The Tyranny of Ghosts_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [79]
“I have some experience in that sort of thing,” Oraan pointed out. “And Dagii is a hobgoblin.”
“But you’re not a Darguul warlord, and Dagii’s not the right kind of hobgoblin. He thinks about atcha and muut. He’s too damn noble. We need someone who has Tariic’s kind of ambition and guile.”
“Aguus of Traakuum,” said Oraan. “Or Daavn of Marhaan. But they belong to Tariic. We couldn’t ask them without him finding out.”
“I have someone else in mind,” Ashi said. She stood and grabbed a cloak. With the year turning toward mid-winter, even Rhukaan Draal was becoming cold by night. “We’re going for a walk.”
The guards at the gates of Khaar Mbar’ost let her and Oraan pass without comment. If there was one good thing about living in a fortress with creatures as comfortable by night as by day, Ashi thought, it was that no one paid much attention to when you came or went.
She led Oraan in the direction of the Khaari Batuuvk, the Bloody Market. It was quieter by night than by day, though even more dangerous with only desperate or particularly unsavory merchants remaining open through the late watches. Ashi turned aside before the street opened onto the market and its maze of stalls, though. For a city founded only thirty years before, this area of Rhukaan Draal was relatively old—some of the first structures built, after Haruuc had more or less razed the Cyran market town that had once stood on the site, had been built here. Haruuc himself had made one of the early buildings his base of power while Khaar Mbar’ost was built. Tradition held strong, and while there were better parts of Rhukaan Draal, the warlords of some of the largest and most powerful clans still kept their city seats there.
A banner with a crest depicting a fanged maw wreathed in flames hung on the house where she stopped. A hobgoblin guard stood before the door. “Ashi d’Deneith will see Munta the Gray of Gantii Vus,” she told him in Goblin.
The guard looked her over, a glimmer of recognition in his eye, but his ears flicked back. “Munta sees no one,” he said. He sounded a little sad about it.
“Announce me,” said Ashi. “Munta will speak to me.”
“He sees no one. By his command, he is to be left alone.”
Ashi held down a growl of frustration and stepped a few paces back from the front of the building. The house had been built like a miniature fortress with the windows small and high above the street. Many windows still showed light, though, including one that was slightly larger than the rest and commanded a view of the Bloody Market. Ashi cupped her hands around her mouth and bellowed up, “Munta! Ashi d’Deneith wants to talk to you. Get your nose out of your cup and let me in!”
She was no duur’kala, but she could still summon up an impressive shout. Her call echoed along the street. The guard looked startled, uncertain of how to handle this challenge. Oraan just looked nervous. He swept the street with his gaze as if checking who might have heard.
Up in the window, a fat figure moved. Ashi called again, this time more respectfully. “Elder warrior, speak to me. I need your experience!”
She lowered her hands and waited. After a long moment, she thought she heard someone shout a command inside the house. A few moments more and the door of the house opened. A goblin servant stuck his head out. “Munta will speak with you,” he said, and stood aside to let them in.
By human standards, the city house of the Gantii Vus was barren, but after weeks among Darguuls, Ashi could recognize signs of the clan’s proud history in the weapons hung on walls and the carvings of battle and triumph on the sparse furnishings. There was a fine layer of dust over everything, though, a sense of wear to edges and corners, as if the clan—or its warlord—had lost some of that ancient pride.
Munta met them in a room hung with trophies—more weapons, pieces of armor, a few grislier relics of past fights. The room smelled strongly of old sweat and alcohol. Ashi guessed that this was where Munta had been