By Paolo V. Chikiamco
Toreol Dinlangen, Antipodean Seer of the Mad Mongrels, stifled a curse as he passed through the body of a particularly large man–or at least seemed to, as far as his Gift could tell.
As soon as he emerged from the brute’s broad back, he scanned the dense crowd quickly in the hopes that he had not lost sight of his quarry. To his relief, he found the King easily–although, had he not witnessed Bropil Arkabel donning the tattered cloak in his royal quarters, Tol would have been hard-pressed to distinguish him from the rest of the crowd.
“What’s wrong?” Tol heard the tension in the voice even if the speaker herself was invisible to his skewed senses. “Did you lose him?”
“No, but the city seems to have been a good deal more crowded that day than I’d have expected,” Tol sidestepped another man scurrying in the opposite direction, this one hauling a wagonload of goods behind him.