A rat scuttled over his foot but Talisman did not move. The enemy were close. Enemy? These scum from the poorest quarter of Gulgothir could hardly be considered worthy of the title. They were merely filling time in their worthless existence by hunting a Nadir tribesman through their vermin-infested streets; enjoying a transient moment of entertainment to brighten their poverty-stricken lives. He cursed again. Nosta Khan had warned him of the gangs, telling him which areas to avoid, though Talisman had barely listened. But then he had never visited a city as large as Gulgothir, and had no idea how easily a man could become lost within its warrens.
The sound of running feet came to him, and his hands clenched into fists. If they found him here they would kill him.
‘Did you see where he went?’ came a guttural voice.
‘Nah! What about down there?’
‘You three take the alley, we’ll cut through Tavern Walk and meet you in the square.’
Drawing his hood around his face, leaving only his dark eyes showing, Talisman waited. The first of the three men ran past his hiding-place, then the second. But the third glanced in his direction – and spotted him. Talisman leapt forward. The man lunged with a knife, but Talisman side-stepped and hammered his fist into the attacker’s face. The man stumbled back as Talisman darted to the left and sprinted into another alleyway.
‘He’s here! He’s here!’ shouted the attacker.
Ahead was a wall around eight feet high. Talisman jumped, curling his fingers over the top and scrambling up. Beyond was a moonlit garden. Dropping to the grass, he ran to a second wall, and scaled this also. On the other side was a narrow road; landing lightly he loped along it, his anger mounting. It shamed him to run from these soft, round-eyed Southerners.
He came to an intersection and cut to the north. There was no sound of pursuit, but he did not relax. He had no idea where he was, all of these foul buildings looked the same. Nosta Khan had told him to seek out the home of Chorin-Tsu, the Embalmer, which was on the Street of Weavers in the north-west quarter of the city. But where am I now? thought the tribesman.
A tall man moved from the shadows, a rust-pitted knife in his right hand. ‘Got you, you little Nadir bas-tard!’ he said. Talisman gazed into the man’s cruel eyes and his anger rose, cold and all engulfing.
‘What you have found,’ said Talisman, ‘is death.’
Knife-hand raised, the man ran in and stabbed down towards Talisman’s neck. But Talisman swayed to the right, his left forearm sweeping up to block the attacker’s wrist. In the same flowing movement his right arm came up behind the man’s shoulder, then with a savage jerk he brought his weight down on the knife-arm – which snapped at the elbow. The man screamed and dropped the knife. Releasing him Talisman swept up the blade, ramming it to the hilt between the man’s ribs. Dragging back on his victim’s greasy hair, Talisman’s dark eyes fixed on the terrified face. ‘May you rot in many Hells,’ whispered the Nadir, twisting the knife-blade. The mortally wounded man’s mouth opened for one last scream of pain – but he died before he could draw breath.
Releasing the body, Talisman wiped the knife clean of blood on the man’s filthy tunic and moved on into the darkness. All was silent here. Walls towered on both sides of him, decorated with lines of shuttered windows. Talisman emerged on to a wider alley, no more than sixty yards long, and saw glimmering lights from the windows of a tavern. Hiding the knife beneath his hooded cloak he walked on. The tavern door opened and a big man with a square-cut black beard stepped into sight. Talisman approached him.
‘Your pardon, Lord,’ said the Nadir, the words tasting like acid upon the tongue, ‘but could you direct me to the Street of Weavers?’
‘Laddie,’ said the man, slumping drunkenly to an oak bench, ‘I’d be surprised if I could find my own way home. I’m a stranger here myself and have been lost in this city maze more than once tonight. By Heaven, I don’t know why anyone would want to live in such a place. Do you?’