219
You take a single Gold Crown from your money pouch and toss it to the old man who catches it with surprising dexterity (erase 1 Gold Crown from your Action Chart). He tests its worth by biting down on its edge with his blackened teeth before tucking it safely away in the folds of his tattered mhaktis.
‘There’s a mutiny taking place in the city of Bir Rabalou,’ he says, his creaky old voice barely audible above the crash of the surf. ‘The Funtal of the city has imposed heavy taxes on the city’s merchants, and we’ve heard from travellers that the Trader’s Guild have paid foreign assassins to come and do away with ’im.’ Suddenly the old man’s face drops and his myopic eyes narrow with suspicion when he notices that you and your companions are not natives of this land.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ says Oswin, ‘we’re not assassins. We’re … traders.’
He smiles uneasily. Clearly he is not convinced and, without saying another word, he turns around and hobbles away across the beach.
‘Silly old fool!’ says Sligh. ‘We’re wastin’ our time ’ere, Grand Master. Let’s be getting on.’
You nod in agreement and signal to the others to follow as you turn your horse back towards the coast road. It is a clear night and the brilliant moon is nearly full. With luck you could be in Bir Rabalou well before midnight.
