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Before he could enter the premises, however,
his attention was arrested by a low, penetrating hiss that issued
from the alley that separated the tavern from the stables. Guthram
paused and looked up and down the street. There was a mid-morning
laziness about the town that told him that it was the sort of place
where job opportunities were rare.
He turned to the alley and saw the
beggar crouching there, gesturing for him to approach. Guthram looked
past the beggar to the alley. It was too bright to be a hiding place
for the beggar's accomplices so it looked as if the beggar meant
him no harm. Besides, even if he were to be robbed, there was a
possibility that the robbers might take pity on his few possessions
and donate a coin or two of their own to help him on his way in
the world.
Stepping into the alley, he squatted
beside the beggar and said, “You hissed?” Immediately
he stood up and backed away again. The beggar's rags reeked of decay
and filth. His face was shadowed under a raggedy hood, but there
was enough to suggest a bright pair of eyes that stared up at him
with a bemused, ironic gleam.
“Down on your luck?” muttered
the beggar, his voice hoarse and gravelly.
“You think you can help me turn
it around?” said Guthram, letting disbelief creep into his
voice.
The beggar gestured with hands that
were gnarled and crooked with disease. “I need the help of
a desperate man. There's a wizard in town, passing through incognito.
He thinks his illusion spells are enough to turn away every questing
eye. He won't be expecting trouble.”
Guthram blinked at this sudden turn
of events. “What sort of trouble were you thinking of giving
him?”
“Nothing too hazardous,”
replied the beggar. “He's an old man, with a heavy freight
of gold. He shouldn't have to carry all that weight by himself.”
Guthram tried not to sound too excited.
He licked his lips to give himself time to think. His heart began
to thud in his chest. A wizard could be troublesome.
“How much gold?”
“A thousand gold shekels,”
replied the beggar.
“Each?” croaked Guthram.
“Tsk, tsk,” said the beggar.
“Greed is a millstone. Six hundred for me, and four hundred
for you.”
Guthram argued about the 60/40 split,
but his heart wasn't in it. Four hundred gold shekels meant five
or six head of cattle. Back in his father's village, he could be
in the marriage stakes with four cows. More than that was silk trimming
on the tunic.
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Finally he said to the beggar: “What
do I have to do to earn it?”
The beggar chuckled. “Draw close,
youngling, and let me put a wise head on young shoulders...”
As evening fell on Eth-Kazin, torches
were lit in the streets and thoroughfares by linkmen who ran from
torch to torch. Lanterns were lit in the taverns and on board the
dhows and barges riding at anchor on the wharves. With the lighting
of the lanterns, customers arrived to fill up the taverns and make
the air boisterous with their jests and drinking talk.
Guthram caught his first glimpse of
the town-watch - scarred veterans of many a tavern brawl. When they
glared at him in his cubbyhole where he had curled up to sleep through
the day, he hadn't the spirit to return the glare. When they turned
their backs he made an obscene gesture.
After making his plans, the beggar
had given him a few gerahs as loose change in order for him to remain
inconspicuous in the tavern. Guthram thought that this was a tale
worth telling some day - a beggar giving him money! The tavern was
called The Genie"s Lamps and the sign carried a particularly lurid
depiction of the genie in question, her twin lamps lighting the
way for any benighted traveler. Guthram dozed throughout the afternoon
in his cubbyhole where he nursed a jack of ale, sleeping off his
breakfast. He had three gerahs left - enough for one last pot of
poor ale - when he saw the Wizard enter.
Naturally, he looked nothing like
a wizard, but he matched the beggar's description of the man he
had to keep a look out for. The man wore a battle-hacked mercenary
harness. His helmet was patched and dented and hung at his belt
along with his double scimitars and broad-bladed, flame-edged dagger.
He wore a short black beard that was streaked with grey, and he
looked like the sort of man you don't want to pick a fight with.
His round shield carried a device on it: the pictogram of
The Black Cube, which denoted that he belonged to that band of religiously
fanatic mercenary warriors who combined bloodlust with sword-skills
to deadly effect. All in all, just the sort of disguise a wizard
would require in order to pass unmolested through the rougher parts
of the river-ports.
For a moment Guthram felt a nagging
doubt at the back of his mind. What if this beggar had set him up?
What if he created the required diversion and the wizard didn't
fall for it - and he was left to face the audience?
Then he thought of the money. If he
hadn't met the beggar, he would now be begging for coins himself
- either that or breaking his back at some menial job for a few
gerahs a day.
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