Daygo's Fury Read Free Page B

Liam ignored them, used to the unwelcome scrutiny, as he scrutinised the pedestrians in return. He did it purely out of habit, sizing them up, placing them by their clothes, judging them by their size, gait and expression. His eyes scanned belts and the pouches, swords or knives tied to their sides. He looked at necklaces, shoes, hemlines, anything and everything that gave him information on the people possessing them. He could judge the men or women in moments, in a natural way, as his eyes darted over their bodies. It was street instinct that had been beaten into him by thirteen years in the slums. He sized everyone up by habit. Even today, when he was not looking for an easy take.
    There were the farmers, easily recognisable by the straw hats they liked to wear when out in the sun, sticking out like a sore thumb, easy targets. Stupid spuds. Their problem was that they rarely had much of worth on them; most of their wealth likely stolen or cheated off them already. They wore a hunted look as they walked, head moving from side to side suspiciously but unable to identify where the real threats were.
    There were the toughs, the enforcers of the gang’s justice. They took to wearing leather jerkins over their chests, the tough material good for deflecting a knife, but doing nothing for a blow to the balls. They strode through the streets with an air of ownership, smug satisfaction written all over their faces.
    There were the tradesmen or women going about their daily business. They were worth extra scrutiny, occasionally offering opportunity but were also natives of the slums and well used to the dangers it held and where they lay.
    There were the traders, the pedlars and merchants, the housewives going about their business, the drunks, still unsteady from the previous night’s drinking.
    Among all of these people were foreigners of different nationalities from all across Levitashand.
    There were the strange tribesmen from the north who wore a multitude of nose and ear rings. They tended to wear colourful linen tunics that were long at the arms. They were normally small, squat men with very dark skin. Sometimes there was even a man of pure black. Liam would stop and stare at these, studying their strange skin with interest. On occasion they would stare back but Liam would only give them a thumbs up, laughing at their frown.
    There were the famous Haryani tradesmen in their long linen robes that draped to their ankles. The robes were finely made and tended to boast bright yellow and red colours, a symbol of their national pride. Their hands tended to be covered by the long sleeves but glimpses often showed gold and silver rings glittering from their fingers. Liam had often pondered how to slip these from the men. However, he had noticed they often had a burly guard trailing a step behind them with a large wooden club and a knife strapped to their sides. No doubt ready to club any slummer that got too close to their master without much thought. Liam preferred easier targets.
    There were even some Manitobans from the west. However, these were a squat, wide people with slanted eyes that held a dangerous look about them. Liam had never harboured much thought about any hidden treasures that they might hold on their person.
    But sometimes it was hard to tell nationality among the foreigners, as there was such a wide range of racial difference. This was a result of the great migration Liam had been taught as a boy.
    His eyes unconsciously slid over the bums, beggars and homeless that were found on every street corner. He looked at one, wearing rags, torn and dirty. His face was covered with dust and mud and caked in drool. His hair was a greasy, lumpy mess and his expression was one of permanent desperation. He looked lost as he barely looked up to the people passing him by, a cracked wooden bowl in his hand pressed forward, hoping for the sound of a few spare klats to rattle into it .
    Liam looked away again, disgusted. He felt the