Shafralain clicked in his cheek while jiggling his reins of shining red leather.
His horse paced a few feet before being reined about so that its rider could face the man from Firaqa.
“Difference! A few coppers! I just heard astonishing honesty! Certainly you are not a banker! But… do you have ten silver coins, Strick?”
Strick nodded lazily.
“We will exchange ten for ten as soon as we reach my home, sir!”
“Your pardon. Noble, but-let’s do it now. Just in case.”
Shafralain cocked his head. “Just in case of what?”
Strick tapped the armband he had slipped on. Even below his elbow, it was snug.
“Just in case your home is in another area of protection.”
“Damn!”
“Agreed.”
While Fulcris watched, more astonished than nervous now, the two men solemnly exchanged ten coins of silver, while sitting their mounts on a street in
Sanctuary. At least they were as discreet as possible about what they were doing. In daylight, in the street. In the town called Thieves’ World!
Shafralain turned to Fulcris. “Caravaner,” he said, “thank you and good fortune.”
Since that was an obvious dismissal, Fulcris touched a finger to his forehead, nodded, and started to rein away.
“Meet you at the Golden Oasis at noon tomorrow for a cup of something,” the by now familiar voice said quietly, and Fulcris nodded and smiled as he rode on into a city suddenly sinister. Wearing a cloth brassard as “protection.”
Strick was right about the city’s “security” zones. By the time they reached the imposing mansion on its walled estate, they had collected another set of armbands and the noble owed more silver to the quiet man from Firaqa.