AZAG (LORDS OF MARS) GAME

The guards glance at each other. Then the short one bows to Noxmorte. "Enter, lord," he says with a tone of respect. The taller one presses the buttons that open the gate, which retracts into the wall with a low humming noise.

Noxmorte enters the tiled courtyard surrounding the wind tower. There is no trace of life in the courtyard. Not a tree or weed or rat to be seen. The Lords of Byzaron like their living spaces sterile.

There is a faintly discolored path across the pale grey tiles to the opening at the base of the tower where Noxmorte can enter. He follows the scuffmarks of previous footsteps, and enters the dark arched opening. As he steps into the tower, a pale white light blinks on to show him the staircase that spirals up the inside of the tower wall. The tower is about thirty feet across. Looking upward into the darkness, Noxmorte fancies he can see the Spider Lord hanging from its webbing, high up in the slow, steady breeze that flows in where he entered and rises around him, ruffling his hair.

Welcome Noxmorte is the voice of the Spider in his head. Unfurl the documents and peruse them. I will use your eyes.

Momentarily, Noxmorte feels a spider crawling in his brain. There is a peculiar itch around the backs of his eyes, as if the spider is stroking or suckling on those nerves that conduct vision to the deeper brain. The crawling sensation continues. It tickles. His eyes twitch and jitter across the scroll, perusing its strange encoded symbols.

He is not sure how long the spider possesses his eyes, but eventually the tickling sensation ends. He feels exhausted.

Thank you. You may go. Payment will arrive at your lodging in due time. Perhaps it will await you.

There are several cafes along the streets toward Noxmorte's lodging.

What does he look for in a cafe?

There's a place called Morda's that is well-known for its bittersweet cocktail of sparkling mineral water and white wine. Morda is the name of the elderly grey and white bearded lizard that lounges about the outside tables. It looks calmly at Noxmorte as he sits down and gestures to Lombo, the owner. A cocktail is soon forthcoming.

Passersby pass by, the afternoon sun glides down toward the rooftops. The hottest part of the day is past.

A young woman diverts from her path to pause at the table next to Noxmorte, her slender fingers tickling the crest on Morda's head. "Niiice lizard," she says. Flirtily, to Noxmorte: "Is it yours?"

Morda licks the young woman's hand as she pulls out the other metal chair, its round feet scraping on the dirt. She sits a little abruptly and laughs. "I'm Yirin," she says. "I imagine you have a wonderful name." She tilts her head to the right and her loose dark hair swings around her shoulder. She fiddles with it as if she's about to start braiding it.

"Oh, I'm just on my way to work," the woman answers with playful voice. "And where are you headed, sir?"

"Well if you have no destination …" she ducks her head and smiles with a wink. "… you could rest with me." She giggles deliberately.

"In a manner, yes," Yirin answers forthrightly. "What do you think?"

Nobody appears to be paying any attention to Noxmorte or his companion. The city of intrigue is a busy place and people are often wrapped in their own affairs, oblivious to others' goings-on.

"Let's continue our talk in your rooms," Yirin suggests. She gestures daintily toward the street: "With you."