A man stood framed in the wineshop's doorway—a tall broad-shouldered man who wore a high-crowned metal helmet like none that Craig had ever seen before. His sweeping shoulder-cape bore the blaze of brocaded heraldry of Lord Zenaor's service, and his eyes, his mouth, were cruel and grim.
Now he paused on the wineshop's threshold, sweeping the place with a glance that held no mercy.
A hush fell over the echoing, low-ceilinged room—the hush of fear. Men's faces paled, and women shrank back as if to hide behind their partners.
Beside Craig, Narla whispered, "That man—he is my father's chief of guards, the master of the rollers! They must already guess you're on your way to Tumek—"
Once more, Craig glanced round at the doorway—and found himself staring straight into the guard-chief's eyes.
For a taut, vibrant moment the silence echoed. Then the man in the doorway lashed, "On your feet, Earthling!"
Craig felt Narla's nails dig into his arm. Her whisper hissed so faint it might have been imagination: "Window—room behind this...."
A knot drew tight in Craig Nesom's belly. Stiffly, he rose ... side-stepped out from behind the table.
The hush of the room was deafening now. The wineshop revelers sat like creatures frozen.