"As far as he knows it, I'm fairly sure he is, General," the Questor replied, in the same low voice. "He's confident about what he says."
He rubbed his temple; scanning the Yorenian's confusing aura had given him a headache.
"Here's two gold pieces for the information about the nuns. You get the other two when you give us clear directions to this Mansion House of yours." The General held out two of the shiny, yellow discs in his open left palm.
The ragged informer hesitated for a moment. Then, as quick as thought, the coins disappeared. The man nodded, shaking particles loose from his shaggy-haired pate, which, Grimm thought, might have been either scurf or fleas. He hoped they were the former.
"Awright, guv'nor, I'll tell yer; yer look like an honest sort t' me. Up ahead by the chandler's, there, you turn right into Dun Lane, then first left into Cheeble Street, see? Then yer take the third right into Goober Lane, an' then you'll come to the old market square. 'S not as nice as this new one, and there's some dodgy types round there, so you gents be careful."
Grimm suppressed a shudder at the thought of any place less salubrious than this grimy hell-hole.
"Now, from the old market," the Yorenian said, seeming to revel in his new, if temporary, career as a tourist guide, "yer need to look for old Rambold's glue shop on the far right side. You should be able to tell it from all the flies." He wrinkled his nose, and Grimm marvelled that a denizen of this benighted town could bear the capacity for disgust.
"Yer go up that road past Rambold's; that's Bottle Pass. Go all the way t' the end o' that an' turn right inter Flobb's Lane. Turn left just past the Goat Inn, an' you'll see the Mansion 'Ouse up the 'ill. Got it, guv'nor?"
Grimm felt bewildered by the complicated directions, but Quelgrum nodded.
"Eminently clear; thank you for your assistance." The General tipped the remaining two coins into the shabby man's hand. "My apologies for taking up so much of your valuable time; enjoy your shopping."
"Shoppin'? I'm goin' down the Blooter Arms fer a few pints first," the smiling vagabond declared. "Me bleedin' wife can wait a while fer 'er bleedin' groceries. Just remember, gents, if yer want any more 'elp, Guller's yer man. That's me name: Guller. Jest ask fer me in the Blooter Arms; they all know me there."
With that, the shabby informer scampered into one of the dark alleys surrounding the square, and was gone.
"The Mansion House it is," Grimm sighed. He did not hold out much hope for the Yorenian's luxurious description of the place; even a slaughterhouse might seem a palace to someone brought up in such depressing surroundings, but it did seem likely that someone there could provide further information on Lizaveta's movements.
"Where are we going?"
Grimm turned to see Guy's head protruding from under the wagon's cover, his twisted lip showing his distaste at his surroundings.
"Did I hear something about a mansion?" the older man demanded. "I hope so."
Grimm smiled. "Yes, Guy; a highly reliable source informs me it's a 'right posh old place to stay', so it should suit you well. Then again, the definition of the word 'luxury' around here may differ a little from yours."
With a snort, the foppish mage ducked back under the canvas cover.
****
The old market square lived up to the Yorenian's description. It appeared to Grimm almost as if some skeletal entity was arising from a sea of mud, as he heard the horses' crisp hoof-beats turn into a series of dull splashes. He saw rotted sticks and spars standing at odd angles, and ragged scraps of grey cloth twitching in the desultory breeze. It was as if night had come early, as the tall buildings surrounding the half-sunken plaza blotted out the afternoon light.
Grimm heard the high-pitched, mewling bark of an angry fox in the distance; an eerie, banshee-like sound. After that, all he heard was wet, squishing sloshes as the horses pulled the wagon through the mud that swamped the old flagstones; sounds that echoed dully from the grey walls surrounding the square.
His eyes cast around, looking for the glue shop of which Guller had told them, but all the dull, grimy-windowed buildings around the square looked the same. It was the mage's nose that first informed him of the shop's proximity; a disgusting, cloyingly-sweet, pungent smell began to pervade his nostrils, and he felt his eyes watering in sympathy. On the far side of the square, he saw a black cloud, and heard a growing drone; these must be the ever-present insect attendants of the glue shop. Grimm slapped at his arms, his face and his scalp as the wagon passed through the eager, buzzing horde.
Quelgrum wrinkled his nose and flapped at the black mass of winged assailants. "Can you imagine what it's like to work in there, Lord Baron?"
"I don't want to, General." Grimm shivered as the soldier steered the vehicle past a crooked, hand-painted sign reading 'Bottle Pass'. "I just want to get out of this dead place."
In the narrow, crumbling thoroughfare, Grimm saw the first signs of life since the wagon had left the new market square. Rats scampered through open sewers, ignored by a few, scattered drabs, who regarded the wagon with suspicious, envious eyes. It seemed to the mage as if he had descended into the nethermost pit of Hell, as he looked into the pale, dull, resentful faces of a score of damned souls.
Quelgrum needed to take care at the junction of Bottle Pass and Flobb's Lane, since the road seemed barely wider than the wagon. The horses reared and whinnied, but the General comforted them with a soft, clucking noise, keeping a firm hand on the reins.
Grimm approved; having grown up in a smithy, he recognised the worth of a man who treated troubled animals with kindness and understanding, rather than unthinking brutality.
The mage heard a growing, raucous sound as the conveyance trundled along Flobb's Lane. He noticed a battered, faded picture of a stick-like representation of a goat outside a slumped, hovel-like structure, outside which five men scrambled and rolled in a sea of red-streaked mud. The occasional bright flashes of blades and knuckle-dusters reinforced the message that this was no minor dispute over a spilled drink.
And I thought the Broken Bottle in Drute was tough, he thought, shaking his head as Quelgrum turned the vehicle left, barely missing the oblivious combatants.
Blessed, sweet sunlight!
It seemed to Grimm as if someone had lit a great candle in the sky as the wagon began to roll up an incline.
From perdition to paradise in the space of a few short yards!
The Questor's heart sang as he regarded a golden building sitting on a sward of purest green. A beige, tree-lined path marked the route to what must be the Mansion House, seeming as if it were some indication of ineluctable destiny. To Grimm, it felt as if a leaden weight had been removed from his chest as the grey, depressing drabness of Yoren was left behind and the wagon began to wind up the blessed, clean, even road.
Why doesn't everyone in Yoren come here? he wondered, savouring the fragrant, clean air that flooded into his lungs. Why would anyone want to live in that place?
It was not long before his rhetorical question was answered, as two men leapt into the road from behind the cover of the trees lining the avenue. Unlike the shabbily-attired attackers who had welcomed the adventurers on their first arrival in Yoren, these warriors wore heavy, padded jackets, and the blued-steel tubes they levelled at Grimm and Quelgrum looked familiar.
"They've got Technological weapons and armour," the General muttered, confirming the Questor's suspicions as he reined in the horses. "No wonder they can keep the locals in check."
"What's your business here?" one of the ambushers demanded as he stepped forward. His speech was cultured, educated, and free of the heavy Yorenian accent.
"We need a place to stay, well away from that rat-hole," Quelgrum said, maintaining a cool, unflustered face as Grimm laid his right hand on Redeemer, ready for trouble.