The Clocks of Iraz

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IT WAS THE HOUR OF THE GOAT, ON THE THIRTEENTH OF the Month of the Unicorn, in the republic of Ir, one of the twelve city-states of Novaria.

In the tavern called the Scarlet Mammoth, in the city of Orynx, a slim, well-dressed young man toyed absently with a glass of wine and watched the door. Although this man wore Novarian garb, there was about him a suggestion of the exotic. His skin was darker than that of most Novarians, although the latter were a mainly brunet folk. Furthermore, his ornaments were gaudier than those of the Land of the Twelve Cities.

Across the common room sat an older man: a chunky fellow of medium height, with a plain, nondescript face, clad in garments of sober black. If the first man looked foppish, the second looked ostentatiously austere.

While the tall youth watched the door, the chunky man, now and then sipping from a leathern drinking jack of ale, watched the tall youth. Sweat beaded the foreheads of both men, for the weather was unseasonably hot.

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