‘He said he would meet you at the inn by Unicorn Alley. Turn right outside the Keep until you reach the first market square, then turn left by the miller’s. Walk on through Baker’s Row until you reach the armoury repair shop, then turn right. That’s Unicorn Alley and the inn is at the far end.’
Druss asked the man to repeat the directions, then pushed himself from the wall and staggered out into the night. The stars were bright, the sky cloudless. He sucked in the crisp air and felt his stomach turn.
‘Damn this,’ he said angrily, and found a secluded spot by the Keep, away from the sentries, where he made himself vomit. Cold sweat covered his brow and his head ached as he pushed himself upright, but at least his stomach seemed more settled. He headed towards the first square, located the miller’s store and turned left. Already the smell of baking bread was coming from the ovens in Baker’s Row.
The smell made him retch again. Angry now at his condition, he hammered on the first door he came to. A short, fat baker in a white cotton apron opened the door and peered nervously at him.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘I am Druss. Do you have a loaf ready?’
‘It’s only just past midnight. I have some bread from yesterday, but if you wait for a while I will have fresh. What’s the matter? You look green.’
‘Just get me a loaf – and hurry!’ Druss clamped a hand to the door frame, pulling himself upright. What the hell was wrong with that wine? Or maybe it was the food. He hated rich food. Too many years on dried beef and raw vegetables. His body couldn’t take it, but it had never reacted like this before.
The man trotted back down the short hallway bearing a hefty chunk of black bread and a small phial.
‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘I have an ulcer and Calvar Syn says it settles the stomach faster than anything else.’ Gratefully Druss downed the contents of the phial. It tasted like charcoal. Then he tore a great bite from the bread, sliding gratefully to the floor with his back against the door. His stomach rebelled, but he gritted his teeth and finished the loaf; within a few minutes he was feeling better. His head ached like the devil and his vision was a little blurred, but his legs felt fine and he had strength enough to bluff his way through a short chat with Mendar.
‘My thanks, baker. What do I owe you?’
The baker was about to ask for two copper coins, but realised in time that the old man had no pockets visible, and no money sack. He sighed and said what was expected.
‘No money necessary from you, Druss. Naturally.’
‘Decent of you,’ said Druss.
‘You should get back to your quarters,’ said the baker. ‘And get a good night’s sleep.’ He was about to add that Druss was no youngster any more, but thought better of it.
‘Not yet. Got to see one of my officers.’
‘Ah, Mendar,’ said the baker, smiling.
‘How did you know?’
‘I saw him not twenty minutes since with three or four others heading down towards The Unicorn. We don’t see many officers here at this time of night. The Unicorn’s a soldier’s drinking house.’
‘Yes. Well, thanks again. I’ll be on my way.’
Druss stood in the doorway for a few moments after the baker had returned to his oven. If Mendar was with three or four others, they might expect him to join them for a drink, and he racked his brains to think of a reason for refusing. Unable to come up with a convincing excuse, he cursed and started down Baker’s Row.
All was darkness now and silence. The silence jarred him, but his head ached too hard to consider it.
Ahead he could see the anvil sign of the armoury repairer gleaming in the moonlight. He stopped again, blinking as the sign shimmered and distorted and shook his head.
Silence . . . What was it about the damned silence?
He walked on, ill at ease, loosening Snaga in her sheath more as a reflex habit than as a conscious awareness of danger. He turned right . . .