Troy Denning - The Obsidian Oracle

“Can any of your boats catch the fleet that left this morning?” he interrupted.

This silenced the small crowd. “Why would you want to?” asked Marda.

“A criminal from my city sailed on one of those ships,” explained Agis. “I must take him back to Tyr to answer for his crimes.”

“Let him go,” said Salust. “I promise you, he’ll find punishment enough with the fleet.”

“What do you mean?” Agis asked.

“The giants-”

Before Marda could explain further, a pair of Balican templars stepped onto the quay, leaving an escort of six half-giants behind at the ratany hedge. The sailors fell immediately silent, each man fixing his eyes on his work.

When the templars reached the group, one of them pointed at Agis. “You. How long have you been in Balic?” She was a hard-eyed woman with sour, harsh looking features.

“Let me think,” the noble replied. “How long has it been now?” He rubbed his chin, stalling for time as he prepared to use the Way. The energy flowed from his nexus slowly, for he still felt weak from the loss he had suffered in his thought-battle against Fylo.

“If you’ve been here longer than you can remember, then certainly you can tell us where you’re staying,” suggested the second templar, a blue-eyed man with curly yellow hair.

Agis pointed in the general direction of the harbor’s entrance, where he had seen a single large inn stretching along an entire block. He did not speak, however, knowing that the name he gave for the building would probably be incorrect. As in most cities of Athas, Balic’s sorcerer-king forbade common citizens the right to read. Consequently, the city’s trade signs depicted pictures or symbols suggesting the establishment’s name without actually providing it. So, while Agis remembered that the carving of a lion lying on its back hung on the inn’s wall, he had no way of knowing whether the name was the Dead Lion, the Sleeping Cat, or something entirely different.

When Agis did not volunteer the name, the female templar said, “There must be two dozen inns in that direction. Which one?”

“I’m thinking of the Lion,” Agis said, hoping an abbreviated name would suffice.

The woman’s eyes narrowed, but before she could press for more detail, Marda said, “He means the Lion’s Back, ma’am.”

“We didn’t ask you,” snapped the woman’s companion.

Marda lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to help. I’ve met milord there many a morning.”

The posture of both templars grew less tense, and they shrugged at each other. To Marda the woman said, “I’ll let your mistake pass this time, but let us know if you see any other strangers in the quarter. A Tyrian left his giant in the fields of House Balba, and the oaf refuses to leave. Lord Balba is offering five silvers to anyone who delivers the scoundrel to his mansion.”

With that, the two templars returned to their escort. As soon as they left the quay, every sailor in the group spat into the bay.

“My thanks for protecting me,” Agis said, secretly amused by the image of a Balican lord attempting to persuade the stubborn Fylo to leave his lands.

“We weren’t protecting you,” said Marda. “We were repaying the king for his ill treatment of us.”

“Andropinis won’t let more than five of us leave port in a day,” added Salust. “And when we get back, his templars confiscate half our cargo.” He nodded toward the shore, where the templars’ heads and shoulders protruded above the ratany hedge as they moved down the street.

“Tariffs,” growled another sailor. Again, they all spat into the bay.

Agis nodded in sympathy, then looked to Marda. “Could your bark catch the fleet carrying my criminal?”

The sailor shook his head. “Not mine, or the ship of any man here,” he answered. “But rest assured, no one on that fleet, including the man you seek, will live to set foot on solid land again. The giants’ll see to that.”

“Perhaps, but that won’t satisfy the people he’s wronged,” Agis said. “I must return him to stand before those whose laws he has broken.”

“Then you’ll have to hire a smuggler,” said Salust. “That’ll be no easy task for a stranger.”

Agis reached into the purse beneath his cloak, withdrawing a silver coin. “Perhaps you could help me?”

“I might show you where to look,” said Salust, reaching out to take the coin.

Marda slapped the hand down. “Don’t waste your silver, stranger. You can’t trust any smuggler who consorts with the likes of Salust.” He pointed toward one of the many buildings on the close-packed harbor front. “If you want to find one who won’t slit your throat for the coins in your purse, go to the Furled Sail tavern and ask for Nymos. He knows that side of the harbor better than most.”

“Many thanks.”

Agis started to hand the coin to Marda, but the sailor shook his head. “Save it for Nymos,” he said, smirking at Salust. “You’ll need it.”

The noble slipped his silver back into his purse, then stepped off the quay into the crowded harborside lane. Despite the ratany silt-break, several inches of pearly loess covered the walkways, and so much dust clung to the building placards that Agis could barely make out the pictures engraved on their surfaces. Nevertheless, he could usually tell the nature of the business he passed by peering inside. In the tackle shops, ropes, sails, oars, pulleys, and a thousand similar articles hung suspended from the ceiling, so that the patrons had to stoop over or push merchandise aside as they moved around. The warehouses contained huge bundles of untwined giant hair, stacks of rough-cut lumber, mounds of freshly shorn wool, and almost any product that could be traded for a profit. Only the taverns did not seem busy, with closed doors and window shutters fastened tight against blowing dust.

Agis came to a sign bearing the image of a sail furled over a yardarm. Like the other taverns, this one appeared closed, but the noble heard chairs scraping against stone as someone cleaned the floor. He knocked on the door, then stepped back to wait.

A moment later, an unshaven man with a round stomach and red nose peered out the half-opened door. In one hand he held a broom, in the other a sword of sharpened bone. “What?”

“I was told to ask for Nymos,” Agis replied.

“So?”

“I have something for him,” the noble said, withdrawing a silver coin from his purse.

The innkeeper’s face lit up. “Good,” he said, snatching the coin from Agis’s hand. “I’ll put this toward his bill.”

With that, the man pulled the door open and stepped aside, then waved the noble toward a ladder in the back of the inn. “I let him stay on the roof. Keeps the birds off.”

Agis climbed the stairs and stepped onto the inn’s roof. It was a relatively flat surface of baked clay, enclosed by a waist-high wall and littered with shattered broy mugs. In one corner, the sun-bleached bones of hundreds of dustgulls lay heaped around the blackened scar of a small cooking fire, with a water jug and a few pieces of chipped crockery sitting nearby. A short distance away, a canopy of untanned hide hung over a nest of gray straw.

At the front wall stood a jozhal. The short, two-legged reptile had cocked his slender head to one side, and he held a three-fingered hand cupped to his ear slit as though listening to something in the street below. He had an elongated snout full of needle-sharp teeth, a serpentine neck topped by a jagged crest of hide, and a long, skinny tail. In contrast to his bony arms, he had huge, powerful legs, each ending in a three-clawed foot. His eyes were covered with the milky film of blindness, and his free hand rested atop a slender walking stick.