Zoya cursed Davian for a woolheaded fool as they forged their way through the crowd of noisy and smelly humanity. Twice she had to slap away pickpockets, which in itself was a problem because even a very wise goodwife shouldn’t have been quite so adept at spotting them. It took her back to her own childhood in Tanchico where she had lifted her own share of purses, and was struck by the sudden insane urge to try her luck. It had been years since she had used the skill for anything beyond befuddling the odd Aes Sedai though and the risk of failure was too high. And who knew, there might be thief takers about.


 By the time the reached the tavern, an unprepossessing place named the Mast Head, she was compiling a list of Davian’s many faults. Whether he wanted to or not he had forced her to come with him, she dare not risk his connection to the Saddle Light to something as mundane as a drunken knifing, nor could she have convinced him to stay without using arguments that would have revealed too much to Maddy. The other Brown already thought she was looking at him as a potential warder which was bad enough if gossip got back to the Tower, but if word got out about her real mission entire armies might be thrown at them, and not only armies of the Shadow. There were many monarchs and rulers who would give almost anything to lay claim to the Horn for their own ends, none of which would serve the needs of the Light and the White Tower.


“Some might say it has charm,” Zoya said, skirting as close to her oaths as was possible as they stepped into the tavern. It was built of sections of old ships, the walls and floors a hodgepodge of dozens of different vessels given the wide variance in wood grains. Rushes, ubiquitous in a marshy area like this, had been scattered liberally over the floor, giving it a swampy overtone to the salt smell of the estuarine sea. The tables were surplus barrels, probably beef or fish casks which no longer could be calked to hold fluid but still provided surfaces for clay tankards and dice games of dubious repute.  The sole piece of stone work was a rather impressive central chimney made of mortared river stone that opened on three of its four sides. A fire of crackling driftwood popped and snapped within, heating a large cauldron that contained stew of some kind. Several joints of meat were being turned on spits by an indifferent looking child with a pimply complexion, the drippings falling into narrow trays in the Tarien fashion to be used as grease and gravy later. The whole place smelled of ale, wood smoke, cooking meat, and old mildew.


 The denizens of this place looked just as varied and scrofulous as their surroundings. Zoya thought they were probably a cut above the unwashed humanity that filled the streets, but it was a fairly shallow cut. The tongues of a half dozen nations combined into a dull roar as everyone lifted their voices a few octaves to be heard over the yells of their neighbours. They were ships captains or ships officers for the most part, with a smattering of local business men and artisans, people who were sick enough of the taste of fish to pay a little something for meat without gills. The saddest excuse for a gleeman sat beside the fireplace, vainly plucking at his battered lute and trying to engage the attention of anyone who would look at him without any real success. 


Irritating as ever, Davian ignored her comment and strode to an empty barrel, taking a seat on the rough three legged stool. At least the woolhead picked one far enough away from the fire to provide some shadows and Zoya took a seat across from him. A well endowed barmaid trailed over after a few minutes, her tired walk becoming something of a strut as she got a look at the thief taker.

“What can I do for you sailor,” she asked with innocently contrived innuendo.