That was how it came about that on his first night in Sanctuary the foreigner dined with the Noble Shafralain and family in their fine big manse, waited upon by silent servants in beige and maroon. He did an amazingly superb job of telling little about himself and wandering around the outskirts of questions and answers, and he would not stay the night. Shafralain was glad of that, considering his marvelously dimpled daughter’s fascination with this unusual and quite mysterious fellow.
Strick knew that. It was precisely why he declined the invitation and departed to walk alone through the darkness of that divided city.
Although Fulcris walked into the Golden Oasis before noon next day, he found
Strick there before him. The reason was simple: Strick had spent the night here.
He had risen relatively early to descend for breakfast. Since then he had done no talking, asked few questions, and done a lot of listening. Seated privily at a small, shining table in the well-kept main room, the two newcomers sipped watered wine and shared new-gained knowledge of a damned city.
The place was a mess. Too many people had grabbily tried to treat it as their own and, greedy for power and control, indiscriminately introduced too many random factors. Meanwhile supposed rulers, anointed and otherwise, took no firm stand and failed to exercise the control they were supposed to have and wield.
“Sanctuary,” Fulcris said, “is ruled by King Chaos.”
“Black magic,” Strick said morosely, looking ill. “The bot-tomness of humanity’s inhumanity.”