It was neither the tang of sea nor the rancidness of rotting fish, garbage and offal that roused me from my doze. Nor was it the creaking of ships at berth, the loading and off-loading of cargo, nor the movement and cries of men. No, it was none of the everyday stench and noise about the quay of Portside, that festering pustule that marks the fair cheek of uVaal, the Splendid City. It was the clinking of coin into my bowl. I raised my head.
"Tell me a story."
The stranger smelled of the spice as is worn by the men of arid Khulinaar, and his accent had the color of that western land though tinted with a trace of the steppes.
"What story would you have? One of your blue-starred city? Or a tale of the nomadic steppes of Qrezaan, or one of the O'tree of the northern forests of Vaal, or of the oracle of Pyr? I know a score of score of stories. Which shall be your pleasure?"
"They say you have been to the Isle of Mûta."
I admit I laughed. A blade swished from its place and pressed my cheek.
"No one laughs at Qain the Quick!"
I raised my palms in supplication—it isn't wise to offend one's listeners—then ever so gently moved the blade tip from my face.
"I mean no jest or insult. You awaken a memory, is all. But what care you of Mûta, which is six days sail by the fleetest cutter through the treacherous straits of Fuuga? Mûta, that cares not for strangers; whose very name means Death. Are you some spice merchant seeking the fiery peppers that grow only there? Or are you a pilgrim who would bow and scrape to worship before the Great Fish, TaMer?"
"They say that you know of the Eyes of Gaal."
I laughed again but raised my open hands quickly to forestall his ire.
"Take no offence. I hadn't realized that you are a thief. For only thieves seek the Eyes of Gaal and their fate. Sit, and listen."
