He glanced at the sky, noting the expanse of darkness that had crept steadily westward as twilight faded and night closed in. A cluster of whip-thin clouds formed purple streaks across the encroaching blackness, momentarily lit by the last of the sunlight. It would be a mostly clear night, and the moon, three-quarters full, was already a bright presence on the eastern horizon.

He was only two dozen feet from the closest Troll when the one climbing about on the upper levels noticed him and called out to his companions in warning. All heads turned; all eyes fixed on the ragpicker. The latter stopped where he was, relying on his unthreatening appearance to keep them from attacking him, looking from one face to the next with a benign expression. He had his bag of scraps slung over one thin shoulder, and as the seconds passed and no one moved he lowered it carefully to the ground and straightened up.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said, speaking in the Troll tongue. He could speak perfectly in any language, an ability he had acquired early on in his life, when he had made the choice to abandon his humanity for something more permanent. “A man who carries a black staff. Do you happen to know where I can find him?”

One of the Trolls, a short, mean-faced individual with thick bark-skin that gave him the look of something sculpted from a block of wood with a chisel and hammer, walked over and stood in front of the ragpicker. “Why should we tell you?”

The ragpicker shrugged. “Common courtesy?”

The other snorted. “Why shouldn’t I just kill you? Then the man with the black staff won’t be a problem for you.”

The other Trolls exchanged glances and said nothing. Even the one atop the exterior wall came over to listen. The ragpicker had the distinct impression that the speaker was the leader.

He cleared his throat and looked down at his feet. “I could give you something valuable for that information,” he offered.

The Troll stared at him. “What could you give us that we would want, chilpun?”

Chilpun. Troll for “fool.” A decided lack of respect was not helping matters, the ragpicker decided. But he had to play along for the moment. “I could show you a way into those buildings.”

The Troll looked at him with sudden interest, as if killing him was no longer of interest. Not that the option was completely off the table, of course. The ragpicker nodded encouragingly. “What do you say to that?”

“How do you know a way in?” the Troll asked. “That’s what I say. Do you know the man who lived here?”