‘What was it about?’ one of the loafers growled suspiciously.
‘Business,’ Stragen told him in a cold tone.
‘Anybody could say that,’ the unshaven man said, rising to his feet with a thick cudgel in his hand.
‘This is always so tedious,’ Stragen sighed to Sparhawk. Then his hand flashed to the hilt of his rapier, and the slim blade came whistling out of its sheath. ‘Friend,’ he said to the loafer, ‘unless you want three feet of steel between your breakfast and your supper, you’ll stand aside.’ The needle-like point of the rapier touched the man’s belly suggestively.
The other ruffian sidled off to one side, his hand reaching furtively toward the handle of his dagger.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Sparhawk warned him in a dreadfully quiet voice. He pushed his cloak aside to reveal his mail-shirt and the hilt of his broadsword. ‘I’m not entirely positive where your breakfast or your supper are located just now, neighbour, but I’ll probably be able to pick them out when your guts are lying in the street.’
The fellow froze in his tracks, swallowing hard.
‘The knife,’ Sparhawk grated. ‘Lose it.’
The dagger clattered to the cobblestones.
‘I’m so happy that we could resolve this little problem without unpleasantness,’ Stragen drawled. ‘Now why don’t we all go inside so you can introduce us to Djukta?’
The tavern had a low ceiling and the floor was covered with mouldy straw. It was lit by a few crude lamps that burned melted tallow.
Djukta was by far the hairiest man Sparhawk had ever seen. His arms and hands seemed to be covered with curly black fur. Great wads of hair protruded from the neck of his tunic; his ears and nostrils looked like bird’s nests; and his beard began just under his lower eyelids. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded, his voice issuing from somewhere behind his shaggy rug of a face.
‘They made us let them come inside, Djukta,’ one of the men from the doorway whined, pointing at Stragen’s rapier.
Djukta’s piggish eyes narrowed dangerously.
‘Don’t be tiresome,’ Stragen told him, ‘and pay attention. I’ve given you the recognition signal twice already, and you didn’t even notice.’
‘I noticed, but coming in here with a sword in your hand isn’t the best way to get things off to a good start.’
‘We were a little pressed for time. I think we’re being followed.’ Stragen sheathed his rapier.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’
‘No. We’re from Eosia.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘That was sort of the idea. Things were getting unhealthy back there.’
‘What line are you in?’
‘We’re vagabonds at heart, so we were seeking fame and fortune on the highways and byways of Pelosia. A high-ranking churchman suddenly fell ill and died while we were talking business with him, and the Church Knights decided to investigate the causes of his illness. My friends and I decided to find fresh scenery to look at right about then.’
‘Are those Church Knights really as bad as they say?’
‘Worse, probably. The three of us are all that’s left of a band of thirty.’
‘Are you planning to go into business around here?’
‘We haven’t decided yet. We thought we’d look things over first – and make sure that the knights aren’t still following us.’
‘Do you feel like telling us your names?’
‘Not particularly. We’re not sure we’re going to stay, and there’s not much point in making up new names if we’re not going to settle down.’
Djukta laughed. ‘If you aren’t sure you’re going into business, what’s the reason for this visit?’
‘Courtesy, for the most part. It’s terribly impolite not to pay a call on one’s colleagues when one’s passing through a town, and we thought it might save a bit of time if you could spare a few minutes to give us a rundown on local practices in the field of law-enforcement.’
‘I’ve never been to Eosia, but I’d imagine that things like that are fairly standard. Highwaymen aren’t held in high regard.’
‘We’re so misunderstood,’ Stragen sighed. ‘They have the usual sheriffs and the like, I suppose?’
‘There are sheriffs right enough,’ Djukta said, ‘but they don’t go out into the countryside very often in this part of Astel. The nobles out there more or less police their own estates. The sheriffs are usually involved in collecting taxes, and they aren’t all that welcome when they ride out of town.’
‘That’s useful. All we’d really have to deal with would be poorly-trained serfs who fare better at catching chicken-thieves than at dealing with serious people. Is that more or less the way it is?’
Djukta nodded. ‘The good part is that these serfsheriffs won’t go past the borders of their own estate.’
‘That’s a highwayman’s dream,’ Stragen grinned.
‘Not entirely,’ Djukta disagreed. ‘It’s not a good idea to make too much noise out there. The local sheriff wouldn’t chase you, but he would send word to the Atan garrison up in Canae. A man can’t run far enough or fast enough to get away from the Atans, and nobody’s ever taught them how to take prisoners.’
‘That could be a drawback,’ Stragen conceded. ‘Is there anything else we should know about?’
‘Did you ever hear of Ayachin?’
‘I can’t say that I have.’
‘That could get you into all kinds of trouble.’
‘Who is he?’
Djukta turned his head. ‘Akros,’ he called, ‘come here and tell our colleagues here about Ayachin.’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I’m not too well-versed in ancient history,’ he explained. ‘Akros used to be a teacher before he got caught stealing from his employer. He may not be too coherent. He has a little problem with drink.’
Akros was a shabby-looking fellow with bloodshot eyes and a five-day growth of beard. ‘What was it you wanted, Djukta?’ he asked, swaying on his feet.
‘Sort through what’s left of your brain and tell our friends here what you can remember about Ayachin.’
The drunken pedagogue smiled, his bleary eyes coming alight. He slid into a chair and took a drink from his tankard. ‘I’m only a little drunk,’ he said, his speech slurred.