"Did Thwuk demand anything else for watching it?"
Dhamon shook his head. "Nothing else. I'm a shrewd negotiator."
"That's why I like you." Maldred strolled toward Fiona, his eyes sparkling merrily and catching hers. "Now on to that matter of gaining you some ransom, Lady Knight."
Dhamon cleared his throat. "We've an appointment this evening."
Maldred raised his eyebrows as if to say, "you negotiated that as well?"
"We're to have dinner with Donnag this evening to discuss various matters."
"Then I'd best find something presentable to wear," Maldred returned. "Join me, Lady Knight?"
"My ransom?" Fiona's face was still wrinkled with worry. "Is the ransom part of the various matters?"
"Yes. We should gain you some wealth tonight, I think." Maldred did not see Dhamon's hard expression and narrowed eyes, as he was devoting all of his charm and attention to the Solamnic. The big man extended his arm, and she took it, strolling out of the shop with him and meeting the glare of the half-elf. Fiona looked across the street, but the mariner was nowhere in sight.
Rig had wandered down a cobblestone side street, one of the very few of its kind in Bloten. Nearly all of the streets seemed to be wide streams of mud. He skirted the largest puddles, avoiding them entirely was impossible. As the cobblestones ended and another swath of mud began, the businesses and dwellings that lined it became more rundown. He could tell a few of them were owned, or at the very least operated, by humans and dwarves, and they seemed to cater to the nonogre population. None of these shops had awnings or planks out front, just strips of deep, muddy clay. He glanced at his reflection in an overflowing horse trough. His stomach rumbled. He'd barely touched his dinner last night, while his companions ate heartily. He'd had nothing to eat today, not wanting any part of this place. But he was feeling a little weak, his head aching and hands shaking, and he knew he was going to have to eat something. He glanced up, looking for an establishment that might sell identifiable foodstuffs.
"Gardi? Izzat you Gardi?"
Rig realized that a gangly young man who had leaned out on a crooked stoop was speaking to him.
"Oh, sorry. Thought you wuz Gardi." He turned and disappeared in the doorway, as the mariner sprinted forward and his arm shot out to catch the man's wrist. The young man spat a foreign-sounding word, then gulped and his eyes grew wide when he took in all of the mariner's weapons.
"S'okay," Rig said. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just want to talk. I'm new to town, and I was wondering…"
"Too bad," the man said, relaxing a bit when Rig released him.
Rig cocked his head.
"Too bad you came here," he said, a genuine look of sadness on his face. "Bloten's not a good place to be-if you have the choice to be somewheres else. And I haven't time to dawdle with you. Got money to earn. Taxes to pay. Taxes and taxes and taxes and taxes."
Rig pulled a steel piece from his pocket and pressed it into the man's hand. "Tell me about this place."
"Taxes," the young man repeated.
"Yea, I know," said Rig. "So tell me where I can get something good to eat."
Evening found Rig and the others across the city, at the home of Chieftain Donnag, the ruler of all of Blode.
The manse, a palace Fetch called it, was a little incongruous compared to the buildings that sprawled around it-and to all of the buildings they'd seen so far in Bloten. It was three stories tall, ogre measurement, making it appear nearly five stories to the humans. And it extended across an entire city block. The exterior was in good repair, the stonework patched and painted a bright white that looked pale gray in the continuing drizzle. Orange-painted wooden trim rimmed the corners, carved in the images of dragons with their wings spread and heads to the sky. Ornamental bushes thick with weeds and in desperate need of pruning spread out beneath windows that were fancifully curtained, and thorny vines were trimmed away from a meandering cobblestone walk that led to massive front doors nestled beneath an arched overhang.
Two ogres stood on either side of the doors, attired in pitted armor and carrying halberds longer than Rig's glaive. Protected from the rain, they were dry and sweating from the summer heat, and they smelled strongly of musk. One stepped forward and pointed to a crate.
"He wants your weapons left outside," Maldred explained.
"I will not!" Rig stepped back and shook his head. "I'll not leave myself defenseless in…"
