Separate Ways
 
Gulth poked his snout out of the alley, quickly looked down the street, then snarled and drew back into the shadows.
 
“The sun has set, priest, and there’s no sign of them.” He hissed and dug the ball of a clawed foot into the ground. “The light is leaving, and I should be leaving with it. I’ll not wait much longer.” Much softer: “I can’t afford to.”
 
The early autumn wind that whipped down the street and found its way into the alley was chill and carried with it the promise that the coming winter would be harsh. It spun the dust around Gulth’s feet and nudged the debris discarded at the back door of an inn halfway down the alley, stirring up the scents of rotten cabbage, spoiled curds, and strong, bitter ale. He made a gagging sound when the wind gusted more strongly and uncomfortably settled all those scents on his tongue. He spat, which did nothing to help matters, and wrapped his cloak tightly about his bulky frame.
 
“I do not like this city, priest. Any city. The growing darkness makes this place slightly more palatable. But the dark only hides the sins and ugliness. It can do nothing about the stench of men and their greed and—”
 
“Patience, Gulth, I’m certain our friends will be here soon. Let’s give them a little more time.” The speaker stood near the inn’s back door, illuminated by a lantern that hung from the jamb swinging slightly in the wind, causing the shadows to dance as if they were living things. He was a tall man, dressed in white, though the dust had turned his robes the color of sand and streaked his long face. “An hour, perhaps two if need be, Gulth, and—”
 
“One hour. Two. Three. Time. You know I don’t have a lot of that, priest . . . Deav Dyne.”
 
The man nodded. “I know, Gulth.”
 
Gulth shuffled away from the street and toward the priest, the cloak billowing behind him flapping loudly. The lantern light showed him to be a lizardman, covered with coin-shaped scales so dense they looked like armor. Once, in the recent past, the scales had been as vibrant green as forest moss, supple and snake-smooth. Now they were drab and tinged with gray, cracked and curled in places like thick, chipped paint. He had the shape of a man, but his hands ended in talons, and his limbs were muscular, as was his tail, which twitched nervously, tracing and erasing patterns in the dirt. Though his shoulders were broad, they were hunched, a neardefeated posture.
 
“Deav Dyne, we’ve seen nothing of them since we came to this wretched, hell-darkened place a week past.”
 
“And promptly went our separate ways.”
 
“Yes.”
 
“You’ve not seen them because you’ve kept to the alleys, Gulth.”
 
“Necessary, priest, especially now. Look at me! I don’t understand why they wanted to come here.”
 
“It’s the largest city around, Gulth, so it makes a certain amount of sense to—”
 
“Cities make no sense to me, priest . . . Deav Dyne. Too many people. All the crowds with their schemes, blood, filth.” Again he dug at the ground with his foot. “Easy to get lost in a city this big.”
 
Deav Dyne shrugged. “I found Yevele easily enough to arrange this meeting.”
 
“But will they find us in this alley easily enough?”
 
“Patience,” Deav Dyne repeated. “Patience, Gulth. They will come.”
 
The lizardman cocked his head quizzically. “Will they? Or perhaps they’ve forgotten about this meeting and found some grand adventure to pursue instead. Certainly something more interesting than talking with us.” A pause. “With me. You call them friends, Deav Dyne. I doubt any of them would call me that.”
 
“Patience,” Deav Dyne suggested once more. This time the word was a drawn out purr that made the lizardman relax slightly. “They’ll come, Gulth, that I promise you.”
 
The priest stepped away from the lantern’s glare so he couldn’t be seen by anyone who might open the inn’s back door. Gulth stamped through the dirt to hunch at the mouth of the alley, occasionally poking his snout out for a quick glance at the street beyond. “Patience. Patience. Patience,” he hissed.
 
 
Night had thoroughly claimed the city by the time three figures did close on the alley. The tallest was a woman, nearly six feet and clad in a worn leather surcoat. The crude and battered armor was too big for her frame, but not too bulky to conceal all of her curves. A long sword in a battered scabbard hung from her waist, and a sheathed dagger was strapped to her right leg. Thick auburn curls spilled out from beneath a bowl-like metal helmet and were harshly teased by the chill wind. She blinked when an errant strand whipped at her eyes.
 
“Yevele,” the lizardman growled at her.
 
She stepped past him and into the alley, nodded, and offered him a weak smile. Her gaze met his for a brief moment, then wandered over him and narrowed when she picked through the shadows and noted his condition.
 
“Gulth, when we parted a week ago you did not look quite so . . .” Yevele left the thought unfinished.
 
Behind her were two young men, one an elf in dark green leggings and a tunic, the clothes so soiled from the road and time that they looked nearly black. The elf glided gracefully and silently past Yevele and the lizardman and headed toward the inn’s back door and Deav Dyne.
 
Her other companion was colorfully dressed in far better clothes. (Gulth suspected he stole the outfit.) His face and hands were as dirty as his fellows’ and he looked every bit as tired. He adjusted a lute slung over his back and reached out, trying to shake Gulth’s hand. Instead, the lizardman turned and withdrew farther down the alley to join the elf and the priest.
 
“We’re late, I know,” Yevele said as she followed the lizardman. “I offer no apology for that, Gulth, as we’ve been looking for work these past few days. That’s why all of us came here, you know.”
 
“And we finally have a line on something.” This from the elf.
 
“Ingrge,” the lizardman said in acknowledgment. The elf’s name sounded like a growl. “Ingrge, you are—”
 
“Filthy. Aye, the lot of us are as dirty as any urchin. It hasn’t rained in all these days, and our surroundings have been. . . . Well, let’s just say a good downpour would make us all a little more presentable and less . . . pungent.”
 
Gulth wrinkled his nose in agreement and looked over his shoulder at the colorfully dressed man. “Wymarc. Good of you to come, even if you are late.”
 
The light spilling from the lantern confirmed Gulth’s suspicion about the bard’s clothes. The leggings were too short and tight, not something the man would have purchased by choice. And the tunic was tight across the shoulders, seams threatening to give at the...