Noise levels were starting to pick up now as the bar filled and the patrons consumed more ale and wine. He made the rounds more frequently, collecting the empties and ferrying them back to the kitchen to wash and stack on new trays. As he passed, he managed to pick up snippets of conversation, but nothing further that gave him any hope.
By the time the last customer had wandered unsteadily from the bar, Sandon was tired. He'd spent the entire night on his feet running back and forth, and had found out little more than he'd started with. He wiped his hands on the cloth from his back pocket and stood staring at the now-empty bar. Benjo came up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Not a bad night's work, Tchardo," he said. "Help me clear away the last of these and put them away, and then you can bed down in the kitchen."
Sandon nodded without saying anything. He would be grateful for the stove back there, radiating heat throughout the small back room. During the busiest part of the evening, it had left him sweating, but during the still of the early morning, it would get cold. Any remaining warmth would help stave off the chill, safe and secure and out of the weather. No, he'd done well. For now, at least, fortune was in his favor.
#
It took nearly a week for Sandon to find what he wanted. During all that time, he worked for Benjo and Milana, growing to like the couple more and more, for couple they were. They were simple, good-natured folk with a direct, open attitude to life, no intrigues, no complicated schemes. Sandon had almost forgotten during his years in the Principate that such people existed, but the past couple of weeks, first the Atavists, and then this pair, had reminded him that not everyone had a hidden agenda. It was a refreshing change to not be constantly on his guard about what was said. He'd finally been forced to stable his padder on the outskirts of town, and Benjo had readily supplied him the credits to do so. He had offered more, but Sandon had refused. Benjo likely did fairly well out of his bar, but he'd been good to Sandon, and whether the bar owner could afford it or not, Sandon had no desire to take advantage. Besides, Benjo was serving him in other ways that he could hardly be aware of.
The first indication of what he was seeking came as a burst of activity over at the official offices. A solitary man arrived on a padder, bounded up the stairs and disappeared inside. Moments later, he had reappeared and ridden quickly out of town. The mere existence of the office building here in this sleepy outpost was probably more lip-service to the Guild hierarchy than anything else, and having any sort of visitor, messenger or otherwise, had to be an event in itself. Sandon had just caught the arrival out of the corner of his eye, but as soon as he saw the man, he knew his patience had been worthwhile. The messenger had been wearing the Men Darnak colors. He strained at the window, watching to see what happened. Moments after the messenger had left, two functionaries burst from the front doors and headed rapidly down the front steps. Sandon was out the bar door in a moment, moving to intercept one of them. As he approached, he recognized the man as one of the bar's regular evening visitors.
As casually as he could, he called out. "Hello there. What's going on?"
The man looked over and clearly recognized Sandon. "Can't stop," he said. "Men Darnak's in the area. Asking all sorts of questions."
"Which Men Darnak?" asked Sandon.
Barely pausing in his rapid stride across the square, the man answered quickly. "The Principal. The Old Principal."
Sandon watched the man disappear up a side street. So, Leannis Men Darnak was nearby, and close enough to send these lower-station officials into a flurry of action. Sandon stood where he was, thinking, running his fingers through the beard at his chin. It was time to take his leave. Tchardo the bar help was about to disappear, to be replaced once more by Tchardo the Atavist.
Sixteen
