there, to his relief, a hulking stick-carrying shadow making his rounds.
“It’s Vis,” Mradhon said.
“Huh,” was Tygoth’s comment. Tygoth rapped against the wall with his stick.
“Walk with you?”
Tygoth did, taking his duty seriously, rapping the wall as he went, rapping at
the door of his lodgings, opening the door for him like the servant of some
palatial home, across from the lighted parchment window that was Mama Becho’s
own.
“Coin,” Tygoth said, and held out his hand. Mradhon laid the nightly fee in the
huge palm, and the sturdy fingers closed. Tygoth went into the room and fetched
the little light from its niche by the door, stumped away with it to Mama
Becho’s back door and opened that to light it from that inside, then came back
again, shielding the flame with his monstrous hand. With greatest care he went
inside and set it in its place.
“Safe,” Tygoth declared then, a murmurous rumble, and walked off tapping his
stick against the walls.
Mradhon looked after that shambling shadow, then went in and barred the door.
Safe.
So he had a bit of silver to bolster his dwindling coppers, and a bar on the
door for the night, but it was in his mind that this Mor-am and Moria would
change their lodgings tonight and not show up again.
He hoped. It was more surety than he had had the day before.
In the safety of his room he pinched out all but the nightwick and lay down to
his sleep, hoping for sleep, but knowing that there would be dreams.
There always were.
* * *
Ischade, the wind whispered coming from the river and riffling through the