The Street of a Thousand Taverns felt like home to Emmaline as well, running north to south at a right angle to the Talabec the quality of establish varied in direct proportion to their distance from the docks. Down by the waterfront the dives and drinking dens existed in a perpetual state of riot. Bottles shattered and pistols fired into the air, brawling men clashed in quarrels that might be about nothing more serious than a spilled drink but might leave a body floating in the river. Bouncers, often armed with coach guns, crouched in doorways, though there primary concern seemed to be to channel the belligerents out into the street and prevent fires from catching in damp thatch. The top of street was almost respectable, the kind of place a noble might frequent if they were in the mood to slum it. The middle section was packed with the vast breath of the city of Altdorf. Scribes and students of the Colleges of Magic rubbed shoulders with the clerks and lay functionaries of the Temple of Sigmar. Shop keepers and grocers, farmers and tradesmen all thronged the street, drinking and carousing with dwarves, Kislivite mercenaries, even the occasional halfling. 

The whole place had a smell of ale and cooking food. The sun was beginning to sink and the evening meal was being prepared, soups simmered on pots and bread baked in oven. Grilling meat, beef, pork and even goat smoked on open flames, chickens, turkeys and pheasant roasted by the dozen, turned on slow spits by the children of the tavern keepers. Uniquely among the streets of major cities no hawkers crier the charms of particular taverns and bars. It was cheaper to hire street children to pelt such criers with rocks, eggs and other improvised missiles than to keep up the service. The crowds were rife with pickpockets and thieves of all stripes who sort marks amidst the unwary. Twice Amal had to smack away children who tried to slit his purse, shoving them more or less good naturedly back into the mass of humanity.

Emmaline selected a tavern three quarters of the way up the street that hung a sign depicting a golden harp. The inside of the tavern was warmed by a trio of fireplaces each heating crocks of soup. It was clearly a gathering place of mercenaries and soldiers, weapons hung from  the backs of chairs and there was a smell of steel and oiled leather. There was a slight quiet as the entered as hard faced men looked up from games of cards and tankards of ale to size up the new comers. There were a appreciative glances at Emmaline but by and large the eyes went to Amal and his weapons. Conversation began again as he evidently passed muster. The presence of so many men who wore their skills in scars and battered faces meant that the place was less crowded than other taverns, which was why Emmaline had chosen it. It also meant that it wasn't a place likely to be frequented by anyone from the colleges of magic, which was certainly as she preferred it. They sauntered up to the bar where a buxom woman, handsome but aging was polishing a glass with a dirty cloth.

"We will need a room, probably for several days," Emmaline called over the buzz of the the background chatter.