The first few buildings he passed were rudely cobbled wooden affairs, put together from planks of the prized ajura wood. Sandon shook his head at the evident waste. Still, he supposed they kept out the weather. Bortruz obviously benefited from its place within the trading chain. This close to a major Kallathik hive, plenty of the wood would pass through here. Besides, they probably used it for struts and beams within the mines as well. Here, at the outskirts, the town was quiet. Further in, he'd be sure to encounter local residents or miners returning from their daily work. It was getting late in the day, and the current shift would have to be nearing its end. He hadn't even thought about what he was going to do for the night, and that presented a whole new set of problems. He'd been through Bortruz a couple of times in the past, but paid it scant attention. He thought he remembered a bar and a store somewhere near the center of the town, but there were only vague impressions to drag up from his memory. He did recall, however, that Bortruz was not the most peaceful place in the world.
He crossed one intersection, then another. The buildings grew more solid, but it was hardly ordered. A few more cross streets, and he should be nearing the town's center. At last, he passed a group of miners, trudging wearily back from their day's work. Their grime-streaked faces were written with fatigue. Sandon held his breath, waiting for a reaction, but their gazes slid tiredly past or simply through him. They barely glanced up as he passed. Good. He let out the breath, and headed on by. The Atavist was nearly invisible in the world. Lower than the lowest, they were truly virtually beneath notice. It was just as he had hoped.
The smell of baking food wafted to him from one of the passing houses, and his mouth started watering. He was hungry, but for the moment, he preferred to hang on to the supplies that Manais had so kindly given him. He didn't know how long he'd have to travel before reaching his goal and the food might be precious. He could always scavenge from surrounding farmlands, but it was hardly proper food. The seasonal crops tended to be mainly root vegetables, reasonably tasteless and unpalatable when raw. Not his preferred method of keeping his belly full at all. Thoughts of food put him in mind of the communal meals in the Atavist camp -- vast spreads of wholesome home-cooked produce--and the thought set his mouth watering again.
He passed two more groups of miners, and one or two townsfolk going about their business. They all ignored or simply failed to register his presence. Eventually, he drew into the center of Bortruz proper. He reined in the padder, which grumbled in response, and looked around the central square. More official-looking buildings ringed the open, muddy expanse. On the opposite side lay the official Guild and Principate office with its wide balcony and steps. Over to the left sat the bar that he remembered, and directly opposite, the main store where he could have picked up more provisions had he anything to pay for them. He fingered his beard looking from side to opposite side of the square and tried to decide his next step. One thing was sure -- here for the first time, he would have to start using his new name. Just as well to get into the habit now.
He pulled on the reins and steered the padder into a small side street that led back behind the row of buildings containing the bar, his most likely prospect for the moment. He certainly wouldn't be using the front entrance dressed as he was. The bar would likely give him his best source of information. If he could find a way to be inside, unnoticed, keeping his ears open, he might have a chance of picking up something useful. Sandon was good at listening without being seen; he'd had years of practice.
He eased his animal up the rear alleyway, wrinkling his nose at the waft of rotting garbage stirred up by the padder's feet. He found the back of the bar without any trouble. Large bins sat outside the rear door, uncovered, with piles of damp refuse trailing out of their tops. He drew the padder to a stop and looked around in vain for a patch of clear ground. Even mud would be better than the unidentifiable mounds of stuff strewn along the alleyway. Barely containing his distaste, he slid down and landed ankle deep in the putrescent mess. He found a place to cinch the padder's reins, and then stepped gingerly toward the bar's rear door, lifting his feet as high as he could with each step. Trying not to breathe through his nose, he crossed the intervening space. Bortruz. What a town.
