City of Serpents
Aranthir XIII
A late autumn sunset came slowly to the land of Chand. The waning rays of the sun retreated across the drylands, date groves, and empty vineyards toward the walls of a lonely city. Anourah was an ancient, crumbling city of brick and sandstone on the border between the land of Chand and the vast dry plains of Khoraz Rhudin that stretched from the Black Mountains to the Tangyr Range in the east. As the last stop before a thousand miles of parched flatlands ruled by centaurs, it played host to an endless parade of camel caravans plying the long, dry road that ran ever toward the sunrise.
Anourah had long ago been the center of a great empire that stretched across the plains to the feet of the Tangyrs, worn away little by little over the centuries until barely more than the city itself remained. Behind towering yellow walls, thirty thousand souls were crammed together into an endless warren of narrow streets that wound around inns, markets, modest homes, and the lavish palaces of a wizened aristocracy that still clung desperately to power.
Down these streets prowled a young man recently come to the city in search of fortune. Vasham was his name and a proud and ancient heritage was his birthright. With few prospects in his family's meager lands, he had ventured to the king's city on the border between Chand and the endless steppes to offer his arm in service. His skill and vigor had brought him into no lesser court than that of royalty, but his stroke of fortune was soured by the king's counselors who took offense at his every word and deed. His enemies seemed to lurk behind every door and around every corner, and the man checked over his shoulder with every five steps as he walked.
Now, Vasham made for an inn along the outer wall in search of the man known as Ertham, a matchmaker by trade. However, Ertham did not match brides and bridegrooms, but instead made arrangements between denizens of the underworld, connecting buyers and sellers. He straddled the line between common thieves and respectable society to discretely dispose of stolen goods and so incidentally made himself a useful contact for anyone wishing to find blades for hire.
Coming at last to the outer walls of the city, Vasham made his way through the throng of merchants and their beasts of burden to enter the inn known as the Spitting Camel. Evening had settled over Anourah the same as ever; the merchants were chattering, the serving wenches were busy, and the pickpockets were on the hunt for fat purses. The Spitting Camel was like every other inn Vasham had known in the whole of Chand; a raucous, crowded place home to gamblers, drunks, barterers, and whores.
The smoke of hashish and candles formed a light haze over the throng in the common room, and Vasham squinted in search of Ertham.
As if summoned, the man appeared at Vasham's side, a wizened man in a dark gray cowl and cloak. His beard was thin and white, but his gray eyes still sharp as he clasped one bony hand over Vasham's forearm.
"You're late," the old man chided in a rasp. "Your new friend is impatient."
"Where is he?" Vasham demanded. Ertham nodded his chin toward the far side of the room.
"By the back wall. Seek out the dancing girl."
"You will not show me to him?" Vasham asked with suspicion, but Ertham shook his head.
"He's the dangerous sort, just as you asked for. He's been in the city three days and already killed two thugs and sent a pickpocket to the Temple of Askallon for a month or more."
"You don't deal with dangerous sorts?" Vasham pressed and Ertham shook his head again.
"Not when I can avoid it. How do you think I made it to my age? Thieves are my people, not killers. But you have not wasted your money. Go, he is waiting."
Vasham frowned in disappointment, but Ertham moved away toward the bar and left him no other choice. The young nobleman laid a hand on the gilded pommel of his sword and began to forge his way through the crowd.
The dancing girl
, he thought of Ertham's directions,
why her?
His path was blocked by a fat merchant, drunk on his wine, who fell backward off his bench in an uproarious fit of laughter, knocking into Vasham and knocking Vasham into another man across the aisle.
"Watch yourself!" Vasham snapped, one arm cocked to deliver a chastisement with the back of his hand as the other rested on his pommel. From the other side, the man he had just inadvertently elbowed growled something hostile in a foreign tongue.
Both men stood up and Vasham saw their companions turn their heads his way as well. He was outnumbered.
He drew back his cloak to show a badge on his should that bore the colors of King Sogdai, the venerable monarch who ruled their ancient city. The two aggressors scowled, balled their fists, and sat down again.
Vasham breathed a sigh of relief. He was no coward, but he was here for something important and becoming embroiled in a tavern brawl was not in his plans.
He turned back toward the far wall and, through a momentary part in the crowd, spied the dancing girl. She was a pretty thing, something Vasham had seen too little of late, as King Sogdai was a jealous ruler who kept his concubines under lock and key. She danced sinuously, covered only by sheer wrappings about her slender young body. Vasham felt something stirring in him at the sight of her long, dark hair and her big breasts barely concealed beneath her scanty clothing. He shook thoughts of lust from his mind--they were as distracting as the bar brawl he had just avoided.
Before the dancing girl sat a young man--surprisingly young, to Vasham's youthful eyes--who smiled as he leaned against the wall and watched. One leg rested on the long bench that he had claimed all to himself. On the table beside him lay a nearly empty bottle of wine and a clay mug. A simple iron dagger had been driven into the table, no doubt in a fit of boredom. The man's eyes were hard and green, dancing with bitter joy as he watched the girl.
He was tall, that much was evident even from his seat, and thin. But he was no weakling, for even his subtle movements were made with the grace of a strong and skilled swordsman. The implements of his trade were bundled together with his traveler's pack beside the dagger; a saber in its scabbard, a small round shield, a bow in its case, a quiver of arrows, a bunched-up shirt of mail, and a domed helm.
Vasham stepped forward from the parting crowd and stood before the table. The man ignored him, jade eyes fixed on the dancing girl, until Vasham cleared his throat. The man's smile faded, and he turned at last to face Vasham.
His eyes seemed to glitter in the candlelight, and it was not until he brushed away his shoulder-length brown hair to reveal two ears pointed like leaves that Vasham realized he was faced with one of the elder blood.
"An elf!" he breathed, too softly for a human to hear.
"A half-elf," the half-elf corrected, and ended the girl's dance with a wave. The half-elf eyed Vasham skeptically. "What do you want?"
"You are Ertham's man," Vasham said simply. "As am I. Vasham is my name, and my father is Mirhan, of the line of Mardavi."
