Admittedly, though, Lorn didn’t know where to go. He was not only a stranger in Ganjor, but Ganjor itself was strange, and he saw nothing as familiar as an inn or boarding house. The Ganjeese architecture looked wholly unlike the structures up north. The buildings were rounder here, softer, with gently sweeping curves and archways and complicated roofs made of limestone slabs set at impossible angles. Worse, any writing over the doors was in Ganjeese, a peculiar alphabet of slashes and dots. Feeling lost, Lorn looked about for anything helpful. Since there were other northerners in the city, he decided he’d better ask for assistance. Still, his close call in Dreel made him circumspect. Just how far had word of his journey reached? Jazana Carr might have assassins of her own after him now.
‘We need to find a place to rest,’ he told his group. ‘At least get out of this sun.’
Garthel wiped a hand over his wrinkled brow. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, looking, like the rest of the Believers, completely depleted from the journey.
Lorn surveyed the busy street. Like a mirage from the desert, a man headed toward them, beelining for their caravan amid the crowds of people. Lorn stared at him, unsure why he was approaching and paranoid about his motives. He was clearly Ganjeese, with dark skin like tanned leather and white robes that covered his entire body. Even his head was wrapped in cloth, but his face was clearly visible, punctuated with a sharp, black beard. Neither young nor old, Lorn couldn’t gauge the man’s age, but his purposeful stride filled him with caution.
‘Everyone, look,’ he warned, gesturing toward the man with his chin. ‘Be on guard.’
Unlike the soldiers who’d come to them in Dreel, this stranger seemed unarmed. He came at them furtively, too, occasionally looking over his shoulder. His dark eyes darted about as if he feared being followed. Everything about his manner told Lorn he was no assassin. Still, the old king was vigilant.
‘Greetings, friends,’ said the man as he approached. He put his hands together and bowed a few inches, making sure to face each of them. Though he appeared to speak their language, there was a clear accent on his tongue. ‘You are northerners, yes?’
‘I should think that was obvious,’ said Lorn tersely. He had let go of the donkey and positioned himself between the man and his companions. ‘Who are you?’
The man smiled. ‘A friend, sent by someone who means to help you.’
It was so absurd Lorn almost laughed. ‘Angels of Fate, not again. . Listen, friend, we have everything that we need. We don’t need any help, so why don’t you just leave us?’
‘Let him talk,’ said Eiriann. She studied the stranger carefully. ‘You’re a friend? Who sent you?’
‘Patience, please,’ said the man. ‘Tell me, you are Seekers?’
There was no patience in Lorn at all. He snapped, ‘We’re not Seekers, we’re Liirians. On your way, now.’
Flustered by his outburst, the stranger held up his hands. ‘No, no, please listen. You are here for Mount Believer?’
‘Mount. .?’ Lorn hesitated. ‘Who are you? Why are you asking us this?’
‘I am from someone who wants to protect you,’ the man insisted. ‘You seek Mount Believer, so you are Seekers. So it is dangerous for you here.’
‘Why is it dangerous?’ Lorn asked. ‘There are many like us here.’
‘It is dangerous,’ the man repeated.
‘Well, we’re not staying long,’ said Lorn. ‘Just a night or two. Then we’ll be on our way.’
‘To cross the Desert of Tears?’
‘Fellow, you ask too many questions,’ warned Lorn. He stepped closer to the man, who was far smaller than he. ‘So start answering some of our own. Who sent you? The ruler of this place?’
The man shook his head. ‘No, no, I cannot say. I am to bring you to a safe place.’
Lorn turned his back at once. ‘Forget it.’
‘Please,’ begged the man. He reached for Lorn. .
Lorn whirled with a shout and shoved him over, sending him tumbling into the dusty street. The stunned man lay looking up at him. People passing by took notice of the ruckus. With Lorn standing over him, the Ganjeese man put up his hands.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You make trouble at your peril.’
‘I’ve seen my share of trouble,’ Lorn growled. ‘If you want more, stand up and get it.’
The man stood and brushed the dust from his white wraps. He waited a moment for the curious to look away, then defiantly approached Lorn once again.
‘You fear me, but it is not I you should fear. I come from a friend, someone you don’t know but who means to help you.’
It was all too confusing; Lorn groaned in acquiescence. ‘All right. . go on.’
‘I cannot tell you everything,’ the man whispered, ‘but there is a place for us to talk. It is dangerous for us to speak here in the street. We will speak in privacy, yes?’
‘Where?’
‘At a shrana house, nearby.’
‘And what is a shrana house?’
The man gestured down the street. ‘There,’ he said, pointing out a pretty building of stone and bright tiles. ‘A place to drink.’
‘A tavern,’ said Lorn dryly. His memory of the Blue Ram still fresh, he hesitated. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ offered Garthel. He was careful not to use Lorn’s name. ‘So you won’t be alone.’
‘Me too,’ said the blind Bezarak.
‘Good,’ said the stranger. ‘All of you come. Things will be explained to you.’
Lorn hesitated. He didn’t trust the dark man, though he didn’t think him an assassin, either. Perhaps he had information about other assassins? A plot of Jazana Carr’s?
‘We’ll come,’ he said finally. ‘Bezarak, hold on to Garthel’s arm. Garthel, you stay close to me.’
Old Garthel agreed, thrilled with the prospect of going with Lorn. He got down off the wagon, told his daughter sternly to look after the others, then took Bezarak’s sleeve. Before they departed, Lorn took his sword from the wagon and belted it around his waist. The Ganjeese man took notice of this, but only nodded.
‘Come,’ he said, then led the three of them down the street, Lorn in the lead, Garthel and blind Bezarak close behind.
The shrana house was very near. Not very different from the buildings around it, the place had an arched doorway but no door, only a heavy curtain of beads. The smell of sweet smoke lingered on the threshold, while bearded men sat at tables just outside under the shade of an eave, tossing dice and playing cards. The stranger went to the curtains and parted them, bidding Lorn and his companions to enter. It was dark within the shrana house. Lorn’s eyes struggled to adjust. He could see other dark-skinned men about the place, some at tables, many others sitting on woven blankets across the floor. Gold oil lamps lit the chamber with feeble flames. Strange but pleasant music rose from the flutelike instrument of a man in the corner. There were no women in the shrana house; even the servants were male. And all of them wore clothes like their guide. Lorn could not spot a northerner among them.
‘Are we allowed in here?’ he asked.
‘You are welcome in this place,’ the man replied.
‘But it’s so crowded,’ Lorn remarked. ‘How can we talk privately here?’
‘Do not worry,’ said the man, then directed them toward one of the empty tables at the far end of the tavern. Stubby legs held the table only inches off the floor. There were no chairs around it, only small square pillows. ‘Sit,’ the man directed, then watched as Lorn and the others took places around the table. It took a moment for Garthel to lower his stiff body, though Bezarak sat with remarkable ease. When Lorn had taken a place he looked up at the stranger.