due.” The guard answers formally, making to open the gate then stopping himself as he remembers his duty. “But no one is allowed through this late without demonstrating that they have the price of a ticket. Sorry mister, but them’s the Prefect’s orders.” The guard adds quickly, unwilling to anger the man looming over him.
“I believe this will be sufficient to board.” Blake shakes open his heavy purse and allows some of the polished silver coins to wink in his palm. Out of the corner of his eye he notices one of the beggars slip into an alley to his left. So much for entering the city unnoticed. Blake is not naive enough to believe that the wall is any barrier to the true masters of the thieves of Limit, indeed it is not unknown for walls like the one in front of him to be used to keep people in, as often as they are used to keep people out. He must not allow himself to become lulled into false security by the bright street lamps and clean white buildings of the inner town. Be it desert or city, strangers are prey in the Bowl.
“You may pass then, sir.” The guard says, satisfied by the gleam of coin and eager to return to the peace of his lonely vigil. If he has seen the beggar peel off from his fellows with an alacrity unshared by most cripples, then the man gives no sign, there are, after all, many ways to make a little extra at a job such as his and even if a traveller was tight with his coin, the thieves were more than happy to make up the shortfall.
“You’ll want Hathorn ,” the guard shouts after the rider, as he ducks beneath the archway in the wall.
“What?”
“To get to the station, the quickest way is down Hathorn Street .”
“Thank you.”
“The least I could do,” the guard responds, wondering privately why he had not chosen to insist on a bribe before sending the man over to Hathorn ; there was no denying that it was the quickest road but no local would go so near the Chapter House after dark.
The minute he passes though the arch of the gate, Blake feels the hot desert wind dissipate. The scents of the gardens around him replace the cloying stench of the sun baked slums, somewhere he can hear laughter and the notes of a steel stringed guitar growing nearer as he leaves the main street and takes a left into Hathorn . Despite this improvement in his surroundings Blake’s hand rarely leaves the worn stock of his oversized gun. His grip tightens when he notices that the streetlights, which had shone in many other roads, are deficient on Hathorn and its surrounding alleyways. Perhaps the lamp lighter has been remiss or the gas line is under repairs, allowing only a few low flames to be lit but Blake is not surprised when a voice comes from one of the darkened side streets.
“Good evening, brother.” The shout rings out as he passes the third block of houses, perhaps it is his imagination but the sound of the guitar and the laughter from the taverns seems louder now, as if the good citizens of the inner town are doing their best to blot out the fraternal greeting.
“I said ‘good evening, brother’,” the voice calls again, amiably enough but Blake keeps riding studiously ignoring the man addressing him. It is at this point that the speaker makes the mistake of trying to grasp the horse’s reins. He recoils with a scream as the big animals square teeth come down on his wrist. The music from the distant tavern never misses a beat as the first of Blake’s assailant’s curses echo through the night. More men join him in the road as if conjured by his frenzied incantation.
Despite the noise the windows and the door of the houses around them remain closed, no citizen raises a cry or seeks to find the source of the disturbance. It becomes rapidly apparent to Blake that even behind the safety of their high wall, the inhabitants of the inner city have learned to be as selectively blind and deaf as their neighbours in the slums. The reason for this
“I believe this will be sufficient to board.” Blake shakes open his heavy purse and allows some of the polished silver coins to wink in his palm. Out of the corner of his eye he notices one of the beggars slip into an alley to his left. So much for entering the city unnoticed. Blake is not naive enough to believe that the wall is any barrier to the true masters of the thieves of Limit, indeed it is not unknown for walls like the one in front of him to be used to keep people in, as often as they are used to keep people out. He must not allow himself to become lulled into false security by the bright street lamps and clean white buildings of the inner town. Be it desert or city, strangers are prey in the Bowl.
“You may pass then, sir.” The guard says, satisfied by the gleam of coin and eager to return to the peace of his lonely vigil. If he has seen the beggar peel off from his fellows with an alacrity unshared by most cripples, then the man gives no sign, there are, after all, many ways to make a little extra at a job such as his and even if a traveller was tight with his coin, the thieves were more than happy to make up the shortfall.
“You’ll want Hathorn ,” the guard shouts after the rider, as he ducks beneath the archway in the wall.
“What?”
“To get to the station, the quickest way is down Hathorn Street .”
“Thank you.”
“The least I could do,” the guard responds, wondering privately why he had not chosen to insist on a bribe before sending the man over to Hathorn ; there was no denying that it was the quickest road but no local would go so near the Chapter House after dark.
The minute he passes though the arch of the gate, Blake feels the hot desert wind dissipate. The scents of the gardens around him replace the cloying stench of the sun baked slums, somewhere he can hear laughter and the notes of a steel stringed guitar growing nearer as he leaves the main street and takes a left into Hathorn . Despite this improvement in his surroundings Blake’s hand rarely leaves the worn stock of his oversized gun. His grip tightens when he notices that the streetlights, which had shone in many other roads, are deficient on Hathorn and its surrounding alleyways. Perhaps the lamp lighter has been remiss or the gas line is under repairs, allowing only a few low flames to be lit but Blake is not surprised when a voice comes from one of the darkened side streets.
“Good evening, brother.” The shout rings out as he passes the third block of houses, perhaps it is his imagination but the sound of the guitar and the laughter from the taverns seems louder now, as if the good citizens of the inner town are doing their best to blot out the fraternal greeting.
“I said ‘good evening, brother’,” the voice calls again, amiably enough but Blake keeps riding studiously ignoring the man addressing him. It is at this point that the speaker makes the mistake of trying to grasp the horse’s reins. He recoils with a scream as the big animals square teeth come down on his wrist. The music from the distant tavern never misses a beat as the first of Blake’s assailant’s curses echo through the night. More men join him in the road as if conjured by his frenzied incantation.
Despite the noise the windows and the door of the houses around them remain closed, no citizen raises a cry or seeks to find the source of the disturbance. It becomes rapidly apparent to Blake that even behind the safety of their high wall, the inhabitants of the inner city have learned to be as selectively blind and deaf as their neighbours in the slums. The reason for this
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