departed with her little leather bag clutched in one greasy hand, Stulwig
hastily put on his street boots. Grabbed his stave. And, moments later, was
heading down the stairs two at a time.
Arrived at the bottom; naturally, he paused. And peered forth cautiously. The
narrow street, as he now saw it, pointed both left and right. The nearest
crossing was an alleyway to the left. And Stulwig presumed, as his gaze flicked
back and forth, Illyra, on her leave-taking that morning, had turned up that
alley.
-Though it was still not clear why she had gone left when her stall was to the
right. Going by the alley was, for her, a long, devious route home…
His own destination, already decided, required Stulwig to pass her stall. And
so, his stave at the ready, he walked rightwards. A few dozen steps brought him
to a crowded thoroughfare. Again, a pause. And, once more, his gaze flicking
back and forth. Not that he felt in danger here, at this hour. What he saw was a
typical throng. There were the short people who wore the sheeny satinish cloth
of west Caronne. They mingled casually with the taller folk in dark tunics from
the far south of the Empire. Equally at ease were red-garbed sailors on shore
leave from a Cleean vessel. Here and there a S’danzo woman in her rich attire
reminded him of Illyra. There were other races, and other dress, of course. But
these were more of a kind. The shabby poor. The thieves. The beggars. All too
similar, one to the other, to be readily identified.
For a few moments, as he stood there, Stulwig’s own problem faded from the