suspected an ambush at least.
Shrugging, he turned around and found three heavily built men standing in the alley’s entrance.
“Hai! Looking for someone?”
“Yes.” Dannyl strode toward them. All wore heavy long-coats and gloves. The one at the center bore a scar down one cheek. They returned his stare coldly.
Just your average thug,
Dannyl mused. Perhaps this
was
an ambush.
He stopped a few paces away, then glanced back down the alley and smiled. “So this is the slaughterhouse. How appropriate. Are you my escort now?”
The middle thug held out his hand.
“For a price.”
“I gave my money to the man at The Bold Knife.”
The thug frowned. “You want a knife?”
“No.” Dannyl sighed. “I want to talk to the Thieves.”
The man looked at his companions, who were grinning. “Which one?”
“The one with the widest influence.”
The thug at the center chuckled. “That’d be Gorin.” One of his companions smothered a laugh. Still grinning, the leader gestured for Dannyl to follow him. “Come with me.”
The other two stepped aside. Dannyl followed his new guide to the entrance of a wider street. Glancing back, he saw that the others were watching him, still smiling broadly.
A series of twisting streets and alleys followed. Dannyl began to wonder if the back of every baker, leather-merchant, tailor and bolhouse looked the same. Then he recognized a sign, and stopped in his tracks.
“We’ve been here before. Why are you leading me in circles?”
The thug turned and regarded Dannyl, then turned and moved to the nearby wall. Bending down, he grasped the edge of a ventilation grille and pulled. It swung forward.
The thug gestured to the hole. “You first.”
Dannyl crouched and looked inside. He could see nothing. Resisting the temptation to create a globe light, he put a leg into the hole, but found only emptiness where he expected the floor to be. He looked up at his guide.
“The street’s ‘bout chest height,” the thug told him. “Go on.”
Grasping the edge of the hole, Dannyl climbed through. He found a ledge to brace himself on, then drew his other leg through and lowered it until his foot reached the floor. Stepping back, his shoulder met a wall. The thug slipped into the passage with practiced ease. Unable to see much more than the man’s shape within the dim light, Dannyl kept his distance.
“Follow my footsteps,” the man said. As he started down the passage, Dannyl walked a few paces behind, trailing his hands along the walls on either side. They walked for several minutes, taking numerous turns, then the footsteps in front of Dannyl stopped and he heard a rapping from somewhere close by.
“You’ve got a long way to go,” the thug said. “You sure ‘bout this? You can change your mind now and I’ll I take you back.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Dannyl asked.
“You just might, that’s all.”
A sliver of light appeared, then widened beside them. Within it stood a silhouette of another man. In the glare Dannyl could not make out the man’s face.
“This one’s for Gorin,” the thug said. He looked at Dannyl, made a quick gesture, then turned and disappeared into the shadows.
“Gorin, eh?” the man in the doorway said. The voice could have belonged to a man anywhere between twenty and sixty years. “What is your name?”
“Larkin.”
“What is your profession?”
“I sell simba mats.” Mat-making houses had sprung up all over Imardin in the last few years.
“A competitive market.”
“You’re telling me?”
The man grunted.
“Why you want to talk to Gorin?”
“That’s for Gorin to know.”
“Of course.” The man shrugged, then reached up to the inner wall of the room.
“Turn away from me,” he ordered. “From here, you go blindfold.”
Dannyl hesitated before reluctantly turning around. He had expected something like this. A piece of cloth dropped over his eyes, and he felt the man knot it behind his head. The faint
Shrugging, he turned around and found three heavily built men standing in the alley’s entrance.
“Hai! Looking for someone?”
“Yes.” Dannyl strode toward them. All wore heavy long-coats and gloves. The one at the center bore a scar down one cheek. They returned his stare coldly.
Just your average thug,
Dannyl mused. Perhaps this
was
an ambush.
He stopped a few paces away, then glanced back down the alley and smiled. “So this is the slaughterhouse. How appropriate. Are you my escort now?”
The middle thug held out his hand.
“For a price.”
“I gave my money to the man at The Bold Knife.”
The thug frowned. “You want a knife?”
“No.” Dannyl sighed. “I want to talk to the Thieves.”
The man looked at his companions, who were grinning. “Which one?”
“The one with the widest influence.”
The thug at the center chuckled. “That’d be Gorin.” One of his companions smothered a laugh. Still grinning, the leader gestured for Dannyl to follow him. “Come with me.”
The other two stepped aside. Dannyl followed his new guide to the entrance of a wider street. Glancing back, he saw that the others were watching him, still smiling broadly.
A series of twisting streets and alleys followed. Dannyl began to wonder if the back of every baker, leather-merchant, tailor and bolhouse looked the same. Then he recognized a sign, and stopped in his tracks.
“We’ve been here before. Why are you leading me in circles?”
The thug turned and regarded Dannyl, then turned and moved to the nearby wall. Bending down, he grasped the edge of a ventilation grille and pulled. It swung forward.
The thug gestured to the hole. “You first.”
Dannyl crouched and looked inside. He could see nothing. Resisting the temptation to create a globe light, he put a leg into the hole, but found only emptiness where he expected the floor to be. He looked up at his guide.
“The street’s ‘bout chest height,” the thug told him. “Go on.”
Grasping the edge of the hole, Dannyl climbed through. He found a ledge to brace himself on, then drew his other leg through and lowered it until his foot reached the floor. Stepping back, his shoulder met a wall. The thug slipped into the passage with practiced ease. Unable to see much more than the man’s shape within the dim light, Dannyl kept his distance.
“Follow my footsteps,” the man said. As he started down the passage, Dannyl walked a few paces behind, trailing his hands along the walls on either side. They walked for several minutes, taking numerous turns, then the footsteps in front of Dannyl stopped and he heard a rapping from somewhere close by.
“You’ve got a long way to go,” the thug said. “You sure ‘bout this? You can change your mind now and I’ll I take you back.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Dannyl asked.
“You just might, that’s all.”
A sliver of light appeared, then widened beside them. Within it stood a silhouette of another man. In the glare Dannyl could not make out the man’s face.
“This one’s for Gorin,” the thug said. He looked at Dannyl, made a quick gesture, then turned and disappeared into the shadows.
“Gorin, eh?” the man in the doorway said. The voice could have belonged to a man anywhere between twenty and sixty years. “What is your name?”
“Larkin.”
“What is your profession?”
“I sell simba mats.” Mat-making houses had sprung up all over Imardin in the last few years.
“A competitive market.”
“You’re telling me?”
The man grunted.
“Why you want to talk to Gorin?”
“That’s for Gorin to know.”
“Of course.” The man shrugged, then reached up to the inner wall of the room.
“Turn away from me,” he ordered. “From here, you go blindfold.”
Dannyl hesitated before reluctantly turning around. He had expected something like this. A piece of cloth dropped over his eyes, and he felt the man knot it behind his head. The faint
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