towers. Patrol routes of the City Watch. The layout of the main gatehouse. He knew Cineste’s population was huge, roughly one hundred thousand people, not quite one-tenth of whom were tiellan.
The knowledge worried him.
The sun had nearly set. He needed to find an inn. As he walked further down the street, he felt the slightest tug on his belt.
His hand moved quickly and caught a small wrist. He looked down into the wide, bright-green eyes of a young girl, eight or nine years old, staring up at him. She wore a cloak with a large hood. Her hand was wrapped around the coin purse at his waist.
A pickpocket.
“Best you can do?” Knot asked, with half a smile. She was trying to rob him, sure, but she was young and looked frail. The life that led her to this didn’t bear thinking about. Even less so the life this led her towards.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” the girl said, lowering her eyes. “Please, I just…”
With bewildering power, the girl tried to wrench her arm free. Knot held on, barely, surprised at such sudden force. She’d nearly knocked him over.
“Wait,” Knot said, but with another gargantuan burst of strength the girl jerked her arm out of his grip and scampered off down the street.
What in Oblivion?
Knot was half tempted to pursue the girl, just to see who she was.
Caught me off guard
, he told himself. No other explanation for the fact that she’d nearly pulled him over.
If nothing else, it made Knot realize he needed a weapon of some sort. Next time someone confronted him, it likely wouldn’t be a small child.
Eventually Knot found an inn, marked by a large sign with an illegible name carved into the wood. The building was old, made of aging pine, and didn’t look particularly fancy. Exactly what Knot wanted. Just a place to rest his head. He’d leave Cineste at first light.
The common room was full, but well lit and clean. He took it in, measuring each variable and potential threat. The process was habit for him, now, ever since waking up in Pranna. There were plenty of people in the room, but only a few who knew how to handle themselves. A group of watchmen, likely off duty, conversed loudly at a corner table. They didn’t look overly competent, but the four of them together—and their chainmail, spears, and long daggers—would cause problems in a fight. Word of what had happened in Pranna must’ve reached the city by now, but he felt strangely confident in his ability to blend in. The watchmen seemed engaged in their own conversation, anyway; they’d pay him no mind.
A man who towered nearly a head over Knot stood stoically near the entrance to the common room. The inn’s own security. Despite the fat around the man’s belly, Knot guessed he might present more of a problem than all four of the watchmen if things got violent. The man’s scarred fists and knuckles and off-center nose were tangible proof. Even the way he stood, relaxed but alert, spoke of violence.
No one else was a threat. Most were either too involved in themselves or unhappily listening to an untalented lute player near the hearth.
“What’ll it be?” the innkeeper asked from behind the bar. He looked Knot up and down. Knot lifted the purse and set it on the bar.
“A room,” he said. “And some hot water.” He could use a bath, and Ildur had been surprisingly generous with his coin.
The innkeeper eyed the purse, then looked again at Knot.
“All right, friend,” he said. “One silver for the room. Three coppers extra for the water.”
Knot placed the coins on the bar. The innkeeper slipped them into a large pocket in his apron.
“Second floor,” he said, pulling a key from another pocket and slapping it down. “End of the hall.”
Knot muttered his thanks, and turned towards the stairs.
* * *
Knot dreamed of chaos and uncertainty.
He dreamed of watching a woman sleep. Knot sat in a chair beside her. The woman was beautiful, bathed in a soft light. In the distant dark, a man watched them
The knowledge worried him.
The sun had nearly set. He needed to find an inn. As he walked further down the street, he felt the slightest tug on his belt.
His hand moved quickly and caught a small wrist. He looked down into the wide, bright-green eyes of a young girl, eight or nine years old, staring up at him. She wore a cloak with a large hood. Her hand was wrapped around the coin purse at his waist.
A pickpocket.
“Best you can do?” Knot asked, with half a smile. She was trying to rob him, sure, but she was young and looked frail. The life that led her to this didn’t bear thinking about. Even less so the life this led her towards.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” the girl said, lowering her eyes. “Please, I just…”
With bewildering power, the girl tried to wrench her arm free. Knot held on, barely, surprised at such sudden force. She’d nearly knocked him over.
“Wait,” Knot said, but with another gargantuan burst of strength the girl jerked her arm out of his grip and scampered off down the street.
What in Oblivion?
Knot was half tempted to pursue the girl, just to see who she was.
Caught me off guard
, he told himself. No other explanation for the fact that she’d nearly pulled him over.
If nothing else, it made Knot realize he needed a weapon of some sort. Next time someone confronted him, it likely wouldn’t be a small child.
Eventually Knot found an inn, marked by a large sign with an illegible name carved into the wood. The building was old, made of aging pine, and didn’t look particularly fancy. Exactly what Knot wanted. Just a place to rest his head. He’d leave Cineste at first light.
The common room was full, but well lit and clean. He took it in, measuring each variable and potential threat. The process was habit for him, now, ever since waking up in Pranna. There were plenty of people in the room, but only a few who knew how to handle themselves. A group of watchmen, likely off duty, conversed loudly at a corner table. They didn’t look overly competent, but the four of them together—and their chainmail, spears, and long daggers—would cause problems in a fight. Word of what had happened in Pranna must’ve reached the city by now, but he felt strangely confident in his ability to blend in. The watchmen seemed engaged in their own conversation, anyway; they’d pay him no mind.
A man who towered nearly a head over Knot stood stoically near the entrance to the common room. The inn’s own security. Despite the fat around the man’s belly, Knot guessed he might present more of a problem than all four of the watchmen if things got violent. The man’s scarred fists and knuckles and off-center nose were tangible proof. Even the way he stood, relaxed but alert, spoke of violence.
No one else was a threat. Most were either too involved in themselves or unhappily listening to an untalented lute player near the hearth.
“What’ll it be?” the innkeeper asked from behind the bar. He looked Knot up and down. Knot lifted the purse and set it on the bar.
“A room,” he said. “And some hot water.” He could use a bath, and Ildur had been surprisingly generous with his coin.
The innkeeper eyed the purse, then looked again at Knot.
“All right, friend,” he said. “One silver for the room. Three coppers extra for the water.”
Knot placed the coins on the bar. The innkeeper slipped them into a large pocket in his apron.
“Second floor,” he said, pulling a key from another pocket and slapping it down. “End of the hall.”
Knot muttered his thanks, and turned towards the stairs.
* * *
Knot dreamed of chaos and uncertainty.
He dreamed of watching a woman sleep. Knot sat in a chair beside her. The woman was beautiful, bathed in a soft light. In the distant dark, a man watched them
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