Guardian of the Night

25

The Watch members for the High Ward were not the primping, preening progeny of the high and mighty of the city, given their positions not on merit, but for who they were. These men and women had known battle, something even Bilain had never engaged in. Drafted from those wandering folk from throughout the world, where wars happened at an alarming pace. Cold, distant, scarred, they assessed Bilain as they allowed her through the gates to the High Ward without a word.

Ghistreen expected her. What the meeting would entail, she couldn't imagine, but she only wanted her family. After that, whatever happened, happened. She had no evidence of Ghistreen and Asnarrus' schemes. No evidence that they had anything to do with Yiladry's death, or Ghusz', or the multitudes burned in the recent fires. Everything only pointed to Vasztur Ganshorn in a vague fashion, but enough to push the city to confront him, with Asnarrus' help, no doubt.

The two Watch members that flanked Bilain removed her bully stick, checking her for other weapons before leading her through the sumptuous gardens and pathways of the High Ward, toward the largest of the buildings that sat higher than any other, declaring Ghistreen's majesty above even those whose wealth rivalled that of small nations.

At the gates to the former home of Senator Yiladry, the escorts passed Bilain on to yet more hardened warriors who, once again, searched her, not caring how intimate the places were where their hands groped and probed, looking for anything Bilain could think of using as a weapon. Once satisfied, one grabbed her arm, dragging her along the winding path to the doors of a house that dwarfed every other around it.

Inside, Bilain found a place that made opulence and wealth words that lost all meaning. Golden statues decorated alcoves in an entrance hall that could house a hundred soldiers and still have room for horses. Doors led off in all directions, carved and polished, gold leaf accentuating the craftsmanship of the motifs. Stairs diverged at a mid-point landing, curling back upon themselves as they gave access to the floors above.

Bilain hadn't known what to expect as her escorts bustled her into a side room, closing the door and locking it, but she hadn't expected a feast of food awaiting her, nor a burning fire that radiated heat around the room larger than the entirety of the Timid Fox and her rooms above it. Pitchers of wine sat beside the plates of food, bottles of other beverages beside them. Silver cups and goblets awaiting her to pour the alcoholic liquids inside. There wasn't a knife, fork or spoon to be seen.

Several chairs set around the room would give great comfort to wealthy backsides, but Bilain refused to sit. Bookcases held musty smelling volumes, some of which Bilain had heard of, but had never read. The other books meant nothing to her, but had titles that sang of far-away places, of knowledge, of poetry. Though curious, she left the books upon the shelves.

After some time, she heard a key turning in the lock and a parade of servants marched into the room. In their hands, they carried silver wash bowls, pitchers of hot water, fresh clothing, boots, brushes and combs, leaving them all to the side as a guard watched on. As the servants left, the guard pointed to the new items, hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

"The mistress will not have the filth of The Sprawl in her home." He didn't growl, or spit those words. Only stating a fact in an accent that Bilain, even with her years among the varied people's of The Sprawl, couldn't place. "Clean yourself up. Do not make us do it for you."

Even the threat came across as something little more than a passing conversation. The man knew his audience. Had he pushed out his chest, thundered at her, drawn his sword, it would only have set Bilain in a mood to ignore him. In truth, she felt dirty and welcomed the chance to clean herself. It would achieve nothing to show her stubborn nature here and she didn't doubt that the guard would follow through with that passing threat.