Ravin slithered against the side of the stable, and became one with its shadow. The Klarosian patrol, searching, was making its way up this narrow, dusty street. Four men—at least they accorded him that respect—he smiled a little grimly at the thought. Four might be enough, if they were the right men. Two were in the street, in front of the small shops, houses, businesses. Two moved through the narrow dirt alley behind, checking stable yards, storage sheds, forges, gardens. Even in the crowded streets of the older parts of town, every Veran tried to have some kind of garden.
The Klarosians methodically tramped over and through any vegetation that impeded their search pattern. As they reached a particularly lush yard, crackling heavily through stands of rennit-bushes, Ravin swarmed up the drystone wall of the tiny stable, in an instant, almost noiselessly. On the roof, he lay flat, his dark-grey tunic and breeks blending seamlessly with the roof slates in the dim moonlight.