The passersby went back to their business. Only Shade’s eyes dared linger on the Hand. He looked more out of curious appraisal than out of any immediate need to challenge Lewd’s Hand.
The Hand’s serpentine eyes traced over to the Dark Elf and for a moment they exchanged glacial stares. Any ordinary mortal would have shivered out from under the weight of those stone cold glares, but these two weren’t ordinary mortals. The Hand too knew an assassin when he saw one. Shade was the first to look away, not out of fear, but to make sure he did not betray too much in their wordless conversation. He set back towards the far northwestern corner of the markets.
Shade would have to keep tabs on that one. He took a final look behind him. Lewd’s Hand was gone. A chill ran down the Dark Elf’s spine, but he did not sense any immediate danger. The Hand had likely asserted his right to the territory nothing more. Shade had sent similar messages to countless assassins whenever they encroached upon Jile. The Dark Elf cut across the Mage Markets and headed sharply west. It wouldn’t be long now before he reached his destination.
Shade tread extra carefully through the mage stalls in the Black Markets near the Mage Quadrant. He had noted long ago wizards were much like hornets and one had little to fear so long as you did not go poking into their nests. This area was ruled by the dark robes. Members of the Black, Brown and Gray Orders far outnumbered the light robes. Dark robes dabbled in the deadliest magic arts. Bump into the wrong Black Robe and you could walk away with a curse that would follow you the rest of your life. A Warlock or an Elementalist might even go as far as to incinerate you. And yet for the prudent or the foolhardy willing to assume such risks, few places in the kingdom offered so rich rewards.
Shade’s eyes passed over many bookshelves stacked with spellbooks and noted a few were marked with the glowing silver runes of Shadow Magic. He might’ve paused to purse the inventory if he had the time. Small booths and tables were stocked with magic relics, scrolls, rings, robes, staffs and enchanted weapons. The most crowded tables displayed masterworks of a few Dwarven vendors, masters of Forging Magic, and Enchanters from the various abolished human robed orders. Bladecasters and other warrior types checked carefully over the rune markings on the weapons as their makers demonstrated their advanced magical designs.
Shade passed over a great number of fascinating items. He made a mental note to go back and check the spellbooks in a few days time, but continued on. He saw the provocative feminine sign of his usual haunt, The Dancing Harlot, on the far wall across the divide. He headed for the nearest platform. He always made it a point to stop through the Mage Markets when passing through the Kurn underground.
He passed the dead corpse of a White Robe who lay face down on the cold concrete. He appeared to have been burned by some horrible spell, but the body did not surprise him. Mage quarrels were far too common these days. The assassin overheard a couple of Vespuvian sailors whispering about it. The two men carried several satchels clattering with all kinds of enchanted gear. Mino poachers Shade guessed from the looks of the pair.
“Wish the guards would do something about these mage feuds,” said the young dark haired man, “one of these days some mad wizard is going to bring the whole city down on our heads.”
“Keep your voice down,” replied the older fellow as he twiddled his long black mustache, “or you’ll bring a curse down on our heads.”
“Is that too much to ask for? If Lewd is so powerful,” he replied and looked cautiously about, “a little more civilized law and order among the robes?”
“You’re asking too much. Ain’t no one messes with the Black Robes, not even Lewd. We’re all safe enough if those warlocks keep their black arts to the sewers of Mithralmora where it belongs. Come along, lad, before the ol’ captain leaves us stranded ashore.”
Shade crossed the wood plank lying across the divide and stepped into the Doelm Quadrant. He eyed the sign to The Dancing Harlot over the throngs of Doelm mercenaries, thieves and general thugs for hire. He caught sight of the sign to another tavern that sparked his interests called The Green Barrel. It was renowned for its mysterious ale and he thought he might stop in for a drink. Perhaps it was time for a change of atmosphere. After all, it was rude to spill blood in front of the ladies. The sign depicted a moldy round keg with a worm crawling out of the spout. It certainly didn’t paint the most appetizing picture, but Shade had heard much acclaim regarding The Green Barrel.
The assassin turned sharply north. He noticed several hooded figures in the crowds behind him. Ah yes. He was being followed. Good. Shade smiled mischievously. It was all going according to plan. The assassin spun around slowly, cast back his hood and let the moles have a good long look at him.
Bystanders gasped as they laid eyes upon a Dark Elf, some for the very first time. He drank in their astonishment. He scanned the shrouded faces of the moles tailing him. His lips leaked into a sadistic grin. He took a bow with an Elvish grace. Startled, the hooded figures shrank back into the crowd.
Shade chuckled lightly. He had just sent a message, a crystal clear message that he was not on his usual business in Kurn. Word would certainly reach Lewd’s ears; the crimelord would not dream that he was Shade’s next target. Unless, of course that wounded Braznian had managed to drag his enfeebled limbs into the city. Then again the sting of the assassin’s dagger sliding into Lewd’s soft buttery flesh would be an effective wakeup call.
Shade turned back around, treasuring the crowd’s every last gasp. He left his hood cast back. He entered The Green Barrel, the same flagrant grin still playing at the corners of his lips and a dangerous glow in his eyes.
*****************
Shade strolled through the tavern door, drawing more than one look as he made his way to the bar. The room quieted at his entrance until all that could be heard was the clatter of mugs and the nervous gulping of ale. He sat down on an upturned barrel that the roughshod tavern used for barstools. The Green Barrel became known for a strange green mystery ale rumored to pack quite a kick. No drink, save maybe a bottle of Faun Spirits, promised to get a man drunk faster.
Every eye lingered on the assassin, every mind guessed at his business. A party of drunken Doelms ceased their boisterous drinking song and ogled him with wide bloodshot eyes. Only a comatose Drakor missed Shade’s entrance, the dragon-man’s head laid on a table next to a filthy green barrel which buzzed with flies. He snored loudly in a puddle of stale green alcohol.
A tall, fat Doelm barkeeper lumbered up to him. The Doelm’s huge potbelly and loose rolls of fat contrasted oddly with his muscular arms. His dark face had been molded into an ugly grimace and he wore a dirty yellow-stained apron. Shade recognized the fat Doelm barkeep by reputation alone. Bwedrig was the only mortal purported to be able to down that disgusting green barrel in the back of the room. He drank all comers under the table. Shade guessed that the slavering Drakor had been Bwedrig’s latest victim. The assassin would have to teach this fat barkeeper about the true meaning of victims. The Dark Elf would add plenty more bloodstains to the floor before this day was through.
“What will it be, stranger?” said Bwedrig as he leaned over the bar.
Shade eyed the wet algae dripping from the taps on the kegs behind the bar in disgust. He watched as the other patrons waved away the steam frothing from their wooden barrel-shaped goblets and grimaced as they downed another swig. Nothing looked safe to drink here save what came safely wrapped in a bottle. He was a civilized drinker anyway. Bwedrig stared squarely at him.