Turn 93

Ibn Fadil mutters something uncomplimentary about the locals, but he is paying more attention to their surroundings, trying to see if that nosy youth is by chance lurking in the background; there is no sign of him at the moment.
    Val also shows signs of unease as they return to the women's "accommodations."
    "What, or whom, exactly are you looking for?" he asks ibn Fadil in hushed tones as they continue along. "Think there will be another attack? And while we're at it, what *was* that all about?!"
    "No idea," he says, answering the last questions first. "I think I have met someone who knows, but I will have to find him again."
    "That may present something of a challenge," Nyala notes.
    "Not necessarily," he answers blandly. "He was watching our set-to from a third floor window. In a few moments I will double back and find out if he is still there. If you have no objection, Captain."
    Unsure of the situation still, Val looks to Nyala for some indication he should not let ibn Fadil do this, then reluctantly, he nods assent. They do need to know what's going on...
    "Be careful," Val says quietly, continuing on without looking at the Zakharan.
    In a particularly shadowy street, the Zakharan peels off and vanishes. He circles back, as quietly and invisibly as possible, to the street where the episode took place, and approaches with caution, watching and listening to see what is going on.
    It's still kind of crowded and noisy, with guards running around looking for the attackers and not doing much but get in each others' way. Eventually they seem to have satisfied themselves that the men are not lurking anywhere about, and gather into somewhat larger groups to make a foray into a corner of town the visitors have so far largely avoided. Quiet descends once again.
    He watches for a bit longer, watching the building the youth was in, just in case he (or anyone else) was waiting for the fuss to be over before coming out, but that does not seem to be the case.
    He eases up to the building's door and finds it firmly barred. Looks around once more, gives a small sigh, and knocks on the door.
    Response is quick; no doubt the dwellers were awakened by all the ruckus. "Who's there?" a gruff voice wants to know.
    In for a penny... "Yusuf ibn Fadil Marwan. I would like to talk with the young man who spoke to me through the window not long ago."
    "What? Ye're drunk, man, be off home." The confusion sounds genuine....
    "Listen," he says patiently, "being attacked in the street outside your door was annoying, but not quite enough that I told the guardsmen this young man watched the whole thing. But I would like to speak with him myself."
    The door opens a crack. A pair of wary eyes regard him for a moment; their owner grunts. "Ain't nobody up there. Not supposed to be.... Bide." He slams the door; ibn Fadil can hear aggravated muttering and heavy footfalls making their way up through the house, then returning. "As I said, ain't no one there. Now off with you or I'll call the watch."
    "Hmm. Well, thank you for your time all the same." He nods politely and walks away. If he had known it was going to be useful, he reflects, he could have tried to get the lad's name the other day. He resumes inconspicuousness and finds the back of the house in question, just in case there's some obvious sign that the youth left that way. There is another window on that side. And though it's a bit hard to see given the angle and the darkness, he thinks it would be possible for someone agile to have gone out it, and over a couple of roofs.
    Then, in the absence of any useful ideas, he drifts quietly along to look for trouble - that is, going in the direction the guardsmen went. Does this town even have a nightlife, he wonders?
    There are some taverns open, and a couple of fights going on in them. Not much by way of high culture. He is making his way into a part of town where the buildings are in poor repair and the street side shrines few. The streets here meander randomly, and are narrower as well; he can reach out his arms and easily touch the buildings on each side.
    From what he can see, the guards don't seem to be having any luck; not surprising in this warren. Someone else is, though; he can hear a single set of feet squeaking their way through the snow behind him -- it is hard to move quietly in all this.
    "Hullo again. Change your mind?" the now-familiar voice inquires.
    He turns to face this increasingly interesting person. "About not mentioning you to the guardsmen? Not yet."
     "Well, that's some thanks. You needn't bother, I was just leaving."
    "Eh? I meant that I had not mentioned you, and have no plans to do so." "Oh. Well actually what I meant was, change your mind about getting rid of that lot. It's a little late if so, I don't know where they went." The figure stopped a wary distance away.
    "At the moment I just want to know *who* they are. Maybe even what interests they represent. Then I can decide if they need killing or not." He is wary but not showing it.
    "Oh, that. They work for Stoat. He sort of runs a lot of this." He gestures around at the decrepit neighborhood. Ibn Fadil edits out an ironic remark on that. "Do Stoat's people usually go around in groups of five attacking people?"
    "Not usually five, but you're pretty well-armed." The young man, or boy, it's hard to tell, is wearing a pack.
     He thinks for a moment, using the pause to listen for any other people nearby. "I would not have guessed that your city had a problem with robbery."
    "Well, I've noticed that a lot in life depends on where you are. Some do, some don't."
    There's no one approaching, although there are distant noises of various sorts, some possibly the still-searching guards.
    Not sure what to make of that remark, the half-elf redirects the conversation. "Do *you* work for Stoat?"
    "In the most nice and accurate sense of the word, no. I think he's going to be more than a little pissed off at me, actually." He sighs a little, shakes his head, and flashes a bright smile. "Ah, well. The world awaits! Good luck to you and your comrades."
    "Traveling on foot in winter is dangerous," ibn Fadil observes hastily.
    "So is staying here."
    "How would you like to visit the castle? I think I should like to talk to my captain before you disappear."
    "I'd love to, but ever since I was small I've had an irrational fear of being surrounded by heavily armed men...."
    "Do they have any reason to detain you? That they would know of, that is."
    "Not that I know of, but I've already done a few stupid things today, I think I'd better quit while I can."
    "Either I am being too obtuse, or you are not so clever as I thought," the half-elf remarks. "Would you like a chance to travel among the spheres, by which I mean to other worlds, or not?"
    "Er... I beg your pardon?" Upon repetition, "That's what I thought you said. That's certainly an... interesting thought." He hesitates. "Worth talking about, no doubt."
    "We can talk some place warm," ibn Fadil says firmly. "Like at the castle, where Captain Valarin is, who is the one who gets to say yes or no to this idea." At the very least, he reflects, they might be able to learn a bit more about this Stoat and his connections. "If he says no," he adds, "I think I can talk him into taking you with us as far as the capitol." Can the lad resist a good chance of a trip in a flying ship?
    "That does have several clear advantages over walking...."
    "By the way, do you have a name?"
    "Michal. And I believe the castle is this way...."

* * *

    "Master Alais, what, pray tell, is an orange smith?" Pham wants to know.
    "A smith that works in brass or bronze."
    "Still, normally such creatures would stay well into the primeval forest, for they fear the cities of men. They fear the..." Pham strikes his forehead. "Of course. Master Alais, you know this - what's the biggest fear that the fey have?" Pham looks to the mage expectantly, but then before he can get the answer out "Cold iron of course! On a rockball like this there would be little to contain them!"
    "It's possible, but let's try to get some more evidence before we go chasing after unsupported theories. We must get closer to the scene of the evidence. Tomek, tomorrow you must lead Brother Pham and I to the site of this murder."
    He blinks. "Sir, that's several days travel in summer! Even assuming I could find it again."
    "Not a problem," Emmett assures him. "See, we've got this ship."
    He looks a little green at the thought, but says, "If you really think it's worth it... I'll ask the captain."
    And so, at a thoroughly unholy hour of the morning, plans are made. Val isn't thrilled, but assents to their use of the ship for a couple of days to check out Tomek's story. If they can solve this little problem, or at least turn up some useful information, that might be just what they need to expedite moving up the chain of authority here. "Take Hiro, too, in case there's any trouble," he adds. "Yestin, ibn Fadil and I should be able to manage here. I'll get things sorted out with His Lordship."
    That leaves the question of Michal, who in better light turns out to be a quite unprepossessing young man--in his early teens, as best as ibn Fadil can judge, short for these parts (still a bit taller than the half-elf, of course) and painfully thin. Ibn Fadil can only surmise that he's survived here on a combination of wits and charm; certainly not muscle.
    It's a busy day in Myrr. Shortly after dawn, the bodies of the murdered men are burned on massive pyres. Most of the town turns out to witness the burning, but there is little evidence of emotion; the actual funeral ceremonies were conducted privately, earlier in the morning. Because the dead were from wealthy families, the ashes are placed in brass containers sealed with iron, and taken to an inner recess of the temple.
    Late in the afternoon, drums beat around the city, announcing a column of mounted men approaching. Their banners are similar to that flying over the castle; His Lordship's eldest son has arrived, with a small retinue. They had planned to be in the city much sooner, he explains, but one of the horses threw a shoe and another came up lame that morning... townsfolk nod their heads. The curse is already at work, it seems, blamed for everything from dry cows to dropped plates.
    Dorek's arrival also means that, with many apologies, the starfarers have to find some new lodgings.
    And that night, of course, there is the banquet....
    

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