Chapter Thirty-Seven—Azu Adventurer’s Guild

They had come to Azu, a dreary little city with green tiled roofs so worn they looked black. The city was in a state of long decline.

Shiro was surprised there was even an adventurer’s guild. Just as they entered, passing the Azushan bird statues that looked as weather worn as the age-old men with canted eyes smoking pipes at the city gate, a heavy snowfall began to come down.

“Oh great,” Ali said as he put out a gloved hand to watch the snow fall there. He looked up. “It’s going to be a blizzard.”

Shiro looked up into the sky. He saw nothing but thick fluffy snowflakes that seemed to appear out of a sheet of murky grey.

A chill ran down his spine. Not one of apprehension, but of actual cold. “Let’s go in,” he said, and led the way. He was in a hurry to find this friend of Ali’s, but he also wanted a respite from the nipping cold that bit at his fingers and neck.

Ali passed him up, going straight to the administrator desk. The place was empty, and some few men lingered about, looking at their group skeptically.

Fortunately the guild house was warm.

The smells wafting off of the spit pig roasting in the center of the main chamber made Shiro’s stomach growl and his mouth water. He went to the man cooking it. “Is this for sale?”

He nodded.

“A large portion for each of us.” Shiro gestured to the group.

The Urutai glanced down at him skeptically, and Shiro thought he saw a note of scorn cross the man’s face, that scorn deepening when he laid eyes on Debaku and Ali. If Shiro was strange by this man’s standards, he certainly didn’t much like that Shiro was with an Abassir and a Mar’a Thulian.

But coin was coin, and he took what Shiro handed him.

But this was no Darshuun, where demi-humans were seen, if not uncommon, though still a small minority. Here… Shiro had not seen a single person who wasn’t native to the steppe—at least that he could identify.

“I need some help,” Ali said to the man at the desk. “Do you speak the imperial tongue? Ah, yes of course you do. We are looking for an adventurer by the name of Razul.”

The Urutai man cooking the pig cut three large portions off of the whole and dished it out in ceramic plates before unstopping a bottle of alcohol and pouring that in little deep-set bowls.

Shiro glanced toward Ali to see if he was getting any information. The man behind the desk, bored as ever, pointed toward the board.

Ali nodded and went over.

“Ali,” Shiro called. “Good!”

Ali was looking at the board. He snatched something off of it and came to the table. “I found it. An update.”

“Where is he?” Debaku asked. He looked down at his food skeptically.

“He’s—according to his last known whereabouts—in the dungeon of Azurbadan.”

“Is it far?” Ali asked and took a hefty bite of his roasted pork. It was greasy and salty and fresh.

“About four hours from here on horseback—or camelback—whichever you prefer.”

“We do not have camels anymore, Ali.” Debaku said. He picked up his meat and gave it a sniff.

“Let’s eat, then we can go,” Shiro said.

“What? In this blizzard?”

“Do we have time to wait?” Shiro said. “This could get worse and worse. It could be a week before we can head to the dungeon if we get blocked by the snow.”

“Or a weak trapped in the dungeon,” Ali said.

“Your friend will have set up camp,” Debaku added.

“Oh,” Ali said with a nod, “so you are on Shiro’s side, eh?”

“We are both on Shiro’s side, Abassir.”

Shiro looked at the ticket Ali had taken from the board. It had been delivered four days ago. That was a long time to be in a dungeon. “Four days,” he said. “Four days since Razul left for that place. Do you think he is all right?”

“Some dungeons just take more time,” Ali said. “It is fine. Look, we go to the dungeon, help him kill a few monsters and then we come back here. He will join us. You will see. Trust me.”

“Trust…” Debaku said. “You use this word a lot.”

“Then trust me so I don’t have to ask you to, eh?” Ali grinned. “I am starving. What is this?”

“Suckling pig,” Shiro said.

“Oh good. I love roast pig. What, no fork?” he picked up the meat and bit into it, then nodded with approval. “Fine. We will eat and then we will go, but I suggest we buy new provisions before we set out. Food at least.”

“I agree,” Shiro said.

The animals they had stolen from the Urutai warriors had packs of provisions. Not huge packs, as these men were warriors, not travellers. Most of the food consisted of dried meat and fermented milk—something Shiro found that he did not enjoy drinking.

“Akh!” Ali had noised at that time. He spat it out. “What is this rotten swill?”

Now they were in the city of Azu and could buy better foods.

“Then it is settled.” Ali said. He glanced toward the desk. “Where can we buy provisions, man? Food—real food. Not that rotting milk!”

“Ali,” Shiro said. “Try not to incense the locals too much.”

“What?” he asked in incredulity. “I am an Abassir man! An imperial, a cultured individual in a land of barbarians, Shiro—how do you expect me to act?”

“In a manner befitting a man who will not have a knife slipped into his back when he leaves this establishment?”

Debaku glanced at Shiro. “His words carry wisdom, arrogant one.”

Ali snorted bemusedly.