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Michael, sick at heart, would have given them all he
owned, but Nikol, her face pale, her lips pressed tight,
steered him with a firm hand through the grasping, wailing
mob that surrounded the city gates.
The gates stood open wide, people pouring in, shoving
their way out. The guards kept traffic moving, but did little
else. One of them, however, eyed Nikol, and the weapon
she wore, with interest.
"Hey, you. Mercenary. The Revered Son's looking for
swords," said the guard. "You can earn yourself a meal, a
place to sleep." He jerked a thumb. "Head for Old City."
"Revered Son?" Michael repeated, in disbelief.
"Thank you," said Nikol, catching hold of her husband
and dragging him away. Outside the walls, they could hear
the disappointed cries of the beggars.
Inside the walls, things were not much better. People
lay sleeping in doorways or on the bare, cold pavement.
Evil-looking men drifted near, saw Nikol's sword and
Michael's stout staff, and drifted away. Two slatternly
women caught hold of them and tried to drag them into a
tumble-down hovel. The city stank of filth and death and
disease.
They were loathe to stop and ask anyone directions.
Nikol's father had visited Palanthas often, however, and
had described the layout of the city, which was like a
gigantic wheel. The great and ancient library stood in the
city's center, known as Old City, along with the palace, the
homes of the knights, and other important structures. They
made their way through the wall that separated Old City
from the New
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