[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Jason ignored him. The man took a too-long moment deciding whether or not to
take offense, decided against it and then struck up a conversation with the
man in front of him.
Doria had warned Jason about getting involved in idle chatter. It wasn't a
deliberate interrogation he had to worry about he knew enough about the
fictitous Taren ip Therranj to answer questions but an accidental slip.
It was a deceptively pretty building, or set of buildings: four connected
three-storied structures of glistening white marble, surrounding an interior
courtyard. Each of the linked buildings was supported by a pair of high fluted
columns, guarding an entry arch.
He had seen the spreading branches of an ancient oak through an archway. It
looked gorgeous, rising cleanly into the sky.
But the facade faded at the edges. A pair of rag-clad Mel women, the younger
about Jason's age, the other perhaps a decade older, were on their hands and
knees a short way down the corridor to
Jason's left, scrubbing the floor under the watchful eye of a half-tunic-clad
boy of about fifteen or so, who, every now and then, snapped his many-stranded
whip to draw their attention to missed spots, real or not.
Jason wasn't sure what the purpose of it all was, or if the boy was merely
being cruel to no purpose. Blood was trickling down the back of the younger of
the two women, staining the marble, causing the slaver to redouble his
efforts.
Jason turned his face away, but the sound persisted.
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The line in front of him slowly shrank. Over the background noise of whip
cracks and stifled screams, the guard at the door looked into the room beyond
and nodded.
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The grizzled soldier in front of him had been gone only a few moments when the
guard nodded at
Jason.
"Next. Taren ip Therranj."
Jason followed the guard's gesture into the outer room, where a skinny,
cringing man knelt in front of him with a damp rag.
"To wash your feet," the guard explained, as the slave began scrubbing at
Jason's sandals and feet.
"Must mind the carpeting, even in the Stranger's Room."
The soap felt slimy between his toes, Jason forced himself not to let the
disgust he felt show in his face.
"Lift your arms," the guard said, patting Jason down thoroughly, checking even
the contents of
Jason's purse, and, after a quick explanatory gesture, even checking to be
sure that there was nothing in Jason's scabbard other than his sword.
"Nice blade," the guard said, slipping Jason's saber back into its scabbard
and handing it to Jason.
"You can keep that; I'll need the beltknife."
Jason handed over his bowie. He wasn't worried that the Nehera markings on
sword or bowie would expose him; smiths all over were trying to copy the dwarf
smith's striations, even if they couldn't get quite the same strength and
sharpness from their own inferior steel or quite the same edge from imported
Home wootz.
"And now," the guard said, knocking a staccato tattoo against the oaken door,
"they should be ready for you."
He wasn't sure what he had expected, but this wasn't it.
The room was about as he'd thought it would be: high ceiling above, plush
crimson carpet below, the pile tickling his ankles. One wall was windowed, the
glass far clearer, less mottled than the best that Home and Holtun-Bieme could
boast of revealed a huge oak that stood in the courtyard between the buildings
that made up the guildhall.
The other wall was covered with a faded tapestry. Or perhaps it wasn't really
a tapestry; the endless scenes of buxom young women in iron collars and chains
kneeling before muscular, whip-
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odd progression it could have been some sort of complex print.
The two guards to either side of the large padded chair impressed Jason. Even
the slightly smaller one was larger than Father; they were armored from
greaves to helmet; each man held a short fighting spear easily, comfortably.
Jason wasn't surprised that Ahrmin would have a bodyguard under these
circumstances, it would otherwise have been too easy for Karl to send an
assassin into Ahrmin's presence.
Between the two, sitting comfortably in the chair, was a small man in a dark
slaver's robe.
He was repulsive, of course. What Jason could see of the side of his face that
the slaver turned away was an awful brown mass; the right side of his cheek
was gone, revealing gapped, yellowing teeth and burned gums. A claw of a right
hand was almost concealed in the folds of his robes.
Jason had expected something more than a crippled little man in a chair. From
all that he had heard about Ahrmin from him, from Tennetty, from Valeran, from
Mother Jason had expected an aura, an atmosphere of evil to surround him.
There was nothing of the sort. "Taren ip Therranj?" Ahrmin asked, consulting a
sheet of paper in his lap. "Swordsman, it says."
Jason nodded. "I am."
"Good. You're willing to take a risk for good pay?"
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"Yes."
Ahrmin nodded, turning to the guard on his left. "Fenrius, I like the looks of
this one."
"Your pardon, Master Ahrmin," the big man said, "but our manifest is only
halfway full, and the day is no longer young. We need to hire a cook, and at
least another "
"Yes, yes, it's just that I used to be a swordsman, when I was younger. I like
to talk to the type."
He gestured to Jason. "Show me something."
"I fight two-swords-style. The guard outside took my second." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]