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Not Quite Scaramouche



GuardiansOf The Flame 09



Copyright ┬й 2001 by Joel Rosenberg
 forHarry and Spring

alwaysmissed; never forgotten



Prologue:




A Night in Biemest




Pirojil liked the night. Yes, in part it was that the darkness hid his face тАУ in large part тАУ but there was
more to it than that. After all, a mask could hide his face тАУ although, under most circumstances, that
would draw more attention than even his ugliness did тАУ and a beard and mustache did just that at the
moment

No, it wasn't just that it concealed his ugly face. Dark-ness was a comforting thing, a blanket of shadows
and grayness that warmed him like a distant fire. With a quick motion of cloak and body, you could
disappear into that darkness, or reach out from it with the steely finger of a sharp blade, darkened with
lampblack.

Darkness offered detachment, both physical and emotional.

And detachment was a good thing in his line of work.

Nights in Biemestren were brighter than most; by edict of the lord warden, oil lamps flared brightly from
just after sunset until just before sunrise in front of every commercial establishment along most streets,
including the one that was officially named the Street of Pirondael's Treach-ery тАУ the new emperor, or
more likely his mother, had gone in for some serious renaming тАУ but which, for rea-sons nobody seemed
to be able to remember, was called Dog Street by all the natives. It was filled with lowerclass
establishments тАУ taverns and bordellos that catered to the soldier trade, mainly.

Loud, drunken singing and a quartet of staggering Tyrnaelians poured out through the open door of the
Tavern of the Broken Mug тАУ at least, that was what Pirojil thought it was called, given that the emblem
mounted at the edge of the roof was a mug fit for a mythical giant, with a jagged crack sawed down the
side, still dripping water from the earlier rainstorm.