Chapter thirteenTorchlights flared smokily here and there along the narrow street between wooden and brick buildings which shared a common rundown appearance. What went on behind those ramshackle walls was best not dwelled on too long. People moved along the muddy way trying to steer a path between the filthy gutter in the center and the sides where any kind of evil fluids might be emptied upon their heads. As Lingurd the polsim and I moved deeper into the runnel between the hills, the torchlights grew in number and doors stood open, revealing mysterious interiors, filled with subdued lighting and shifting shadows.
“They call them taverns,” said Lingurd, his thin polsim face twisted in contempt. “Traps for the gullible. Dopa dens. Head crunchers.”
“Patronized, though,” I observed, for da
