Once, they had been clearly visible to those who had use of magic. Humans and Elves and their ilk couldn’t see them, not unless they had magic at their command. But demons could. And Knights of the Word. But something had changed all that with the destruction of the old world, and in the aftermath of the Great Wars, feeders had evolved into something that was almost entirely devoid of substance. They still fed on human emotions, still savaged those consumed by their darker instincts. But they had become as empty as wind.
What mattered here, however, was that there were feeders present at all. Their appearance signaled the presence of magic; it was the possibility of feeding that had attracted them. Use of magic expended the sort of dark emotion that feeders craved.
They were drawn to it like flies to garbage and Men to evil. He smiled. You couldn’t find a better indicator than that, could you?
Decided, he switched directions and walked slowly toward the Trolls, the now distinct possibility that his search was over a guiding light.
THE TROLLS DIDN’T NOTICE HIM AT FIRST, ABSORBED in their efforts to find a way into the complex, working to pry loose the locks and hinges on massive iron doors that sealed the exterior walls. One Troll had found a ladder and climbed to a second level, where he was poking about at windows that were barred and shuttered, having not much better success than his fellows. The ragpicker approached slowly, so as not to alarm them unnecessarily. If he could just speak to them, he might be able to discover whether or not what he was looking for was inside the complex and could then determine if any further action was necessary. It was a risky business; Trolls were unpredictable. But they didn’t usually attack you without reason, so it was possible to believe they might listen to him first.
Not that the ragpicker cared if they didn’t. But it would be a nuisance to dispose of them.
He glanced at the sky, noting the expanse of darkness that had crept steadily westward as twilight faded and night closed in. A cluster of whip-thin clouds formed purple streaks across the encroaching blackness, momentarily lit by the last of the sunlight. It would be a mostly clear night, and the moon, three-quarters full, was already a bright presence on the eastern horizon.
He was only two dozen feet from the closest Troll when the one climbing about on the upper levels noticed him and called out to his companions in warning. All heads turned; all eyes fixed on the ragpicker. The latter stopped where he was, relying on his unthreatening appearance to keep them from attacking him, looking from one face to the next with a benign expression. He had his bag of scraps slung over one thin shoulder, and as the seconds passed and no one moved he lowered it carefully to the ground and straightened up.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said, speaking in the Troll tongue. He could speak perfectly in any language, an ability he had acquired early on in his life, when he had made the choice to abandon his humanity for something more permanent. “A man who carries a black staff. Do you happen to know where I can find him?”
One of the Trolls, a short, mean-faced individual with thick bark-skin that gave him the look of something sculpted from a block of wood with a chisel and hammer, walked over and stood in front of the ragpicker. “Why should we tell you?”
The ragpicker shrugged. “Common courtesy?”
The other snorted. “Why shouldn’t I just kill you? Then the man with the black staff won’t be a problem for you.”
The other Trolls exchanged glances and said nothing. Even the one atop the exterior wall came over to listen. The ragpicker had the distinct impression that the speaker was the leader.
He cleared his throat and looked down at his feet. “I could give you something valuable for that information,” he offered.
The Troll stared at him. “What could you give us that we would want, chilpun?”
Chilpun. Troll for “fool.” A decided lack of respect was not helping matters, the ragpicker decided. But he had to play along for the moment. “I could show you a way into those buildings.”
The Troll looked at him with sudden interest, as if killing him was no longer of interest. Not that the option was completely off the table, of course. The ragpicker nodded encouragingly. “What do you say to that?”
“How do you know a way in?” the Troll asked. “That’s what I say. Do you know the man who lived here?”
Lived here. Past tense. That meant dead or fled. “No. But I can find a way into anything. It’s a skill I learned awhile back. If you want to get inside these buildings, I can help you.” He paused, tried out a smile. “Do you have a name?”
“Do you?” The Troll sounded newly belligerent. “Tell me yours first.”
The ragpicker smiled some more. “My name doesn’t matter. Call me ‘ragpicker.’ That will do.”
The Troll smirked. “Well, ragpicker, I am Grosha, son of Taureq, Maturen of the Drouj.
Have you heard of me?”
The ragpicker hadn’t, but he said, “Of course. Everyone speaks of you. They are afraid of you.”