the words themselves stickily. ‘Perhaps, but some people will say anything.
That would be a night for the … suppliant, wouldn’t it?’
Samlor turned and smiled back, baring his teeth like a cat eyeing a throat vein.
‘Quite a night indeed,’ he said. ‘Are there any places known to have entrances
to – that?’ He gestured across the dark street. ‘Or is it just rumour? Perhaps
this inn itself?’
‘There’s a hostel west of here a furlong,’ said the youth. ‘Near the Beef Market
– the Man in Motley. They say there’s a network beneath like worm tunnels, not
really connected to each other. A man could enter one and walk for days without
ever seeing another soul.’
Samlor shrugged. He stood and whistled for attention, then tossed his empty mug
to the tapster behind the bar. ‘Just curiosity,’ he said to his companion. ‘I’ve
never been in Sanctuary before.’ Samlor stepped into the street, over a drain
which held something long dead. When he glanced back, he saw the local man still
seated empty-handed on the bench. In profile against the light, his face had the
perfection of an ancient cameo.
Samlor wore boots and he was long familiar with dark nights and bad footing, so
he did not bother to hire a linkman. When he passed a detachment of the Watch,
the Imperial officer in command stared at the dagger the Cirdonian now carried
bare in his hand. Still, Samlor looked to be no more than he was, a sturdy man
who would rather warn off robbers than kill them, but who was willing and able
to do either. I’ll have to buy another boot knife, Samlor thought; but for the