The building that held his next target was an inn and tavern, a seedy place on the edge of the slum through which he had just travelled. That made Tarrin come up short. It wouldn't be a quiet place where he could sneak, but then again, getting in was a simple matter. He just needed some money. He'd go in as a human and quietly try to find out if the target was just some old pair of horns hanging on a wall, or something that he'd have to search to find.

That was simple enough. The rooftops weren't just his avenues, they were also used by a good many thieves. He'd seen them. Getting money was a process that took all of twenty minutes, tracking down one of these cat burglers, ambushing him, and taking whatever he wanted from the body. Scent allowed him to target one that had just come from a successful venture, letting him smell the gold, silver, and copper that made up the metals used for coins in the city. He caught one with a goodly amount of silver coins in his purse. It wasn't a fortune, but it had to be enough to buy a tankard of ale and maybe a chunk of bread or cheese.

Before going in, he cleaned the blood off of himself, then dropped into an alley and changed form. He felt strangely vulnerable in that shape, without his hyper-acute senses to warn him of impending danger, but that was the way things were going to be. Throwing his braid over his shoulder and stamping a bit in one of his boots to settle it, he brazenly walked out of the alley and into the inn's open door.

The interior was smoky, and smelled of people who didn't bathe regularly. There were no musicians, only a low rumble of many voices as the men and few women at the tables conversed with one another, as four servingmen wearing the collars of slaves moved between the tables. Quite a few eyes turned in his direction as he entered, brown Arakite eyes taking in this blond, braided Ungardt stranger. But Tarrin ignored them, moving through the tables in the middle of the common room's open floor to reach the bar that was against the back wall. They didn't know it, but Tarrin could understand their mutterings and hushed whispers as he passed. To a man, nearly all of them remarked that he wasn't wearing a collar or cuff. In Arakite law, that made him fair game. Though the law didn't officially condone it, any man that could manage to capture him could enslave him, especially when he was alone and in a bad part of town. They didn't have to say where their slaves came from, after all. Tarrin wasn't fearful of their ideas, mainly because they had no idea what they were going to try to capture. He nearly wanted them to try, just so he could vent some frustration on them.

Tarrin reached the bar, motioning for the barkeep to come over. He was a young-looking man, but his eyes marked him as older, tall and thin, wearing a simple ale-stained apron that left his shoulders and arms bare. His black hair was cut extremely short, and he had a thin scar running over an unassuming face that was neither handsome nor ugly. The kind of face a man would forget ten minutes after seeing it.

"Son, you obviously wandered into the wrong part of town," the man said in accented Sulasian. "I suggest you turn right around and leave. And once you get out the door, I think you'd better run."

"I can take care of myself, goodman," Tarrin replied in flawless Arakite, giving the man a slight, sly smile. "I'd like a flagon of decent ale."

"Kid, I'm telling you, this isn't a safe place."

"Just let me worry about that, barkeep," Tarrin assured him. "I promise to take it outside the inn, though. I can't bust up your establishment when you were nice enough to warn me."

The man gave him a look, then he laughed heartily. "Alright then, but I did warn you," he cautioned. "I have a good ale from Nyr. They put slices of sandtree fruit in it."

"I'll take it," he said, dropping a few of the silver coins down onto the bar.

After taking a few sips of the ale, which was actually quite good, Tarrin stared at his pottery tankard and let the attention drift away from him. Once he waited a little bit, he slipped the medallion out of his belt pouch and held it before him, reading its magical signals. It pointed behind the bar and up, and was nearly within his reach. He looked up, and to his surprise, found himself looking at a sheathed sword hanging behind the bar, a very large sword with a gentle curve. The blade wasn't that wide, judging from the scabbard, and it had an odd oval crosspiece that was much smaller than what he'd seen on most swords. He'd seen that design somewhere before. He scoured his memory, and an image of a painting hit him, a painting of a man with narrow eyes, wearing robes, with one of those swords in a silk sash.

That was it! It was one of those Eastern blades, swords that were reputed to be of the highest quality. This one was alot longer than the one in the painting. It was just a bit shorter than the length of a two-handed sword, five spans long, and its extended hilt made it clear that it was meant to be used with both hands. With the narrow blade and reduced length making the sword lighter than conventional weapons of the same type, that would give the two-handed wielder exceptional speed and control of the weapon. A strong man could wield it in one hand, if he was tall enough.

"Excuse me, barkeep, where did you get that?" Tarrin asked, pointing to the sword.

"That? My grandfather brought that back from Shu Lung," he replied. "It's been hanging up there, oh, about thirty years. It don't rust, so I just dust it from time to time."

"It's beautiful. I've never seen a sword like that before."

"Yeah, me either," he replied. "Just that one."

"Pardon my boldness, but may I see it? I won't unsheath it, I promise."

The man blinked, then he laughed. "Oh hells, why not?" he chuckled. "If you have the nerve to wander around alone, then I'll humor you." He came over and took it down from its place on the wall, then handed it to Tarrin, who put it down on the bar with the hilt facing him, hanging over the side. He looked at the sheath carefully while his other hand, under the table, inobtrusively touched the medallion to the hilt. But while looking at it, he realized that it was too light to be made of steel. When he held it, it felt like a heavy longsword, not a two-handed weapon. He picked it up again, and realized that that was indeed the case. "No wonder it doesn't rust," Tarrin noted.

"Why?"

"It's not made of steel," he replied, putting one hand on the hilt and the other on the scabbard, and in that position he felt the perfect balance of the blade. Taking the weight of the scabbard into account, he could sense the weapon's center, which was perfectly located to give the wielder the option to wield it with either one hand or two. One hand on the hilt would make the blade whistle like black death, and two would give the weapon extraordinary control. He drew just enough of the blade to look at the metal. It wasn't silvery, like steel was, this metal was black as pitch and strangely reflective, like onyx. Tapping a fingernail to it, he realized that it was metal. It just wasn't steel. "It's obviously a battle weapon," he surmised. "It has a blood groove, it's balanced properly, and it's not gaudy or jewelled like a ceremonial piece. It's meant to be used on people."

"I took it to an antique merchant," the barkeep shrugged. "He said it wasn't worth that much. That's why nobody ain't stole it yet. Say, kid, you know alot about swords."

"I'm Ungardt, barkeep," Tarrin smiled. "Have you ever heard of my people?"

The man laughed. "That mean you were born with a battle axe in your hands?"

"No, but one was put there not long after I was born," Tarrin grinned. "That's why I'm not afraid to walk around alone. To catch me, you have to catch me. If you know what I mean."

That made some of the eyes watching him flinch. Tarrin was speaking Arakite, flawless Arakite, and now they knew that if they wanted him, they were going to have to best him in a fight. Most slavers weren't interested in a target that could kill them. Tarrin had identified himself as Ungardt, a warrior race, so his statement was no idle boast.