15th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY
Suderham, The Pomarj
A man that would have been mistaken for Alomovar the merchant by anyone who knew him stood and stared up at the wooden sign.
It showed two pairs of hands exchanging old jewelry and worn gold nuggets for shiny new gold pieces. Two oil lamps, newly lit and protruding from brackets mounted above the door cast what seemed to "Alomovar" a warm but still sinister cast to both the sign and the door beneath it. Made of stout oak and banded with strips of iron, the door lent an air of security to the small shop that he knew was completely ineffectual. At least versus him, if he had been so inclined.
An image of Nodyath suddenly appeared in Aslan's mind. The paladin brushed it aside and looked around. The youth who had lit the lamps was moving away back north up the boulevard, his tall lighting pole held aloft like a lance burning at the tip. He crossed the street and began lighting two more lamps by a tavern sign that Aslan already knew showed a bound gargoyle having its tail pulled by a swashbuckler.
Back to the south, a line of ten torches announced a patrol slowly heading this way. Only a few townspeople were still on the streets, and most of them were entering or exiting the numerous taverns that lined the street.
Not much to do here at night besides drink, I suppose, Aslan thought as he pushed the door of the moneychangers open.
There was a little tinkling sound. Aslan looked up and saw that a small bell hung from the ceiling right by the door frame in a way that it jingled when the door opened.
"Good evening to you, friend! Alomovar, isn't it?"
The paladin turned his attention to the man coming out from the rear of the shop.
Aslan had to stifle a chuckle. The stereotypical caricature of a money lender was that of a small, beady-eyed man with thinning hair, a long nose that looked ready to start growing whiskers on it, and a habit of constantly rubbing his hands together.
This must have been where that image got started, was all the paladin could think to himself as he stared at the little man. Still, he himself was currently sporting a body that some would take for the quintessential greedy, fat merchant who cared for nothing but profits and pleasures.
"That's what's they call me," he replied cautiously as he moved up the counter. Aslan was again facing the unpleasant prospect of being in a position where he had to, if not outright lie, at least use his patented paladin manipulation of the truth. "It's been a while. With all the customers you get, you must have quite a memory there."
The moneychanger beamed at the compliment as he moved a small balance scale into position and fished a small key from his vest pocket. "I have a good head for faces, especially those sporting a beard like that." He gave a squeaky laugh. "My wife says all I can manage is whiskers. She's one to talk, that shrew; she's got more whiskers than I do."
Aslan gave a commiserating nod, then pulled his coins out of his belt pouch and laid them on the counter. He then took a step back and looked around at the single, heavily barred window as the lender unlocked something under his side of the bar and began to tare out his scale.
The flickering lights of the torches were almost visible now. A peasant hurrying past stopped outside and glanced in at Aslan.
"A paladin?"
Aslan whirled around, but the moneylender was merely referring to the platinum piece he held in his hand. He then sifted through the pile of gold and silver that Aslan had set down. "Wheatshaffs, sheridans? Whatever were you doing way up in Furyondy? I can't imagine that's the kind of climate you like to operate in."
Fortunately, Aslan had recomposed himself by the time the exchanger's questioning eyes had met his.
"You'd be surprised at the kind of people you'll find there if you look hard enough," the paladin replied slowly, and gave a hint of what he hoped was a meaningful smile.
The moneylender gave a knowing nod and began weighing out the pieces.
The little bell jingled again, but Aslan kept his attention on the merchant and his work. He didn't care to interact with any other customers- he wanted to keep any questions that came his way tonight to a minimum.
The little man looked up. An expression that Aslan pegged as half fear and half revulsion flashed across his face, but the exchanger pushed it down like a bitter drink.
"Everything's fine," he muttered, turning his attention back to his work.
"Delighted to hear it,"came the deep, rumbling reply.
Aslan never had a chance. That voice snapped the paladin's head around. His eyes could not help but look up and up, and into that face which had already turned from the moneylender to him.
The grayish skin. That bulging forehead. Those perfect teeth. And those dark, dark eyes set so far back underneath that brow that they were barely visible.
And that smile.
"Greetings, friend," said Blackthorn. "Do I know you?"