forefront of his mind. In its place came a feeling he had had before: a sense of
wonder.
Me! Here in this fantastic world.
All these people. This street, with its ancient buildings, its towers, and its
minarets. And the meaning of it all going back and back into the dim reaches of
a fabulous history.
Almost – standing there – Stulwig forgot where he was heading. And when the
memory came again it seemed to have a different form.
A more practical form. As if what he had in mind was a first step of several
that would presently lead him to – what? Mental pause.
.
It was, he realized, the first dim notion of having a goal beyond mere
information. First, of course, the facts; those he had to have.
Somehow, everything was suddenly clearer. As he started forwards it was almost
as if he had a purpose with a solution implicit in it.
Illyra’s stall he passed a short time later. Vague disappointment, then, as he
saw that the black curtains were drawn.
Stulwig stalked on, heading west out of town across the bridge which spanned the
White Foal River. He ignored the hollow-eyed stares of the Downwinders as he
passed their hovels, and only slowed his pace when he reached his destination, a
large estate lorded over by a walled mansion. A sell-sword stood guard just
inside the large, spreading yard. Theirs was a language Stulwig understood. He
took out two coppers and held them forth. –
‘Tell Jubal that Alien Stulwig wishes to see him.’
The coppers were skilfully palmed, and transferred to a slitted pocket in the
tight-fitting toga. In a baritone voice the sell-sword called out the message –