Waylander reined in his horse as the column entered.
‘I will find you later,’ he called to Dardalion, then rode to the eastern quarter. Since his meeting with Karnak he was no longer guarded, but he still proceeded cautiously, checking several times to see if he was being followed. The houses were poorer here, the walls painted white to imitate the grand granite and marble homes of the northern quarter, but the stone was inferior quality.
Waylander rode to an inn near the Street of Weavers and left his mount in a stable at the rear. The inn was crowded, the air thick with the smell of stale sweat and cheap beer. He pushed his way through to the long wooden bar, his eyes raking the crowd; the barman lifted a pewter mug as he saw him approach.
‘Ale?’ he asked.
Waylander nodded. ‘I am looking for Durmast,’ he said.
‘Many people look for Durmast. He must be a popular man.’
‘He’s a pig. But I need to find him.’
‘Owe you money, does he?’ The barman grinned, showing stained and broken teeth.
‘I am ashamed to admit that he’s a friend of mine.’
‘Then you ought to know where he is.’
‘Is he in that much trouble?’
The barman grinned again and filled Waylander’s jug with frothing ale. ‘If you are seeking him, you’ll find him. Enjoy your drink.’
‘How much?’
‘Money’s not worth that much here, friend. So we are giving it away.’
Waylander drank deeply. ‘Tasting like this, you ought to pay people for drinking it!’ The barman moved away and Waylander settled his arms on the bar and waited. After several minutes, a thin hatchet-faced young man tapped his arm.
‘Follow me,’ he said.
They moved through the crowd to a narrow door at the back of the inn, which opened on to a small courtyard and a series of alleys. The man’s slight figure jogged ahead, cutting left and right through the maze until at last he stopped at a wide door studded with brass. There he knocked three times, waited, then twice more and the door was opened by a woman wearing a long green dress. Wearily she led them to a room at the back of the house and the young man knocked again. Then he grinned at Waylander and moved away.
Waylander placed his hand on the door-latch, then stopped. Moving to one side with his back against the wall, he flicked the latch and pushed the door open. A crossbow shaft hammered into the wall opposite, sending a shower of sparks across the corridor.
‘Is that any way to greet an old friend?’ asked Waylander.
‘A man has to be careful among friends,’ came the reply.
‘You owe me money, you reprobate!’
‘Come in and collect it.’
Waylander moved away from the door to the other side of the corridor. Taking two running steps, he hurled himself head-first into the room, rolling forward to his feet with knife in hand as he hit the floor.
‘Game is over and you are dead!’ came the voice, this time from the doorway. Waylander turned slowly. Standing behind the door was a huge bear of a man holding a black crossbow, the bolt aimed at Waylander’s stomach.
‘You are getting old and slow, Waylander,’ commented Durmast. Lifting the bolt from the weapon, he snapped the string forward and placed the crossbow against the wall. Waylander shook his head and sheathed his knife. Then the big man moved across the room and lifted him from his feet in a bone-crushing bear hug. He planted a kiss on Waylander’s forehead before releasing him.
‘You stink of onions,’ said Waylander.
Durmast grinned and lowered his huge frame into a leather chair. The man was even bigger than the assassin remembered, and his brown beard was shaggy and unkempt. He was dressed as always in a mixture of green and brown homespun wool which gave him the appearance of a human tree: a thing created from sorcery. Durmast was just under seven feet tall and weighed more than three large men.
Waylander had known him for eleven years and, in as much as he trusted any living man, he trusted the giant.