Snippet #2393455

Ianthe had been away from Iracot for a very, very long time. It was not exactly a city he enjoyed. Of course, it was beautiful, of course, it was grand, for course, it was marvelous, imperial, magnificent to behold, of course, of course! Gilded cornices, regal spires, broad avenues shaded with ancient arbors, august palaces and splendid squares. At night, illuminated with a thousand-thousand lights and shining votives, it was like some great cathedral, like the many pipes of some tremendous organ rung at once. The food was delectable, the climate more clement than most...but Ianthe had far too many memories here, most, if not all, unpleasant. In his experience, he had found the people to be...insincere, disagreeable. Perhaps even hostile. And, of course, there was the God-Queen. Try as dearly as he might, Ianthe could never come to an understanding with zealots or radicals, in whatever manifestations they might appear. Whenever he had seen the God-Queen speak, he was less overcome with reverent fervor than with wondering what she was saying, since he was inevitably left at the rear of the crowd of devout disciples.

Of course, these things were changing. The city was restless, and in some, more clandestine places, rebellion was the word of the hour. But the imbroglio had somewhat boiled off, and the status quo, which had been momentarily tipped off balance, was beginning to right itself. Or was it? If Ianthe had learned anything in his life, it was not to take appearances for granted. Undoubtedly, the city was moving, and change, whether significant or slight, was very near on the horizon. What an interesting time to be in Iracot, neh?

After digging around in the city, and gathering what intelligence he could, however, Ianthe was more than a little fatigued. Though many roads had worn his feet raw, the uneven cobblestones of Iracot always left behind a particular ache. At dusk he reached the merchant quarter, somewhere he had been reluctant to go, but where he would undoubtedly find lodgings for the night. He wore long black breaches tucked into tooled leather boots, a modest white tunic, and a grey velvet mantle under which he carried his bodkin, purse, and some other essentials. A simple cap, cocked to one side, sat upon his head. For a moment, he had the phantom fear that someone might recognize him; but thirteen years had done much to his countenance, and Ianthe walked the streets with all the confidence of a changed man. Besides, Ianthe mused, people have remarkably short memories.

Eventually, Ianthe came upon the Crimson Fox, an establishment he thought to be relatively new, and decided to try his luck there. Immediately he was greeted with the ring of toasting glasses, laughing voices, and the soft strains of a chamber orchestra. It was no lowly public house, to be sure. The interior was richly ornamented, with crimson pennants lining the oaken walls and paintings of foxes where they did not hang. The Crimson Fox certainly lives up to its namesake. Observing the patrons, it appeared to be a haunt of the city's affluent. He saw more than a few ermine cloaks, cloth-of-gold sashes, and velvet doublets. He half expected to see the Magistrate of the Merchant Quarter himself at the tables, quaffing Sunwine or some Estisian brandy. He elbowed up to the bar, which was elevated in the center of the room, and asked for a cup of rice wine and, if they had any, some capon with roasted onions. The waitress was a charming young girl, perhaps not yet twenty, with honey-blonde hair and soft hazel eyes. "Excuse me, miss, might I be able to take lodgings here?"