Hamrasa revealed itself gradually through the morning mist, a sprawling maze of buildings that seemed to have grown without plan or purpose. Unlike the ordered streets of most human cities, Hamrasa's thoroughfares twisted and turned like the river itself, creating a labyrinth that would challenge any pursuer—or pursued.
The city's famous diversity struck Jolthar immediately.
Halflings darted between the legs of taller folk, their quick movements and quicker fingers marking them as members of the city's infamous messenger networks—though messenger was often a polite euphemism for spy or thief. Dwarven merchants argued prices in their booming voices, their elaborately braided beards marking their clan affiliations for those who knew how to read such signs.
Elves were fewer, as he'd expected—their kind generally preferred forests to city walls—but those he did see carried themselves with the distant pride typical of their race. They clustered near the few gardens and green spaces that dotted the city, as if trying to pretend they were still among their beloved trees.
But it was the beastmen that truly caught his attention.
They came in all varieties – some nearly human save for a tail or pointed ears, others so bestial they seemed more animal than person.
The females among them... Jolthar found his gaze lingering on a leopard-woman haggling at a fruit stall, her spotted fur gleaming in the morning sun, her movements containing a predatory grace that made his mouth go dry.
"Focus," he muttered to himself, forcing his eyes away. He had a mission, and getting distracted by exotic beauty would only get him killed. The northwest quarter, according to Roblan's letter.
That's where he needed to go.
Leaving his horse at a public stable—one that catered to a diverse enough clientele that his presence wouldn't be remarkable—Jolthar began making his way through the crowded streets.
The northwest quarter rose before him, its buildings growing progressively more decrepit as he moved away from the river. This had once been the merchant district, he recalled from his briefing, but trade patterns had shifted over the years, leaving behind empty warehouses and forgotten dreams.
Perfect hiding place for someone on the run.
He stopped at a tavern that looked slightly less rundown than its neighbours—The Broken Barrol, its weather-beaten sign proclaimed in three different languages.
Inside, the common room was surprisingly clean, if dimly lit. The clientele was exactly what he'd hoped for: mercenaries, sell-swords, and others of questionable profession. The kind of people who wouldn't look twice at a stranger asking questions, as long as those questions came with coins.
The bartender was a dwarf woman perched on a raised platform behind the bar, her grey hair tied back in a severe bun. She watched Jolthar approach with the wary eye of someone who'd seen too much trouble walk through her door.
"Ale," he said, placing a silver coin on the counter. "And information, if you're selling."
She poured his drink with practiced efficiency, her small hands somehow managing the large human-sized mug without difficulty. "Information's expensive in Hamrasa, stranger. Especially the kind that keeps you breathing."
Jolthar took a slow sip of his ale—better quality than he'd expected—and placed another silver beside the first. "Just looking for work. Heard there might be someone in the quarter who needs protection. Someone who might pay well to stay... hidden."
The halfling's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Lot of people looking to stay hidden in Hamrasa. Most of them have good reason to." She glanced at his long sword. "And most of them already have all the protection they need."
"Blue Rose protection, you mean?" He kept his voice casual, watching her reaction carefully.
The common room grew noticeably quieter.
A few patrons suddenly found urgent business elsewhere, while others shifted their positions to better watch the exchange. The woman's face remained carefully neutral, but her hand moved below the bar—to a weapon, Jolthar was certain.
"That's not a name wise folk throw around carelessly," she said quietly. "Especially not strangers who might not know all the... local customs."
Jolthar leaned forward slightly, pitching his voice for her ears alone. "Maybe I'm not as much a stranger as I seem. Maybe I know exactly whose protection matters in this city." He slid a gold coin across the bar – far more than information usually costs.
"And maybe I know someone who's trying very hard to avoid that protection. Someone who might pay well for an alternative."
The woman studied him for a long moment, her aged eyes missing nothing.
Finally, she palmed the gold with a movement so smooth it seemed to vanish into thin air. "There's an old warehouse three streets over. Blue door, missing half its paint. Someone's been sleeping there the past two nights. Someone who jumps at shadows." She paused meaningfully.
"Someone who might not see tomorrow's sunrise if certain people have their way." Googlᴇ search n0velfire.net
Jolthar nodded his thanks, finishing his ale unhurriedly. No point in drawing attention by rushing out. As he stood to leave, the woman spoke again, her voice barely a whisper.
"Word of advice, free of charge: whatever you're planning, whatever you think you know about the Rose – you don't. Not really. Walk away now, while you still can."
He gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks for the ale."
Outside, the sun had climbed higher, burning away the last of the morning mist. The streets were fuller now, which meant more eyes watching and more potential informants to report his movements. But it also meant more cover, more faces in the crowd to hide among.
As he made his way toward the warehouse, Jolthar found himself wondering if Eran had been right. Maybe he was in over his head.
But he was here now, committed to this course. Somewhere in this maze of streets, a young man was hiding from killers, hoping for rescue. And somewhere else in the city, the daughter of the Blue Rose's matriarch was hunting him, turning from lover to executioner for reasons Jolthar still didn't understand.
He touched the hilt of his sword, drawing comfort from its familiar presence.
By dusk tomorrow, this would all be resolved, one way or another. Either he'd have saved Roblan and proved Maena's doubts wrong, or...
Well, if he failed, at least he wouldn't have to hear Maena say, "I told you so."