Chapter 3(a)

A man sits alone in a small room. The one door from the hallway opens into a room that is approximately twelve feet wide and fifteen feet long, furnished with simple furniture, a bed, a small bedside table, a wardrobe cabinet and a fairly good sized table with two chairs. On the opposite wall hangs a window that offers a pleasant view of the city and the river that rushes pass just outside the city wall. The room is one of a dozen or so that make up the second floor of this building, all of which are occupied. Some of the other guests have added some better quality furnishings and all have decorated their rooms with keepsakes from home and personal items. The man in this room is not like the others. His room is Spartan and one would be hard pressed to figure out where this man calls home from a tour of his room. The only thing of significance in the entire room is a large map spread across the main table. The map displays the entire known world. Scattered, for no apparent reason on top of the map, are a handful of ordinary pebbles. It is late afternoon and the shadows begin to fill the room, so the man lights the oil lamps that adorn the walls. He had earlier pulled the bedside table close to the map table and had placed a unique lamp on it. The lamp had the normal base of an oil lantern, but added to all four sides, just above the flame were four highly polished three inch long metal plates. These plates were attached at such an angle, that when the lamp was lit, the light hit the plates and cast off a more brilliant glow. Returning to the tables, he lights this lamp and retakes his seat before the map.
So engrossed is he in his study of the map that it takes four attempts of loud knocking before he is aware that he has company.
“Enter,” he calls out.
A tall, fair skinned, human enters the room clad in a chain mail shirt, black leather pants, black leather boots, and a dark blue cloak. Walking with the stride of a confident warrior, he carries his six foot long spear with him into the room.
“You have a visitor, sir,” the guard announces.
Without moving his gaze from the map, the man behind the table says in a tone dripping with rebuke, “I thought my instructions were clear, Borban. I am not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard replies, “your order was clear, but this visitor is most insistent. Also, I thought I heard you this morning asking for this visitor, mentioning that she was overdue in reporting to you.”
As soon as the last sentence left his lips, Borban knew he had made a critical mistake.
The man behind the table stood quickly and fixed a hard glare at the guard.
“So, now, your duties include listening to my conversations, do they?”
“Uh…no, sir…I…uh...was just…,” the guard stammered, trying to explain himself when the man behind the table cut him off.
“Silence! I will deal with your error momentarily. Tell me who this visitor is.”
“It is Flit, sir,” the guard informed in a much subdued voice.
“Ah, yes, Flit, Send her in and then go and bring Iltor to me.”
At the mention of Iltor, Borban’s expression changed dramatically. He went from looking like a hardened soldier to looking like a ten year old boy facing down a pack of war wolves. Terror was not simply written on his face, terror was the very fabric of it.
“Don’t just stand there, do as you are told. I would not want to have to add more subjects for Iltor to address with you,” the man behind the table barked.
As the guard scrambled out the door, the man returned to his seat. He was playing with the pendent on his necklace, which seemed to have a calming effect on his facial expressions, when Flit entered the room.