The ruckus coming from between the roots of the massive banyan tree became a full cacophony as the group entered the shadows of the tree’s canopy of branches and leaves. Light and noise spilled out the windows of the Sanguine Pit, and the main door stood open to let the stream of people entering and exiting pass without impedance. Three huge thugs stood a few feet away from the entrance, watching people carefully, whether they were coming or going. When one man stumbled drunkenly and tripped up two people following him one of the thugs merely grabbed the man and, without a word, tossed him into the blood red waters of the Vanji River. His panicked shrieks as he swam toward a ladder made the witnesses to the act laugh uproariously.
“Apparently they don’t take kindly to drunkenness,” Selah noted, glancing at Brother Lothar nervously.
“Nah,” Jessup intoned dismissively. “They threw him in the river because he was trying to pick the pocket of the snake that was behind him. What they don’t take kindly to is one of their own being robbed.”
“Well, then,” Lothar said with a smile, “we shall make sure to not rob any of the locals. Right, lad?”
Jessup frowned slightly and eyed the monk carefully. Coming to a quick decision, he nodded his agreement rather than deny Lothar’s insight. Turning back to the Sanguine Pit, he pointed out how the building was built into the bowl of the tree, in and amongst its roots. “I checked around the entire place. That door they’re guarding is the only way in, unless you want to try a window. And every window is built over the water. The only loose bit of security I can see is that they’re not bothering to shake anyone down who goes in. Word is you can take any weapons you want into the Pit, so long as you know how to use them if you draw them.”
“Rather an ominous statement,” Selah said. Looking from the child to the weaponless Lothar and then to her own simple staff, she arched an eyebrow. “Will we stand out to them, then?”
Lothar’s smile at the irony nearly split his face. “Should we go find out?”
Durvil looked over the crowd of people in front of House Cartahegn incredulously. Surrounding the sprawling, two-story trading post was a mass of citizens and merchants, alike. Some wore worried expressions and wrung their hands, while others shouted angrily at a well dressed young woman by the entrance.
“As I said,” shouted the Cartahegn spokesperson from atop a wooden crate, “all Cartahegn resources are needed to deal with this emergency with our sugarpress, and our storefront is closed for the remainder of the day or until management resolves the situation. We apologize for the inconvenience, but for now please return to your homes and places of business. You will know as soon as we do that we are open, again. I promise.”
As she climbed down off the crate, most of the grumbling mob began to disperse.
“Ants.”
Durvil spun toward Elsbeth, who had ghosted up to his side. “What?” he asked, glancing at Ixilplith. The mage merely shrugged, as if to say, “I don’t watch where she goes, either.”
“They have an ant problem,” Elsbeth said more directly. “That’s what the people in the crowd said. Makes sense, I suppose, seeing as they have a sugarpress.”
Durvil huffed a frustrated breath, searching the crowd of people for the young woman who had climbed off the crate. “Everyone in this city seems to have a problem,” he said to no one in particular. “Why should this place be any different?” Spotting the spokesman, he started angling through the citizens toward her. “At least this problem I can just step on,” he grumbled. “Let’s see what she has to say about my cousin’s supplies.”
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