr, but this was the first time anyone had ever seen a tigone in the city streets. Even for the warrens, a squad of city guards escorting an elfling with a psionic mountain cat by his side made an unusual procession.
“Well, you said you wanted to find the cheapest accommodations,” Captain Zalcor said to Sorak as they halted outside one of the buildings. “This is it. You won’t find cheaper rooms anywhere in the city, and when you see them, you’ll know why.”
Sorak gazed at the three-story inn. Its plaster coating had flaked off in many places so that much old brick and mortar was exposed, and the walls were veined with cracks. The smell here was no less offensive than anywhere else in the warrens, but that wasn’t saying much. Scrofulous beggars crouched in the dirt beneath the covered walkway, which ran the length of the building. A number of women with heavily painted faces and lightly clothed bodies lounged by the entrance, gazing with interest at the group.
“I suppose this will do,” said Sorak.
“Are you sure?” the captain asked. “The council bid me to escort you to an inn. They did not say it had to be the worst one in the city.”
“But it is the cheapest?” Sorak asked.
“It is that,” said Captain Zalcor. “Look, I can understand your desire for frugality, but there is such a thing as taking practical virtues a bit too far. I thought that when you saw this place, you would change your mind, but as you seem intent on holding your purse close, regardless of the inconvenience, I should caution you that you may well lose it altogether here. This is a dangerous neighborhood. The elven market, is just down the street there, and even I would hesitate to venture there without a squad of guards to back me up.”
“I appreciate your concern, Captain,” Sorak said. “However, my means are limited, and I do not yet know how long I shall be remaining in the city. I need to hold on to what money I have for as long as possible.”
“Then I would suggest you keep one hand firmly on your purse, and the other on your sword hilt,” Zalcor said. “And stay away from that place.”
Sorak looked in the direction the captain had indicated and saw a large, three-story building where the street ended in a cul-de-sac. This structure had been better maintained than those around it, and had a reasonably fresh coat of brown plaster over its bricks. Unlike most of the other buildings in the area, it had no covered walkway in front of it, but a wall that extended out into the street, creating a paved courtyard that held some desert plants and a small fountain. An arch over a bone gate in the wall provided access to the courtyard, and a paved path led to the building’s entrance. Sorak noticed a steady stream of people wandering in and out. Above the gate, mounted on the archway, was a large iron spider, plated silver.
“What is that place?” asked Sorak “The Crystal Spider,” Zalcor said. “And, trust me, my friend, you do not want to go in there.”
Sorak smiled. “You did not seem so concerned about my welfare when we first met.”
“In truth, I was more concerned about your pet eating our citizens,” replied Zalcor, with a grin. Then his face grew serious. “But if I feel better disposed toward you now, it’s because I heard what you said back there in the council chamber.”
“You believe me? The members of the council seem to have some reservations,” Sorak said.
Zalcor gave a small snort of derision. “They’re politicians. Except for Rikus, who was a gladiator, but then again he’s a mul, and muls have never been the most trusting sorts. When you’ve been a soldier for as long as I have, and a commander in the city guard dealing with criminals of all stripes each and every day, you develop an instinct for whether or not someone speaks the truth. You didn’t need to come forward with your information. You have no vested interest in the security of Tyr.”
“But I do have a vested interest in the reward,” said Sorak.
“I do not begrudge you that,” said Zalcor. “I was born and raised in Altaruk, and I know something of the marauders of Nibenay. I have a feeling you know how to use that fancy sword of yours. The marauders are formidable fighters, yet you not only survived an encounter with them, but managed to extract information from one of them, as well.”
“Some of the council members seem to find that suspect,” Sorak said. And then he hastily added, “I could see it in their eyes.”
“And what I see in your eyes tells me that you spoke the truth,” said Zalcor, “although not the entire truth, I think.” He gave Sorak a level stare. “You are no herdsman, my friend. You lack the gait for it, and your skin has not the look of one who spends his time on the windblown plains out in the tablelands.”
“All good reasons not to trust me, I should think,” said Sorak.
“Perhaps,” said Zalcor, “but I am a good judge of character, and my instinct tells me you are not an enemy. I do not know what your game is, but I suspect it has little to do with Tyr itself. And if such is, indeed, the case, then it is none of my concern.”