whose day began well before dawn. They would be ready for refreshment by now.
He wandered into a slant-walled den called the Wine Barrel; Fish Barrel would
have been a more appropriate name. The place stank of fish oil. Ignoring the
pervasive stench, Walegrin approached the rough-hewn bar. The room had fallen
silent and, though a swordsman like himself had nothing to fear from a handful
of fishermen, Walegrin was uncomfortable.
Even the ale was rank with fish-oil, but he gagged it down. The thick brew
brought the clouds of dullness his mind craved. He ordered another three mugs of
the vile, potent stuff and belched prodigiously while the fisherfolk endured
him.
Their meek, offended stares drove him back onto the wharf before he was half as
drunk as he wanted to be. The tangy air of the harbor undid him; he vomited into
the water and found himself almost completely sober. In an abysmal mood, he
tugged the priest’s cowl over his head and held the cloak shut with a death
grip. His path wound toward the bazaar where Illyra lived and saw the future in
the S’danzo cards.
It was a market day at the bazaar, with every extra stall crammed with winter’s
produce: jellies, sweet breads and preserved fruits. He shoved past them,
untempted, until he reached the more permanent part of the bazaar and could hear
the ringing of Dubro’s hammer above the din. She had found herself an able
protector, at least. He stopped before the man who was his own age and height
but whose slow strength was unequalled.
“Is niyra inside?” he asked politely, knowing he would be recognized. “Is she