It was not quite clear from whom or when the beggar thought he would receive alms: there was not a soul about, the blank walls were devoid of windows, and the upturned palm was extended toward nothing but a pair of homeless dogs, shamelessly abandoning themselves to coition in the very middle of the alley. The beggar’s efforts were no doubt in vain from the very start, but he sat there all the same, without moving, as if he were hewn from stone.
Egert had passed by beggars a thousand times without looking or delaying in the slightest; however, the old man, forgotten in the empty street with his hand stretched out into space, somehow touched his heart: perhaps because of his humble patience or perhaps because of Egert’s own weary resignation. Egert’s hands reached into his purse. All he had to his name were two gold pieces, ten silvers, and ten coppers. Egert took out a coin and, overcoming his timidity, stepped toward the old man, intending to lower the money into his blackened, wizened palm.
The beggar shifted. His eyes flared up in the thicket of his silver gray hair, and the unexpectedly loud, piercing cry that burst from his mouth spread along the street. “Many thanks!” In that instant, the withered hand seized Egert by the wrist with such strength that he involuntarily shrieked.
A beefy young ruffian emerged from one of the recessed alleys like a phantom: a young man with the red, businesslike face of a butcher. The beggar ran his free hand through Egert’s clothing with uncommon dexterity, caught hold of his purse, and ripped it from his belt. It seemed the old man was not that old after all. The purse flew through the air to his accomplice and fell with a clink, and only then did Egert, struck dumb from fear, try to escape.
“Shhh…” A broad, rusty knife appeared in the hand of the young rogue. “Quiet, now. Shhh…”
Egert could not even scream. His throat dried up instantly, and his chest, compressed by a spasm, could not take in air. The ruffian adroitly flung a lariat around his neck, almost simultaneously tying his hands behind him: obviously, it was far better in this city to choke the robbed, rather than risk the chance that they might identify their robber. Egert struggled, but feebly, far too feebly, for he was paralyzed by fear.
The rope around his neck gave a jerk. From somewhere beyond came the tramp of feet and a sharp “Stop!” Egert’s head was bent toward the ground, but then all at once he sensed his freedom: he lunged away, straightening himself up as he escaped his captor. The beggar, his frayed cloak whipping out behind him, and his collaborator fled down the alleyway, and the stomp of their steel boots echoed against the blank walls. They disappeared around a corner, and the stomp became fainter until it finally quieted altogether.
The rope and Egert’s paltry purse had tumbled two steps away onto the pavement. Egert stood, unable to take even a step.
A hand picked up the purse from the stones and held it out to its owner. “This is yours, is it not?”
A fairly young man of medium height, wearing a gray hooded cloak, stood in front of Egert, who flinched involuntarily, immediately recognizing the habit of the Brotherhood of Lash. Smiling slightly, the acolyte of the Sacred Spirit flicked the hood back off his forehead.
Now that the face of the stranger was completely revealed, nothing ominous or frightening remained in his appearance. He was simply a passerby, and his eyes, gray blue like Egert’s, beheld him compassionately.
“That was very dangerous. You should not wander into deserted alleyways with a full purse. You young people are so incautious.”
The stranger said “you young people,” even though he himself was older than Egert by no more than a few years.
“They … Did they leave?” asked Egert, as if he could not trust his own eyes.
The stranger grinned. “I frightened them off. The city’s robbers are a cunning and cowardly lot, and I, as you can see—” He touched his hood. “—possess a certain amount of authority.”
Having lived in the city for a few months, Egert knew quite well that the sight of a gray habit really was capable of routing a pair of robbers, if not an entire gang. He nodded hastily, unable to find the words to express his thanks. With an encouraging smile, the acolyte of Lash again held out his clanking purse.
“That really is all I have. Thank you,” mumbled Egert, as if trying to excuse himself.
The stranger nodded, accepting the gratitude. “Money is not the most important thing. You could have been killed.”
“Thank you,” Egert repeated fervently, not knowing what he should do or say beyond this. “You saved me. I truly don’t know how to thank you.”
The acolyte of Lash broke into infectious laughter. “Please don’t mention it again. Honest people should help each other, or else the swindlers and villains will wipe us from the face of earth. My name is Fagirra, Brother Fagirra. And you, are you a townsman?”
Following the customs of politeness, Egert introduced himself.
Hearing mention of the university, Fagirra gave voice to his satisfaction. “Oh yes, a worthy place for honorable young men. Which subjects do you prefer?”
Egert felt ashamed that he was not a better student, but he finally spat out that he was most interested in history.
Fagirra nodded in understanding. “History is, I suppose, the most interesting of all subjects. Ancient tales, books full of wars, heroes, rulers, mages … Speaking of mages, the thought occurs to me that it was the venerable Dean Luayan who inculcated you with a love for his own subject matter, yes?”
Egert brightened: what, did Master Fagirra know the dean?
The acolyte of Lash gently corrected Egert: First of all, he should be called Brother Fagirra, and secondly, he himself did not have the honor of being acquainted with the dean. However, whispers of Master Luayan’s wisdom had long ago passed beyond the walls of the university.
They had been conversing amiably for some time now, strolling through the side streets. It seemed strange to Egert that he was talking with a man in a gray robe so informally. Up until now the Host of Lash had seemed like a horrifyingly mysterious assemblage beyond the comprehension of lesser mortals; hesitating at first, he finally confessed this perception to his new friend, which aroused yet another assault of Fagirra’s mirth.
Chortling, the acolyte of Lash clapped Egert on the shoulder. “Egert, Egert. I won’t deny it: The name and deeds of our brotherhood are enshrouded in a secret, to which not all people can dedicate themselves. A secret and a sacrament are similar words, and we are the acolytes of Lash, the acolytes of the Sacrament.”
“I asked,” Egert mumbled timidly, “I asked many people and no one could explain to me what exactly the Brotherhood of Lash is.”
Fagirra became more serious. “Much that is gossiped about us is superfluous and untrue. There are always many wild conjectures surrounding the Brotherhood of Lash, as there are around anything unknown. But you, Egert, would you really like to learn more?”
Egert was not entirely sure he wanted to know more, but he did not dare confess his own indecision. “Yes. Of course.”
Fagirra nodded thoughtfully. “The thing is, Egert, the Host of Lash does not place its confidence in just anyone, but your face seemed to me, from the very first glance, the face of a worthy man. Tomorrow, friend Egert, you will have a rare chance to visit the Tower of the Host of Lash. Would you really like to come?”
Egert inwardly cringed away from the steady gaze coming from beneath the hood, and tormented by fear, he did not have the courage to refuse. “Oh yes.”