sisters, you’ll remember the next time!’
Samlor’s fingers moved on his knife hilt. He still held the point away from the
innkeeper. ‘We don’t have a quarrel,’ he said.
‘Let’s leave it at that.’
The host spat as he reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘ Sure, I know you hot
pants folderols. Well, when I’m done with you, you take my greetings to your
pandering psalm-singers and tell them there’ll be no more customers through
here!’
‘The priests share their privileges for a price?’ Samlor said in sudden
enlightenment. ‘But I don’t come for sex, friend.’
Whatever the tavern-keeper thought he understood, it frightened him as sight of
the dagger had not. He paused with the bung-starter half raised. First he
swallowed. Then, with a guttural sound of pure terror he flung the mallet into
the shadows and fled back up the stairs. Samlor frowned, shrugged, and turned
again to the fooder.
There was a catch disguised as a knot, obvious enough if one knew something of
the sort had to be there. Pressed, the side of the cask swung out to reveal a
dry, dark tunnel sloping gently downward. Samlor’s tongue touched his lips. It
was, after all, what he had been looking for. He picked up the lamp, now burned
well down. He stepped into the tunnel, closing the door behind him.
The passage twisted but did not branch. It was carven through dense, yellow
clay, shored at intervals with timbers too blackened for Samlor to identify the
wood. There were tiny skitterings which seemed to come from just beyond the
light. Samlor walked slowly enough not to lose the lampflame, steadily enough