Chapter 9
AS IT TURNED OUT, Sailor’s Rest was an establishment with an even shadier reputation than the seedy Silver Gull. Set two blocks back from the waterfront, its patronage obviously consisted of the lesser crewmembers from the ships, and those whose business would not pass muster in the city proper.
Despite being less than ten years old, the building looked tired, with peeling paint, ill-fitting doors and steps worn by the passage of many feet.
It was cold and damp in the foyer. A woman wearing furs drawn up to her ears sat by the light of one measly lamp. Her breath steamed.
Isandor’s request to see “the Aranian who stays here” was met with suspicion and hostility, again because the Chevakian woman at the desk didn’t recognise him. The owner definitely did, and when he came in,
