Outside the city, an abandoned orchard waved in a light evening breeze, the cider-tart odor of spoiled citrus radiating into the muggy desert air surrounding the once treasured assembly of trees. Not far away was the high fencing of a compound that belonged to bandits, and from inside came the sound of raucous festivities. [i]Why not?[/i] Barrats thought. Every day you've avoided death by the hangman's noose or on the end of a guardsman's sword is a cause for celebration when you've lived the life of a bandit.

At the gates there were various outlaws and hanger-ons milling around, some of them drinking, some attempting to stand guard, and all of them in a constant state of argument. To the left of the compound, the orchard rose to a small parched hill peak and on it sat a lookout tending to a small fire. Sitting tending a fire isn't the quite the desired position for a lookout, but, otherwise, he was one of the few on this side of the compound who seemed to be taking his job seriously. Certainly, they'd failed to post any scouting parties. Or if they had, then the scouting parties were lounging under a palm somewhere, blind drunk, because there was no one to see Barrats and the dozen or so men appointed to him as they crept closer, approaching a man, who was crouching behind a crumbling sandstone wall, keeping watch on the compound. 

Barrats and his aide, Fel, rode a little ahead, side by side, as was their preference, happy to be with one another and pleased to be within sight of what might be another opportunity to restock their provisions and gain some insight into their destination, each undulating with the slow, steady rhythm of their horses. Both rode high and proud in the saddle despite the long, arduous journey. They might have been advancing in years – both were nearing what was considered middle age to the high-bloods – but it would not do to be seen slouching. Nevertheless they came slowly: their mounts were chosen for their strength and stamina, not speed, and tethered to each was an ass, laden with supplies.

Behind them came Roal, who had inherited the bright, dancing eyes of his mother, his father Fel's colouring and bone structure, and the impulsiveness of both. He would have liked to gallop ahead and climb the slopes of the nearby dunes to the compound to announce the impending attack,but instead trotted meekly behind, respecting his both father's and supervisor's wishes for a modest approach. Every now and then he swatted the flies from his face with his crop and thought that a gallop would have been the most effective way to rid himself of them.

As the group neared their target, Barrats got a better look at him. A round-faced elf, a little shabby, and probably too fond of the grog himself, if Fel's guess was correct. This was the man who, according to their contacts at Zaphere, was good at loosening tongues, though he'd looked like he'd have problems loosening his own drawers.