He locked stares with Zip and racked his memory for a competent, but foolhardy, midwife.
Molin Torchholder had told him, back when he’d begun taking orders from the priest, that in the Rankan Empire a place’s population was usually about fifteen times its tax roll. Until the coming of the Beysib, the Prince had collected taxes, or tried to collect taxes, from some four hundred citizens: Say 6,000 people in the city, not counting Beysibs and newcomers, and Walegrin knew, or could recognize, most of them.
He had a memory for faces and names; had made a hobby of it since his childhood right here in Sanctuary: Moreover his mind was sufficiently flexible to recognize people years after he’d last seen them. He’d recognized Zip, remembering him as a street tough about his own age-always surrounded by followers, always fighting, never winning. He’d recognized another not long ago: a lady living in moderate style and comfort near Weaver’s Way.
“Maybe,” he told them and headed for the door.
“I’ll be going with you,” Zip countered and preceded him down the stairs.
They left a different way than they’d come, squat-walking through a gap Walegrin would not have noticed without Zip to lead him. The safe-house shared a wall with a dilapidated warehouse. A warehouse which should have been empty, judging by the way Zip recoiled when they confronted the burning lamps and the little man coming toward them.
“Muznut!” Zip shouted and the bald little man came to a shame-faced stop.
Dressed in drab Sanctuary rags, it took Walegrin a moment to realize he was actually looking at a Beysib who was well-known to, if not exactly friendly with, the PFLS leader. He didn’t recognize the foreigner, but he’d know him the next time they crossed paths.