Demon Lord of Karanda

sunlight.
    "Let's get a few things clear before we start," the teamster said. "I don't like to talk and I don't like having people jabber at me."
    "All right."
    The teamster reached back and picked up a wicked-looking hatchet out of the wagon bed. "Now," he said, "give me your knife."
    "I don't have a knife."
    The teamster reined in his mules. "Get out," he said curtly.
    "But I paid you?"
    "Not enough for me to take any chances with you. Come up with a knife or get out of my wagon."
    Balsca glared at him, then at the hatchet. Slowly he drew out his dagger and handed it over.
    "Good. I'll give it back to you when we get to Mal Zeth. Oh, by the way, I sleep with one eye open and with this in my fist." He held the hatchet in front of Balsca's face. "If you even come near me while we're on the road, I'll brain you."
    Balsca shrank back.
    "I'm glad that we understand each other." The teamster shook his reins, and they rumbled out of Mal Gemila.
    Balsca was not feeling too well when they reached Mal Zeth. He assumed at first that it was a result of the peculiar swaying motion of the wagon. Though he had never been seasick in all his years as a sailor, he was frequently land-sick. This time, however, was somewhat different. His stomach, to be sure, churned and heaved, but, unlike his previous bouts of malaise, this time he also found that he was sweating profusely, and his throat was so sore that he could barely swallow. He had alternating bouts of chills and fever, and a foul taste in his mouth.
    The surly teamster dropped him off at the main gates of Mal Zeth, idly tossed his dagger at his feet and then squinted at his former passenger. "You don't look so good," he observed. "You ought to go see a physician or something."
    Balsca made an indelicate sound. "People die in the hands of physicians," he said, "or if they do manage to get well, they go away with empty purses."
    "Suit yourself." The teamster shrugged and drove his wagon into the city without looking back.
    Balsca directed a number of muttered curses after him, bent, picked up his knife, and walked into Mal Zeth. He wandered about for a time, trying to get his bearings, then finally accosted a man in a sea coat.
    "Excuse me, mate," he said, his voice raspy as a result of his sore throat, "but where's a place where a man can get a good cup of grog at a reasonable price?"
    "Try the Red Dog Tavern," the sailor replied. "It's two streets over on the corner."
    "Thanks, mate," Balsca said.
    "You don't look like you're feeling too good."
    " A little touch of a cold, I think." Balsca flashed him a toothless grin. "Nothing that a few cups of grog won't fix."
    "That's the honest truth." The sailor laughed his agreement. "It's the finest medicine in the world." The Red Dog Tavern was a dark grogshop that faintly resembled the forecastle of a ship. It had a low, beamed ceiling of dark wood and portholes instead of windows.
    The proprietor was a bluff, red-faced man with tattoos on both arms and an exaggerated touch of salt water in his speech. His " Ahoy's' and " Mateys" began to get on Balsca's nerves after a while, but after three cups of grog, he didn't mind so much. His sore throat eased, his stomach settled down, and the trembling in his hands ceased. He still, however, had a splitting headache. He had two more cups of grog and then fell asleep with his head cradled on his crossed arms.
    "Ahoy, mate. Closing time," the Red Dog's proprietor said some time later, shaking his shoulder.
    Balsca sat up, blinking. "Must have dropped off for a few minutes," he mumbled hoarsely.
    "More like a few hours, matey ." The man frowned, then laid his hand on Balsca's forehead. "You're burning up, matey ," he said. "You'd better get you to bed."
    "Where's a good place to get a cheap room?" Balsca asked, rising unsteadily. His throat hurt worse now than it had before, and his stomach was in knots again.
    "Try the third door up the street. Tell them that I sent you."
    Balsca nodded, bought a bottle to take with him and surreptitiously filched a rope-scarred marlinespike from the rack beside the door on his way out. "Good tavern," he croaked to the proprietor as he left. "I like the way you've got it fixed up."
    The tattooed man nodded proudly. "My own idea," he said. "I thought to myself that a seafaring man might like a homelike sort of place to do his drinking in -even when he's this far from deep water. Come back again."
    "I'll do that," Balsca promised.
    It took him about a half an