Winter 13th, 511 Roughly seventeenth bell. If one didn't look up, Alvadas seemed perfectly normal tonight. Every burning streetlamp was a halo in the dark, permeating the shadows and illuminating patches of road and rows of crowded buildings. The cobblestone led on innocuously into the guts of the city, looking nearly as sane as Syliras, if Syliras were carved out of sandstone. The odd soul shuffled along with his business, passing by the slender, cloak-draped form of Laszlo without so much as a second glance. Somewhere nearby, probably in the next block, he could hear Tower's Idol Slanderer throwing insults at unflappable Alvads. The air was crisp and biting, carrying the scent of horse manure and cooked food. This must be what a sensible Alvadas is like, Laszlo thought, just as long as I don't look up. One hardly had to look up, though, to notice that something was amiss. The Alvadan streets didn't stretch ever onward, eventually disappearing over a hill or finding interruption by a distant building. They curved, upward and inward upon themselves, bringing the city into the sky and all around in every direction. It was as if the city were painted on the inside of a globe, the entire world: just Alvadas. With sharp enough vision, one could see the entire city just standing in one spot. Laszlo's was sharp, piercing the darkness with ease, but the city above him must have been miles away. The details were lost in a fog. He wondered if anyone could get out, if they wanted. Probably. The Gaping Maw was forgiving. And there it was, actually, up and to the west. He could almost see several tiny individuals walking into his gaping mouth. But… were they leaving? Or entering? City of Illusions, Laszlo reminded himself, reaching inside his cloak and feeling reassuring at the hilt of his ill-gotten dagger. City of Lies. It was early evening, but unlike most nights, Laszlo wasn't tending bar. He had told Seven a lie to take his leave for tonight, something about Victor having forgotten to pay the full portion for the locally brewed ale. Laszlo had taken a satchel of coin and, under his thick woolen cloak, the dagger he acquired from Victor several days earlier. Seven knew it could take hours (or seconds) to get anywhere in this city, so Laszlo had time to spare for his real purpose. It had occurred to him belatedly, however, that even to get to where he had intended to go, it could still take hours (or seconds). It took one and a half to reach the Wager, a dark and unnerving building that seemed to make the Winter air grow colder. There was no one at the door, yet the Ethaefal could feel eyes on him, watching in anticipation. He hesitated, cursing both himself and the city, then proceeded forward and knocked upon the door. A grainy voice drifted through the solid oak. "At night they come without being fetched. At day they are lost without being stolen." Laszlo narrowed his eyes. Was that Victor? It didn't sound like him. He could come up with a better riddle, anyhow. "The stars." The door unlatched and Laszlo pushed it the rest of the way open. The gaunt Symenestra glided inside, nudging back his hood. He turned, placing his amethyst eyes upon a long-haired stranger with a piercing in his eyebrow. He was even more eerie than the Wager itself. "I'm looking for Victor Lark." The silent sweep of a hand indicated the olive-skinned Ravokian seated at a far table. Laszlo drew his eyebrows together in unease, then nodded gratefully and proceeded forward. |