entered the close and ramshackle despair of the shantytown he had seen not one
friendly face. If he had been jeered once, he had been cursed a score of times,
aloud and with spit and glare and handsign, and he had had more than his fill of
Sanctuary’s infamous slum.
Within the Unicorn, the clientele did not look happy to see a Stepson. A silence
as thick as Rankan ale descended as he entered and took more time to disperse
than he liked. He crossed to the bar, scanning the room full of local brawlers,
grateful he had neglected to shave since the previous morning. Perhaps he seemed
more fearsome than he felt as he turned his back to the sullen, hostile crowd
just resuming their drinking and scheming and ordered a draught from the
bartender. The big, overmuscled man with a balding head slapped it down before
him, growling that it would be well if he drank up and left before the crowd
began to thicken, or the barkeep would not be responsible for the consequences,
and Niko’s “master” would get a bill for any damage to the premises. The look in
the big man’s eyes was decidedly unfriendly. “You’re the one they call Stealth,
aren’t you?” the bar-keep accused him. “The one who told Shadowspawn that one of
the best kills is a knife from behind down beside the collarbone, and with a
sword, cut up between your opponent’s legs, and in general the object is never
to have to engage your enemy, but dispatch him before he has seen your face?”
Niko stared at him, feeling anger chase the disquiet from his limbs. “I know you