As they hesitated, a few people peered furtively out at them from the broken windows and sagging doors of the houses around the square. Then a man came toward them. He was bent and crippled, a beggar wearing filthy rags. His matted hair hung down over his eyes, and his whole body seemed covered with the caked filth of one who had never thought of washing. As the man came forward with a sort of limping shuffle, Gerry instinctively laid his hand on the hilt of the sword he carried concealed under his cloak, while Closana drew the concealing veil more closely over her face.
"Alms, hiziren! A little charity of your generosity!" the beggar whined as he came closer.
"What place is this?" Gerry asked, trying to give his voice the soft tone and lisping accent characteristic of the Green Men.
The beggar limped a little closer and peered up into the shadows of Gerry's hood. What he saw seemed to satisfy him.
"Take your hand from your sword hilt, friend!" he said in a low voice quite unlike his previous whine, "what place do you seek?"
"The Place of the Dragon."
"This is it. Who sent you?"
"Sarnak sent us."
"It is good." The beggar pointed down a flight of worn stone steps that led to the canal whose surface was some eight or ten feet below the level of the plaza. "Go down there, below the bridge, and tap on the stone that bears a rusted iron ring. You will find friends. Go quickly, while there are no strangers to observe you."