For a gang of lower-class toughs, it would be an extremely intriguing rarity. [What Human could that possibly be?] the leader asked. He was clearly trying to be casual about it, but there was enough body language going on to light up a small city. [There are no such Humans here.]
"There's at least one," I said.
[Perhaps if you gave us a name?] he suggested.
"His name's Stafford," I said, trying to watch all five of them at once. No reaction. "He may be going under the name Daniel, or Dan, or Danny. Or possibly Künstler."
Still no reaction. [There is no one with any of these names,] the leader said, sounding a bit disappointed.
"Or maybe he simply calls himself Artist," I suggested.
The leader still didn't react. But out of the corner of my eye I saw a distinct ripple of recognition run through one of his buddies.
Bingo.
Maybe the leader didn't think I'd caught the mark. [All here call themselves Artists,] he scoffed.
"We still want to look for him," I said. "We can pass peaceably, or otherwise."
The leader snorted. [Search all you like,] he invited, stepping aside and motioning the rest of the group to do likewise. [You won't find the Human you describe.]
"We'll see," I said. "By the way, I don't suppose any of the food vendors in here are still open?"
[Some sellers of sculpted foods will be preparing their wares for tomorrow,] the Tra'ho who'd reacted to the name Artist spoke up. [One of them may be willing to sell to you.)
"Thank you," I said, watching for a last-minute sneak attack as I stepped past them. But they were apparently genuinely willing to let us pass.
Small wonder. They knew this place; we didn't. They figured they would be able to get to Stafford and his cash sticks long before we did. Especially if we stopped for supper first.
Fayr and Bayta passed through the line, too, and we continued down the tunnel. "'Artist'?" Fayr asked.
"The English translation of the German word Künstler," I told him. "Could be that's what got the late Mr. Künstler interested in art collecting in the first place."
A few meters ahead, the tunnel opened up into a curved corridor, probably a ring paralleling the amphitheater's central performance area. As we turned to the right into the curve, I glanced casually over my shoulder, just in time to see the last of the five toughs disappear through one of the tunnel's left-hand doors.
"They're hoping they can reach Stafford before we do," Fayr warned.
"That's the idea," I said, "They're going to play native guides for us."
"There will be an entire roundrun of rooms and corridors in a place like this," Fayr countered. "If we let them out of our sight, we'll almost certainly lose them."
"Stafford won't be in any of the rooms," I assured him. "The nicer quarters will have been grabbed up by the older residents years ago. Newcomers like Stafford will be stuck in the central area out in the elements."
"Unless he's visiting someone," Bayta said quietly. "Or has persuaded a new friend to let him move in."
I stared at her, my stomach knotting. Somehow, neither of those possibilities had even occurred to me.
For a moment my tongue was frozen. Fortunately, Fayr interpreted my silence correctly. "No fears," he said, and headed back down the tunnel at a brisk trot.
Bayta was still staring at me, and I didn't much like the expression on her face. "Don't look at me like that," I reproved her. "I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" she countered. "You don't seem to be thinking clearly lately."
"Let me guess," I growled. "Penny. Right?"
The last time I'd brought up Penny's name it had sparked an instant and decidedly unpleasant reaction. This time, Bayta didn't even twitch. "Not necessarily," she said, her voice tight but under control. "But since you bring her up, yes, I'm concerned at how you've been behaving. How both of you have been behaving, actually."
"You don't think a woman like her could possibly want anything to do with someone like me?" I demanded.
"She's not in your class, Frank," Bayta said. "If there's really something there …" Her throat worked. "Danger and tension can bring people together. I know that. People who otherwise might not ever even look at each other—"
"Is there a reason we're having this conversation right now?" I cut her off. "Because if not, we need to get out there and find Stafford."
"That is the reason," Bayta said. "I'm wondering if you really want to find Mr. Stafford. Or at least, whether you want to find him alive."
Once, years ago, a criminal kingpin I'd just nailed had offered me a bribe to let him go. This felt exactly the same way. "If you really believe that, you don't know me at all," I said stiffly. "Come on. We have a job to do."
Turning my back on her, I continued down the curved corridor, walking as fast as I could without breaking into a jog. I didn't know if Bayta was having any trouble keeping up with me. For the moment, I didn't care.
The area we'd come to was somewhat better lit than the tunnel had been, and certainly better populated. Small booths lined the walls, most with the appearance of art dealerships, most of them deserted and closed. As the toughs had suggested, a few of the booths with food and drink products still had people working them. The less artsy types, the ones selling flatcake, soups, and Tra'hok vegetable twists, were doing a fairly brisk business.
The general atmosphere of the place was more or less as expected. Most of the beings wandering through the gloom had a generally disheveled appearance, with ratty hair, feathers, or fur and old or at least rumpled clothing. Many had cobbled together outfits and adornments that were bizarre blends of their particular culture's class indicators. There were Juriani with the unpolished scales of commoners, yet wearing the tiered—though badly faded—clothing of midlevel royalty; Cimmaheem with their yarnlike hair braided, upper-class style, but only on one side; and Pirks who had preen-glossed feathers but wore no status headdresses. Either they were trying to hang on to the status they'd once had, or else were hoping an odd look would make them stand out of the crowd when the paying customers came around
"One of the artsy booths still had a lone Nemut on duty. He was polishing some jewelry, his gaze drifting across the collection of colorful characters as he worked, his truncated-cone mouth orifice making little silent motions as if he was humming to himself. His rainbow-slashed eyes passed across us, paused, and came back again.
Someone who could distinguish between Human faces well enough to recognize we didn't belong there. That would be a good place to start. Changing direction, I headed toward his booth.
"Fine evening to you, Humans," he said in better than passable English as we reached him. His angled shoulder muscles flexed briefly in traditional Nemuti greeting. "Have you come to shop for fine artistry?"
"Perhaps later," I said, glancing over the necklaces, rings, and ear cuffs in his display case, most of them composed of nested strips of copper, gold, and silver. It wasn't a style I'd seen before, but I found it rather attractive. "First, we have to locate a friend."
The Nemut gave a long, sibilant sniffle. "Few here have friends," he said. "Has your friend a name?"
"He's a Human," I said. "I understand he goes by the name Artist."
The other tossed his head, his tight middle-class curls glinting in the faint light. "Ah," he said, his tone changing subtly. "Artist. Yes, I know the one."
"I take it you don't like him?" I asked.
"We are all artists," the Nemut said scornfully. "But this Human almost doesn't deserve such a title. All he does is play with his claywork and pester those of us who are Nemuti with questions about ancient sculptures."
"Yes, that sounds like our friend," I agreed. "Do you know where we might find him?"
He nodded his head back over his shoulder. "His dwelling is in the courtyard," he said. "A small gray tent with green edges."
"Thank you," I said, eyeing the jewelry again. "How late will you be open?"