D&D - Dark Sun - Tribe Of One 01, page 14
Sadira nodded. “Captain Zalcor, you will accompany this herdsman to the warrens near the elven market and see that he finds a room.” She turned to Sorak. “And so long as you are in the city, herdsman, the council would be gratified if you were to remain where you could be reached. We shall look into this report that you have brought us, and if it is accurate, then you shall be rewarded.”
Sorak inclined his head in a respectful bow and turned to leave, accompanied by Zalcor and his soldiers.
“If that elfling is a ‘simple herdsman’ as he claims, then Timor’s a kank,” said Rikus after they had left. “Did you see that sword he wears?”
“Yes, I noted it,” Sadira said, nodding. “And I sensed magic in the blade. Without a doubt, he is not what he appears to be, but if there is even a remote chance that what he says is true, we must investigate.”
“I agree,” said Timor. “We already know that King Hamanu wants this city as his prize. If the Shadow King of Nibenay lusts after it as well, we cannot afford to give an impression of weakness. If spies have been sent to Tyr, they must be apprehended and dealt with severely, in a manner that will serve as an example. And if marauders plan to attack one of the merchant caravans leaving our city, we must send soldiers to reinforce the merchant guard and see that the attack is crushed. We must show that Tyr is safe for trading, and that we know how to protect our interests and look after our security.”
“Indeed,” agreed Councilman Kor. “We are not so strong that we can afford to overlook potential threats.”
“I still say this elfling bears watching,” Rikus said. “We know nothing about him, and I, for one, don’t believe he’s a simple herdsman.”
“I agree,” said Timor. “For all we know, he may be a clever spy, himself. It would be prudent for us to keep an eye on him. The templars can see to that task easily enough, and we stand ready to assist this council in the investigation of the elfling’s claims.”
“I move that the templars undertake this investigation with the assistance of the city guard,” said Kor.
“I second the motion,” said Councilman Dargo.
“All in favor?” said Sadira.
The vote was unanimous.
“Motion carried,” said Sadira. She rapped her gavel on the table. “This council meeting is adjourned.”
As the members of the council filed out of the chamber, Sadira remained seated, hands steepled before her, eyes staring down with a thoughtful expression. Rikus lingered also, watching as Timor left the chamber. The senior templar was speaking earnestly and in low tones with Kor and Dargo as they walked from the room.
“I don’t trust those three,” muttered Rikus. “Especially that foul templar. They’ve got something cooking.”
“Their own brand of revolution,” said Sadira.
“What?”
“Timor conspires to discredit and depose us, then seize power for the templars,” Sadira said.
“You know this? You have proof?”
“No, but even if I did, I could not act upon it. It would be the sort of thing that would play right into Timor’s hands. The templars could then point to us and say we are no better than the previous regime since we allow no opposition.”
“So what are we supposed to do, sit idle while the templars plot against us?”
“No, we must not be idle,” said Sadira, “but we must act in subtle ways, using methods as covert and devious as theirs.” She sighed heavily. “Casting down a tyrant king and leading a revolution is much easier than running the government that replaces him. Believe me, not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could pass the responsibility to someone else.”
“But not to Timor!” Rikus said.
Sadira smiled. “No, not to Timor and his templars. Otherwise, it would all have been for nothing.” She patted the massive former gladiator on the shoulder. “In battle, there are none to match you, Rikus, but you must now learn to fight in a different sort of arena. And in this new mode of battle, your strength will give you no advantage. We must learn to fight using Timor’s weapons, only we must use them better.”
“What do you propose?” asked Rikus.
“We must keep an eye on Timor, and take steps to counter his devious machinations. And I think we would do well to keep an eye on this elfling, also.”
“My instincts tell me he is not what he seems.”
“Your instincts have always been good,” Sadira said. “He is obviously no herdsman. He has the build of a fighter, and the carriage of a ranger. There is also something in his gaze… something quite unsettling. I could detect magic on his blade, which is unlike any weapon I have ever seen, and he has a tigone for a pet, a beast no one has ever tamed before. No, he is no simple herdsman. The question is, what is he?”
“That is something I intend to find out personally,” Rikus said with determination.
“No, Rikus. With Timor plotting against us, I need you here,” she said. “He is too clever for me to deal with alone. Those proposals of his made a great deal of sense on the surface, and I could not think quickly enough to find any fault with them. Now they have passed, and if, indeed, they do turn things around in
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 coat-I ing 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 eat-, ing 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.”
Sorak smiled. “I can see why you have been made an officer,” he said. “But tell me, why should I avoid the Crystal Spider? What sort of place is it?”
“A gaming house,” said Zalcor. “The most notorious in all of Tyr.”
Sorak frowned. “What is a gaming house?”
Zalcor rolled his eyes. “If you do not know, then believe me, it is the last place on Athas you should be. It is a house of recreation, or at least that is what they call it, where games of chance are played for money, and other diversions are offered to those with the means to pay for them.”
“Games of chance?”
“Where have you lived all this time?” asked Zalcor, with amazement.
“In the Ringing Mountains,” Sorak said, seeing no reason why he should tell him.
“The Ringing Mountains? But, there are no villages up there, not even a small settlement, except for…” His voice trailed off. He shook his head. “No, that would be impossible. You are male.”
“You were telling me about games of chance,” said Sorak.
“Forget about it,” Zalcor told him. “You might win a few small wagers, but the odds will turn on you, for they always favor the house. Nor are the games always honest ones. If you were a gambler, I would merely caution you, but as you know nothing of such things, then I urge you most strongly to stay out of that damned place. You would lose everything you have, and like as not be knocked on the head or drugged and lose your sword, as well. A blade such as yours would fetch a high price in the elven market. You would stand about as much chance of surviving in there as I would in a den of tigones.”
“I see,” said Sorak.
Zalcor sighed resignedly. “You are going anyway.”
He shook his head. “I can see that. Well, do not say I did not warn you. Remember, that is the elven market district, and the guard does not trouble to patrol there often. We barely have enough men to keep the crime down in the warrens. If you go there, you are on your own.”
“I thank you for your advice, Captain,” Sorak said. “I shall consider it.”
“But you probably won’t take it.” Zalcor shrugged. “Suit yourself. I just hope you live long enough to collect whatever reward the council decides to give you, for it is probably all you will take home with you from Tyr.”
He rejoined his men, and they turned to march back to the central market district. Sorak stared up at the dilapidated inn for a long moment, then gazed down the street, looking toward the gaming house.
“Why ask for trouble?” Eyron said. “You heard what the captain said. We stand to lose everything we have.”
“On the other hand,” said Sorak, “we might also win.”
“Zalcor said the games are not always honest,” Eyron added.
“True, he did say that,” Sorak replied. “However, we have certain advantages in that regard, do we not, Guardian?”
“I could detect dishonesty,” she said, “and we will not find the Veiled Alliance by sitting in a room, alone.”
“My thoughts, precisely,” Sorak said. “And if the city guard does not patrol the elven market district, then what better place to find them?”
“I want to go!” Kivara said. “It sounds like fun!”
“It sounds dangerous, to me,” said Eyron.
The others kept their peace, leaving Sorak to decide. He thought about it only for a moment, then started walking toward the Crystal Spider.
Approaching the gates, Sorak ignored the beggars, who whined pitifully and held out their hands toward him, and he ignored the women who posed and beckoned to him. Instead, he walked purposefully toward the gaming house, wondering what he would find inside.
The half-elf gatekeeper’s eyes grew wide when he saw Tigra. “Stop!” he said, quickly retreating behind the safety of the gate. “You cannot bring that wildcat in here!”
“He will harm no one,” Sorak said. “Am I to take your word?” the gatekeeper replied. “Forget it. The beast stays outside.” “Tigra goes everywhere with me,” said Sorak. “Well, it isn’t coming in here!” “I have money.” Sorak jingled his purse. “You could have the entire city treasury for all I care. You are still not coming in with that creature!”
“What seems to be the trouble, Ankor?” asked a sultry, female voice from the shadows behind the gatekeeper. Sorak saw a cloaked and hooded figure approaching from the inner courtyard.
“No trouble, my lady, merely a herdsman trying to get in with his beast,” the half-elf gatekeeper replied. “Beast? What sort of beast?” The cloaked figure approached the gate and looked through. “Great dragon! Is that a tigone?”
“He is my friend,” said Sorak, perceiving by the gatekeeper’s attitude that this woman was in some position of authority here. “I have raised him from a cub, and he obeys me implicitly. He would not harm anyone, I assure you, unless someone attempts to harm me.”
She pulled back her hood and stepped up to the gate to get a better look at Sorak. He, in turn, got a better look at her, and saw that she was a striking, half-elf female, as tall as he was, with long, lustrous, black hair framing her face and cascading down her shoulders, emerald-green eyes, and delicate, sharply pronounced features. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw him, and she gave a tentative sniff, after which her eyes grew wider still.
