The Inner City Part Two:

This week we'll explore more of the Inner City's crooked streets, the businesses that trade there and the people who live there.

The Benevolent Spice Guild comes from the east and specialises in both culinary and medicinal herbs and spices. They have been instrumental to introducing things like saffron and tea to the western kingdoms and hold a virtual monopoly on the trade to the west. In return they are interested in purchasing wood and, in particular scented bark, for shipment to their homeland.

The Guild employs locals for most of its labour and legwork, including all the courier and caravan work to the west. Their shipments east leave on closed, mysterious caravans that only cater to the merchants from the east. Similarly there are always parts of the goods they receive from home that they will not allow their local labourers to touch; only the masters and journeymen in Sharoban may handle them (usually with silk gloved hands, the only time that such things are seen).

To the city, the Guild presents a cordial but cool face. Business is conducted on the first two floors of their premises, the spices being stored on the first floor, whilst the ground floor is their shop floor. The Guild's traders have divided this area into two, at the back there are scales and measuring cups whilst at the front a set of tables and chairs allows the merchants to sit with clients and discuss their needs over tea or spiced wine. Most of these consultations are entirely innocent, though a few are more sinister and the Guild has been involved in at least one assassination, albeit indirectly. At least one of their regular clients is suspected to be part of the Jorvin Empire's Shadow Hand.

The Hunter is probably the dingiest of Sharoban's inns, one that has resisted all the attempts to oust it into the newer parts of the city or even into the shanty town outside the walls. Its clientele is largely composed of soldiers, hunters and 'adventurers', sell swords too undisciplined to get work in an army. The tap room is dark, small sconces with low candles guttering in them and a small fire that does little to alleviate the cold in winter. The liquor it sells is rough, 'frontier whiskey' gut rot, in which a major component is wood alcohol. Despite this, the cheapness of the drink and beds help keep it in business.

The main attraction however is the fighting pit in the cellar. This is a ten foot square pit line with wooden stakes around the top, apart at two places where a rope dangles, to allow entrance and exit. In a small alcove within the pit the statue of Baluz lurks. The statue is short and thin, showing a man who seems to be weeping. Only the smile on its face that casts doubt on how sorry the figure really is.

The inn's owner Fedor, is a high ranking member of Baluz's cult, having risen to the position in the traditional manner (slaughtering his way to the top). The Hunter is his prized possession and he will stoop to any depth to keep it open. So far this has involved blackmail, bribery and extortion, theft and at least one murder. He is smart enough to know that he  cannot remain hidden forever but hopes to be able to escape when the authorities realise what is happening. Fedor's chapter of the cult is small, and of necessity, anonymous. They gather for sacred bouts, in which nothing is forbidden, battling each other for positions in the cult's hierarchy. Whilst Fedor has forbidden them to kill in the city, for now, he does push them to openly compete against each other and to form brief alliances. These are usually broken in the most dramatic betrayals.

He has gained a keen acolyte amongst the Wind Strikers, a young woman named Galya, who turned to Baluz's service when her family were slaughtered by marauders. She is just beginning her descent into darkness and only knows a few words of Baluz's tongue.

Fedor's other notable acolyte is Aart, a scribe. A slight, quiet man, he seethes at every insult, locking it away in his memory for the day when he takes his vengeance on as many people as he can. He records every slight in a slim volume and nurses them, reading them every night before he sleeps. A poor fighter his chosen weapons are a set of knives with a drugged blade.

Next week the Outer, or New, City.