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more than a few stray licks of splatter. His zigzag course through the
drunken streets brought him to the very brink of Dead Man's Drop.
            Togura stood on the
Edge, looking out at the dim grey horizon now soured by stormclouds. The ground
dropped away sheer to the pinnacles of the Claws which would receive his body
if he jumped, fell or was pushed. Between the Claws and the enclosing horizon
lay the leagues of the Famines, a regular wasteland of scoured rock and eroding
hillsides speckled with colonies of gorse, clox, snare and barbarian thorn.
Down in the hollows there was the occasional glint of lake or slough.
            Far below Togura's feet,
some nimble birds darted through the dull-weather sky. They, at least, had
homes to go to, and regular occupations to follow.
            Overcome by a sudden
access of self-pity, Togura considered throwing himself over, but decided
against it. The pleasures of self-pity were, for the moment, far too sweet.
Besides, he still had some money left. It would be foolish to suicide before
spending all his cash.
            Turning away from Dead
Man's Drop, Togura walked down the street. He had only just departed when the
piece of stone he had been standing on fell away, almost soundlessly, and
toppled into the gulf. Hearing the fant sound the stone made when it slipped
away, Togura turned. But, seeing nothing, shrugged, and went on his way.
            Two streets from Dead
Man's Drop, Togura bought some roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, a
crippled hag with a festering rupia despoiling the skin beneath her left eye.
She tried to cheat him. They argued. He swore. She cursed him. They parted,
both convinced that they had got the worst of the bargain; rounding a corner,
he kicked at a cat with ringworm, swore again, then stopped to eat.
            As he ate, he began to
feel better.
            As Togura savoured his
chestnuts, he watched two raff-taff street dogs fighting. Then a man came
hurrying down the road; after him came a hunting harridan dressed in harn, who
screamed abuse at him.
            Togura thought to himself:
            - Now what was all that
about?
            He was accosted by a
rough, burly swordsman of middle years, who spoke to him in a strangely
accented Galish.
            "Which way to the
king's palace, boy?"
            "Who is it who
wants to know?" said Togura.
            "Barak the
Battleman, hired killer and trained assassin," said the swordsman.
            That was a lie. The
stranger was, in fact, Guest Gulkan, sometimes known as the Emperor in Exile.
He was the son of Onosh Gulkan, the Witchlord; he had been wandering the world
for years now, travelling to places as far distant as Dalar ken Halvar and
Chi'ash-lan. He lied about his name because there was a price on his head in
many parts and places.
            "The palace lies
that way," said Togura, pointing firmly, and hoping that he was right; at
the moment, he was more than a little disorientated.
            "Thank you,
lad," said the stranger, and strode away with an easy, rolling gait.
            Togura watched him go,
struck, momentarily, with horror. The king was angry with him! The king had
hired an assassin! He was going to be hunted and tortured and killed!
            Then Togura realised he
was being ridiculous. There was no way the king could have got hold of an
assassin so soon, even supposing that he had been made that angry; the
stranger's appearance in this place was probably just idle coincidence.
            Togura's analysis was
correct.
            Realising that the
stranger was no danger to him, Togura was taken by the wild notion of following
him and questioning him. Perhaps the swordmaster-assassin could use a road
companion to carry his burdens and light his fires, to cook his food and to
haggle for provisions in the marketplace. There was no harm in trying.