The Hidden City

some very stimulating discusssions about our doctrinal differences. You and I might want to continue those, but let’s see to your wounded first. How many injured men do you have?’
    ‘Twenty thousand or so, your Grace,’ Komier answered bleakly. ‘It’s a little hard to keep an exact count. A few score die on us every hour or so.’
    ‘What in God’s name did you encounter up in those nountains?’ Morsel gasped.
    ‘The King of Hell, as closely as we can determine, your Grace,’ Darellon replied. ‘We left thirty thousand dead on the field mostly Cyrinics. Lord Abriel, their Preceptor, led the charge, and his knights followed closely behind him. They were fully engaged before they realized what they were up against.’ He sighed. ‘Abriel was nearing seventy, and he seemed to think he was leading his last charge.’
    ‘He was right about that,’ Komier grunted sourly. ‘There wasn’t enough of him left to bury.’
    ‘He died well, though,’ Heldin added.
    ‘His name’s Valash,’ Stragen told Sparhawk and Talen as the three of them, still wearing their tar-smeared sailor’s smocks, stepped out of the noisy, torch-lit street into a dark, foulsmelling alley. ‘He and his two friends are Dacites from Verel.’
    ‘Have you been able to find out who they’re working for?’ Sparhawk asked him as they stopped to let their eyes adjust to the darkness and their noses to the smell. The alleys of Beresa were particularly unpleasant.
    ‘I heard one of them mention Ogerajin,’ Stragen replied. ‘It makes sense, I guess. Ogerajin and Zalasta seem to be old friends.’
    ‘I thought Ogerajin’s brains were rotting out,’ Talen objected.
    ‘Maybe he has lucid moments. It doesn’t really matter who sent them, though. While they’re here, they’re reporting to Krager. As closely as I can make out, they’ve been sent here to assess the damage we did to them during the Harvest Festival and to pick up any bits and pieces of information that fall to hand. They’ve got money, but they don’t want to turn much of it loose. They’re in this strictly for gain—and for the chance to seem important.’
    ‘Does Krager come here to get their reports?’ Sparhawk asked.
    ‘He hasn’t recently. Valash communicates with him by messenger. These three Dacites are seriously out of their depth here. They want to hold on to as much of the money Ogerajin gave them as they can, but they don’t want to miss anything important. They aren’t professionals by any stretch of the imagination. They spend most of their time trying to figure out some way to get information without paying for it.’
    ‘A swindler’s dream,’ Talen noted. ‘What did they do for a living back in Verel?’
    ‘They sold children to people whose tastes run in that direction,’ Stragen replied in a disgusted tone. ‘As I understand it, Ogerajin used to be one of their best customers.’
    ‘That puts them right at the bottom, doesn’t it?’
    ‘Probably even lower than that.’ Stragen glanced around to make sure they were alone. ‘Valash wants to meet you two.’ Stragen pointed toward the end of the alley. ‘He’s just up those stairs. He’s renting a corner in the loft from a fellow who deals in stolen goods.’
    Talen smiled a rather nasty little smile. ‘If these Dacites happened to pass too much erroneous information and false rumors on to Krager, he might just decide that they’ve outlived their usefulness, wouldn’t you say?’
    ‘Probably,’ Stragen shrugged.
    ‘That sort of stirs my creativity.’
    ‘Oh? Why’s that?’
    ‘I don’t like people who sell children. It’s a personal sort of thing. Let’s go meet this Valash. I’d like to find out if he’s as gullible as you say.’
    They climbed a rickety outside stairway to a door that was flimsy and patched and showed some signs of having been kicked in a few times. The loft beyond the door was incredibly cluttered with all manner of worn clothing, battered furniture, and dented kitchen utensils. There were even broken farm tools gathering dust in the corners.
    ‘Some people will steal anything,’ Talen sniffed.
    A lone candle guttered on the far side of the room, and a bony Elene sat drowsing at a table by its uncertain light. He wore a short, green brocade jacket of a Daconian cut, and his sparse, mud-colored hair stood almost straight up, looking much like a thin, dirty halo round his gaunt head. As they crossed the loft toward him, he stirred himself and