He had been down here far too long. The man stumbled back up the stairs, his right hand vigorously clasping onto the small artifact. He was almost at the top. The weather had cleared, it was morning, the dark night had ended. When he reached the top of the stairs, he discarded his mantle. There would be no need for it, it was sunny, a bright spring morning. He walked down the road almost casually. The artifact he had put safely in the last pouch on his belt. It wasn't a large item, just small enough to fit into the pouch. He only carried this pouch and a hidden dagger, he'd need no more. There was bound to be someone on the road, perhaps someone from the southern peninsula, a merchant or something, heading for Belmoz. Maybe one of the Marquess' servants on his way to sell his master's famous grapes to the traders in the harbour.

Ah, the lowly servants. There were far too many of them. He had never been fond of the filthy, uncivilised peasantry. They despised the arts, their black hearts always trying to destroy the beautiful. They denied their true heritage, that of Manann. Quite what drove these people he had never understood. It was just in their nature to do so, they could not revere the Only. You could no more civilise a peasant than you could teach a horse to talk. The best one could do was to ignore them, keep them occupied and protect the arts from their destructive natures. Some day, the world would be cleansed of their filth and the true would live in righteous bliss in the realm of the Ocean. But that was not now, now he needed one to take him to Belmoz. Few noblemen were on the road these days.

The sun was rising along the heaven's axis. It would soon be midday and still not a single soul had come into sight. He muttered an unknown prayer to a well-known god as he walked, hoping for a coach of some sort on the horizon. Else it would still be a long walk.

Finally, a cart appeared. There were two people sitting on it, a single horse had been put for the carriage. Peasants, no doubt. At least they were heading the right way. He had no doubt he'd be able to get a lift, it was just the way of convincing them that varied. Yes, they were peasants. One of them was a woman. Lowly dog, drooling on the other peasant's shoulder. It wasn't for long, he'd be in Belmoz soon enough, he'd just have to live with it. He could always get rid of them if the situation was dire, but right now it wasn't. The Don should be kept blind. Once he began suspecting something, it would be far more difficult.

"Halt!" He said when the cart was no more than thirty feet away. He lifted his arm. The peasants were even more revolting up close, but they looked naïve, he'd be able to get a lift. "Are you heading for the town of Belmoz, north of here?"

The man nodded, the look in his eyes, as if he was looking at a kinsman, enraged him. His hand flashed to the dirk on his belt. It was enough, he would kill them, kill them both. He would have jumped at them, stabbed them to death before they could defend themselves. It would have been so easy, but he didn't do it. Slowly he let go of the weapon. They hadn't seen it. He looked the young man in the eyes.

"I'm on my way to Belmoz. Could I accompany you on your cart?"

The young man nodded again. Quickly, the follower of Manann jumped on the cart. Grapes, of course. So they were indeed servants of the Marquess. Interesting. Killing them now could have been disastrous. But only the pure deserved to live. He would return to the Fazenda.