down on the cobblestones, they won’t.’ He opened the inset door. ‘After you, my Lord,’ he said, bowing.
They passed through a cluttered storeroom and came out into a shabby-looking tavern. A century or so of dust clouded the single window, and the straw on the floor was mouldy. The room smelled of stale beer and spilled wine and vomit. The low ceiling was draped with cobwebs, and the rough tables and benches were battered and tired-looking. There were only three people in the place, a sour-looking tavern keeper, a drunken man with his head cradled in his arms on a table by the door, and a blowsy-looking whore in a red dress dozing in the corner.
Kalten went to the door and looked out into the street. ‘It’s still a little underpopulated out there,’ he grunted. ‘Let’s have a tankard or two while we wait for the neighbourhood to wake up.’
‘Why not have some breakfast instead?’
‘That’s what I said.’
They sat at one of the tables, and the tavern keeper came over, giving no hint that he recognized them as Pandions. He made an ineffective swipe at a puddle of spilled beer on the table with a filthy rag. ‘What would you like?’ His voice had a sullen, unfriendly tone.
‘Beer,’ Kalten replied.
‘Bring us a little bread and cheese, too,’ Sparhawk added.
The tavern keeper grunted and left them.
‘Where was Krager when you saw him?’ Kalten asked quietly.
‘In that square near the west gate.’
‘That’s a shabby part of town.’
‘Krager’s a shabby sort of person.’
‘We could start there, I suppose, but this might take a while. Krager could be down just about any rat hole in Cimmura.’
‘Did you have anything else more pressing to do?’
The whore in the red dress hauled herself wearily to her feet and shuffled across the straw-covered floor to their table. ‘I don’t suppose either of you fine gentlemen would care for a bit of a frolic?’ she asked in a bored-sounding voice. One of her front teeth was missing, and her red dress was cut very low in front. Perfunctorily she leaned forward to offer them a view of her flabby-looking breasts.
‘It’s a bit early, little sister,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Thanks all the same.’
‘How’s business?’ Kalten asked her.
‘Slow. It’s always slow in the morning.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you could see your way clear to offer a girl something to drink?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Why not?’ Kalten replied. ‘Tavern keeper,’ he called, ‘bring the lady one, too.’
‘Thanks, my Lord,’ the whore said. She looked around the tavern. This is a sorry place,’ she said with a certain amount of resignation in her voice. ‘I wouldn’t even come in here – except that I don’t like to work the streets.’ She sighed. ‘Do you know something?’ she said. ‘My feet hurt. Isn’t that a strange thing to happen to someone in my profession? You’d think it would be my back. Thanks again, my Lord.’ She turned and shuffled back to the table where she had been sitting.
‘I like talking with whores,’ Kalten said. ‘They’ve got a nice, uncomplicated view of life.’
‘That’s a strange hobby for a Church Knight.’
‘God hired me as a fighting man, Sparhawk, not as a monk. I fight whenever He tells me to, but the rest of my time is my own.’
The tavern keeper brought them tankards of beer and a plate with bread and cheese on it. They sat eating and talking quietly.
After about an hour the tavern had attracted several more customers – sweat-smelling workmen who had slipped away from their chores and a few of the keepers of nearby shops. Sparhawk rose, went to the door and looked out. Although the narrow back street was not exactly teeming with traffic, there were enough people moving back and forth to provide some measure of concealment. Sparhawk returned to the table. ‘I think it’s time to be on our way, my Lord,’ he said to Kalten. He picked up his box.
‘Right,’ Kalten replied. He drained his tankard and rose to his feet, swaying slightly and with his hat on the back of his head. He stumbled a few times on the way to the door and he was reeling just a bit as he led the way out into the street. Sparhawk followed him with the box once again on his shoulder. ‘Aren’t you overdoing that just a little?’ he muttered to his friend when they turned the corner.
‘I’m just a typical drunken courtier, Sparhawk. We’ve just come out of a tavern.’
‘We’re well past it now. If you act too drunk, you’ll attract attention. I think it’s time for a miraculous recovery.’
‘You’re taking all the fun out of this, Sparhawk,’ Kalten complained. He stopped staggering and straightened his white-plumed hat.
They moved on through the busy streets with Sparhawk trailing respectfully behind his friend as a good squire would.
When they reached another intersection, Sparhawk felt a familiar prickling of his skin. He set down his wooden box and wiped at his brow with the sleeve of his smock.
‘What’s the matter?’ Kalten asked, also stopping.
‘The case is heavy, my Lord,’ Sparhawk explained in a voice loud enough to be heard by passers-by. Then he spoke in a half-whisper. ‘We’re being watched,’ he said as his eyes swept the sides of the street.
The robed and hooded figure was in an upper floor window, partially concealed behind a thick green drape. It looked very much like the one that had watched him in the rain-wet streets the night he had first arrived back in Cimmura.
‘Have you located him?’ Kalten asked quietly, making some show of adjusting the collar of his pink cloak.
Sparhawk grunted, raising the box to his shoulder again. ‘Upper floor window over the chandler’s shop.’
‘Let’s be off then, my man,’ Kalten said in a louder voice. ‘The day’s wearing on.’ As he started on up the street, he cast a quick, furtive glance at the green-draped window.
They rounded another corner. ‘Odd-looking sort, wasn’t he?’ Kalten noted. ‘Most people don’t wear hoods when they’re indoors.’
‘Maybe he’s got something to hide.’
‘Do you think he recognized us?’
‘It’s hard to say. I’m not positive, but I think he was the same one who was watching me the night I came into town. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I could feel him, and this one feels just about the same.’
‘Would magic penetrate these disguises?’
‘Easily. Magic sees the man, not the clothes. Let’s go down a few alleys and see if we can shake him off in case he decides to follow us.’
‘Right.’
It was nearly noon when they reached the square near the west gate where Sparhawk had seen Krager. They split up there. Sparhawk went in one direction and Kalten the other. They questioned the keepers of the brightly coloured booths and the more sedate shops closely, describing Krager in some detail. On the far side of the square, Sparhawk rejoined his friend. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.
Kalten nodded. ‘There’s a wine merchant over there who says that a man who looks like Krager comes in three or four times a day to buy a flagon of Arcian red.’
‘That’s Krager’s drink, all right.’ Sparhawk grinned. If Martel finds out that he’s drinking again, he’ll reach down his throat and pull his heart out.’
‘Can you actually do that to a man?’
‘You can if your arm’s long enough,