Away from the village, on the open road that led toward the city of Arutan, capital of the Devourer king, Farko, Duwan walked with his head high, his eyes closed to the brightness of Du, and prayed for guidance, for strength, for the ability to continue to control his desire to draw his weapons and slay the Enemy. For in his anger and anguish Duwan longed to make the dusty streets and roads run with blood until, at last, he, himself, overcome by numbers, lay there at peace, no longer tormented by the pain that came to him because of the waste of Drinker life. From a distance, the city of Arutan exploded into view like some unnatural growth on a plain of high, green grass. Roads radiated toward the city from all directions, and they were well traveled. Outward bound groups of pongs, laden with bales, packets, baskets, labored under the lashes of the Devourers. Groups traveling toward the city carried the produce of the forests and the fields.
The city was gray. Around it a wall, built of the stones of that region, rose in dark threat. Behind the wall the gray, grim buildings reached into the sky like some supreme insult to Du, not of the earth, not for the earth, but ripped from the earth, dug from the earth to leave gaping holes, stones as gray as the inside of the caves of the free runners.
Outside the walls peddlers hawked their wares. Food, drink, garments. It had been a long and thirsty walk across the plain surrounding the city.
'How does one obtain something to drink?' Duwan asked Tambol.
'Would my Master like the wine of Arutan, or some fruit juice?' Tambol asked.
'I know neither.'
'Wait, Master,' Tambol said, moving toward a vendor. He returned with a cup of something that, to Duwan, was sweet and delicious. 'Fruit juice, Master,' Tambol said.
'Have you none for yourself?'
'Water is good enough for pongs,' Tambol said.
'How did you obtain this fruit juice?'
'With coins.'
'Coins?'
Tambol reached into the folds of his garment and withdrew a purse of leather. He looked around, saw that no one was watching, and showed Duwan a handful of round, flat, metal objects. 'The coin of Arutan,' he said.
'How did you come by this coin?'
'Forgive me, Master,' Tambol said. 'I did not want to trouble you. It is not unusual for a pong to carry his master's coin purse, lest the master be soiled by trade.'
'Where did you get it?'
Tambol hung his head. 'From the hut in the forest where you killed the Devourer male and female.'
'You have done well. I know nothing of such things.'
'We are not rich, master, but we have enough to take decent lodgings within the city, and to purchase food and drink.'
'I am in your debt, my friend,' Duwan said, putting his hand on Tambol's arm.
Tambol sprang away, then leaned forward in a bow. 'Never, never touch me, Master, when others can see. It is not done. Touch me only with the lash.'
Duwan nodded. 'Both of you must watch me closely, and keep me from committing other errors.'
'We will, Master,' they said together.
'Now,' Duwan said, 'let us see this city of the Devourers, this city of Arutan.'
Duwan's first impression of an Enemy city was as an assault on his senses. His nose quivered as rank odors rose from a gutter running with sewage. A chatter of voices, a clash of metal on metal from a worker's shop, the wail of a female slave as she was lashed in a casual, matter-of-fact way by a Devourer female, the scrape of horned feet on paving stones; a movement of masses unlike anything he had ever seen. The avenue leading from the gate was wide and it was crowded. Slaves carrying bundles of firewood, huge sacks of grain, and various other loads walked near the gutters, rank, full of human waste. The overlords walked in the center, many of them dressed in colorful garb. Here and there the backs of slaves were bent under the weight of a portable chair in which lolled a disdainful
