The harsh yellow glare of torch fire washed over Thealos’ face as he climbed the shoal docks from the barge and entered the city of Dos-Aralon. He dropped a few Aralonian pieces into the grubby hand of the ferry-keeper and joined the ranks milling about the crowded pier. He had chosen the southern trading docks deliberately, knowing well in advance that they would be crowded for hours yet to come. Darkness had already fallen over the jammed city, but with torches and lanterns to play the sun’s part, there would still be many willing to deal. Even with a Shae.
Thealos passed beneath the high bastions and ramparts facing the river. He knew the trading streets better than most in Avisahn and quickly marked the barters his father traded with – the clothweaver and draper guilds. Avoiding those, he ducked down side alleys where he could avoid curious stares. The night was warm, but he wore the green cowl up over his head to hide the tell-tale features that branded him a Shae – the straw-blond hair, light eyes, and pale skin. There were other traits that distinguished him from the humans of the valley. He could feel the tremor of the Earth magic and discern whether it was Light or Forbidden. He could smell color, and he could see in the dark like a cat born to walk the rails at night. He knew the humans were afraid to see the eyes of a Shae glowing in the dark. He smirked. Let them fear.
Thealos walked quickly and confidently, one hand on the sharp dagger in his belt. He used the Shae step-walking pattern of the woods to keep his soft boots from clipping loudly on the stone. More than anything else, he wanted to get out of Dos-Aralon and into the open plains before the gates were shut. Nordain would send sentries for him in the morning. Once Nordain was certain Thealos had abandoned Avisahn, he would ask the Council Elder of Keasorn to summon the Crimson Wolfsmen. They were the defenders of the Shae kingdom, more highly trained than the regimental knights of Owen Draw, but Thealos doubted they knew Dos-Aralon as well as he did.
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a subtle movement behind him. Whirling, Thealos drew his dagger and stared down the empty alley. He gripped the hilt, ready in a defensive crouch for a thief or robber. He could see the light from the street at the other side of the alley. There was nothing, not even the scuttling of a rat on the cobblestones. He stared for several long moments, letting his breath out evenly. He usually trusted his instincts and his reflexes. Lowering the cowl, he listened, trying to catch any clues from the wind. Laughter glided past him from one of the many taverns on Highwater Street. He smelled the raw rich flavor of ale and honeyed mead – both Forbidden to the Shae. He tried to sense the Earth magic, but it was crowded down and stamped beneath the layers of street and filth. The sense of the magic was almost inaudible in Dos-Aralon. It had been so since the humans had settled there, or that was what he remembered from his studies.
Keeping his guard up, Thealos raised his hood and continued south, frequently checking the mouth of the alley behind him for any sign of pursuit. As he entered the next street, he kept with the flow of wagons and guild carts. Along the city wall, the stalls and booths were corded down with tarps. Paid sentries walked down the ways, protecting the wares during the night. Theft was common, Thealos knew, but only on the human side of the river. Painted signs and crooked flat boards spoke of the linens and trinkets for sale. He’d seen them so many times. He hoped he would never have to cheat a man for another bolt of cloth again.
The south ports of Dos-Aralon wedged down against the furthest walls and gates. The walls were easy enough to follow, but sometimes the gatehouses were nearly indistinguishable from the high watch towers and cobbled steps rising to the bastions. He’d never negotiated through Dos-Aralon at night, but he found his instincts were still true and quickly approached the South-Bannik porter door leading out to the valley plains. Something tickled the back of his neck again, an awareness, a whisper of doubt. He paused at the street edge and turned around, looking back once more. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see, for there were plenty of shopkeepers and journeymen about him, even a cluster of hired guards. It was a nagging feeling, like an itch between his shoulder-blades he just couldn’t quench.
Something was following him.
Dos-Aralon was a dangerous city. He knew that well enough, and recognized that safety would only be found out in the hills and hollows of the valley. His instincts were better attuned than those of the human neighbors. He sheathed the dagger in his belt and hurried to the porter door. There were five sentries posted at South-Bannik wearing the army uniform of Dos-Aralon. This was typical.
“The moon greet you,” Thealos said in the common language of the high kingdom. “I need passage tonight.”
“Leaving?” the porter captain asked. “What for?”
“I have business elsewhere,” Thealos replied. He looked over his shoulder, but saw nothing to mark his premonition. He still felt it.
“The gates are closed for the night. Come back in the morning.”
Thealos tensed. “I can see the gates are closed, captain. But this is the quickest way. By the time I reached Kimberton Gate, it would be curfew. I need to…”