by Ed Greenwood
"So I've heard, though I can say from tiresome experience that some do. Yet I wasn't speaking of ladies. I was speaking of you."
Tantaerra gave him her best glare.
The lanterns arrived at a swift trot, voices rising in gruff excitement, and a Watchsword barked an order that brought many swords from sheaths.
"So?" Tantaerra hissed. "Just where do we hide, hey?"
The Masked shrugged. "We don't. Come on."
"There!" a Watchsword bellowed promptly. "Fleeing from us!"
"A man and a boy!" another Watchsword barked. "Take them for questioning!"
The heavy-booted charge sounded like a stampede of frightened oxen. It was quite loud enough to cover Tantaerra snarling into The Masked's ear, "What happened to waiting until they checked the building, then hiding?"
"New plan."
Tantaerra ran after him, seething. "Do you always act the reckless fool?"
"No," The Masked replied calmly. "Only when I must." He flung himself around a half-seen corner and added, "Since I entered your service, it's seemed a 'must' fairly often. That might just have something to do with your act, little one."
"You," Tantaerra seethed, "are the most gods-damned annoying—"
Some of these Watchswords were fast. They were right behind Tantaerra now, and she swallowed the curses she felt like spitting and saved her breath for scampering. Really scampering.
They charged into a pitch darkness, and The Masked gave a grunt that sounded like he'd been hurt, followed by a crash as someone slammed heavily into a wall—and then the thunder of the onrushing Watchswords.
Tantaerra shrank back into a corner, trying to look small—and then blurted out an involuntary "Eep!" as someone grabbed her by the back of the neck, half hair and half her gorget-collar, and pulled her down and back, through a hole or panel she hadn't known was there, and down, down—
They were falling down a dark shaft—no, riding something that squealed, as something else hissed past her ear ...
"It's me, stop struggling," The Masked said in her ear. "And watch where you wave that knife. People get hurt that way."
He was standing atop a dumbwaiter, riding it down its shaft, its rope hissing past. Very quickly, which meant—
The crash as it hit the bottom of the shaft was deafening, teeth-jarring, and ended in loud splinterings as The Masked's boots went through the top of the wooden dumbwaiter box.
He kicked his way free, the last kick smashing open the doors at the bottom of the shaft and striking senseless a Watchsword on the other side of them, who'd been rushing to snatch them open.
That left an escape route that The Masked took without hesitation. And being as he hadn't let go of Tantaerra, she took it too, up an earthen ramp cluttered with wheelbarrows into the slightly less dark night, where three Watchswords had time only to turn and shout and start after them before they were out, along the street, and starting up a promising-looking drainpipe attached to the wall of the nearest dark mansion.
The masked man climbed one-handed with a speed that astonished Tantaerra. Halflings owned drainpipes, not hulking humans who wore masks and manhandled those who hired them and—
This empty mansion had a gently sloping roof split by five towers, a square of four around a higher central spire. The Masked headed across it in surefooted haste.
Only to almost run into someone coming around the nearest tower. Someone whose brown eyes looked all too familiar.
The man who'd been on that temple roof in Halidon. His mouth fell open in surprise, then closed again in a cold smile.
He stepped forward, a long, wicked dagger in his hand.
Chapter Seven
Braganza, Battle, and a Bath
Unless one carried an endless supply of daggers, throwing them was for desperate moments, attempts to impress, or overblown fireside tales. Tantaerra clutched hers firmly as she sprang.
A skirling shriek announced that The Masked's dagger had already met the steel of their foe—who ducked, darted, and slashed with a speed that made Tantaerra gulp. The Masked backed away only just in time, that wicked blade slicing cloak and leather.
Its wielder rolled, kicked, and came up inside The Masked's guard—too close to miss.
He drew back his arm for a gutting thrust, and Tantaerra flung herself frantically at his elbow, knowing even as she launched herself that she'd be too late.
The Masked sprang into the air, drawing up his knee sharply in a kick that slammed the point of that wicked dagger up over his shoulder even as he clutched at his foe's arms. He and the brown-eyed man went over backward, leaving Tantaerra hurtling toward empty roof. As they fell back, grappling, The Masked slammed his face forward, then hard sideways.
The brown-eyed man cried out as sharp points along the top of the mask laid open his forehead, blood spurting into his eyes—and the two men crashed thunderously to the roof together, bouncing once before they started sliding toward the edge. Fast. The Masked slammed their faces together again.
Then Tantaerra was busy hitting the roof in her own bone-shaking crash. She bit her tongue involuntarily as the hard landing drove the breath from her, rolled as she tasted her blood—no nicer than last time, she thought fleetingly—and slid down smooth tiles a frighteningly long way before desperate jabbings with her dagger brought her to a halt.
Attacking this brown-eyed man had been a bad mistake. Whoever he was, he was a far better fighter than either of them. They'd be lucky to escape, even if—
"Hold, and down weapons, in the name of Lord Ravnagask! The Watchguard commands you!"
—this rash battle didn't bring the Watchguard patrol up onto the roof.
"Hold, I said! You! Hold!"
Tantaerra rolled over to see who the Watchsword was bellowing at, just in time to see the brown-eyed man leap off the edge of the roof into the night.
Two Watchswords rushed to peer after him, almost lost themselves over the edge, and hastily grabbed at tiles and the nearest tower to keep from falling.
Tantaerra knew the man from Halidon wouldn't fall to the cobbles below. He'd catch hold of a balcony, stair, window or some such, and get clean away.
Disgusted, a young Watchsword, clinging to one of the towers to lean out perilously and peer, was reporting just that to the older, gray-haired officer who'd shouted the orders. "Clean away, sir! Three buildings on, and I've lost sight of him! Leaps like a spider!"
"No doubt," the ranking Watchsword said sourly. "Which leaves us with these two who were fighting him—presumably after arranging to meet him in this empty house. For no good nor legal purpose, I think. Take them."
The Masked had been crawling slowly up the roof, all weapons put away—and a ring of Watchswords had been warily closing in around him.
"No!" The Masked said sharply. "Don't touch it! There's a curse!"
Tantaerra looked over at him in time to see Watchswords drawing back from where they'd been about to unmask him.
"A likely tale," the Watchguard commander growled. "Off it comes."
Tantaerra watched the ring of Watchswords waver, all of them hesitating.
"I'm telling the truth," The Masked told them grimly—and the cautious hands reaching for him drew back again.
The commander sighed in exasperation, stumped along the roof-ridge, reached down, and wrenched the mask off.
There was a collective not-quite-gasp, a shared indrawn breath, as every Watchsword stared at the revealed ruin of a face.
Into the silence that followed, the man they were staring at said politely, "Please return that to me as quickly as you can. The curse is not of my doing, and I can't protect you or anyone from it. Quickly."
The Watchguard officer regarded him expressionlessly for a long moment. Then, without a word, he handed the mask back.
"Weapons," he commanded The Masked curtly. "Slowly."
Mask back in place, the man Tantaerra had hired back in Halidon started handing over steel. A sword, two daggers, a third ...and then a well-hid
den fourth, before he stopped, folded his arms, and looked up at the Watchguard officer.
"Keep going," the patrol commander growled. "I know you have more."
The Watchswords Tantaerra hadn't quite reached yet stirred on the roof above her. She stopped climbing to meet them.
"After we surrender our weapons," she piped up, deciding she'd been meekly silent long enough, "then what? Is it too soon to tender my personal complaint to Lord Ravnagask?"
"Much," the commander replied flatly. "You're in for some harsh questioning first. He'd probably add some heavy questions of his own, if you somehow got to see him. Thieves and murderers aren't welcome in Braganza."
The Masked was yielding up daggers from both boots. "That's good to hear. However," he added loudly, "we happen to be neither. We're merchants from afar, newly arrived in fair Braganza—but chased out of the room we rented, a short while ago, by warring bands of recruiters for the Mereirs and the Telcanors. Who were so bent on carving each other up that we feared for our lives, and sought a rooftop to sleep on—only to find a foe up here, too!"
The lead Watchsword's eyes were cold. "Merchants you may be, from time to time ...as are all who have something to sell. Yet to my eyes you match descriptions just arrived from Halidon, of two fugitives who murdered a high-ranking investigator on a rooftop there. Not to mention burned down no less than three warehouses full of valuable wares. And here we are, on a rooftop."
The Masked blinked, then spread his hands. "This is what passes for evidence in Braganza? Do you arrest anyone you find on a street after someone breaks into a warehouse from—gasp!—a street? Be aware, before you answer, that my next report to Canorate will certainly make mention of how you treat us, Watchcaptain."
"Oh? See that it mentions murder," the Watchguard commander replied, "and three warehouses."
The Masked waved a dismissive hand. "My, my, busy little fugitives you have in ...where was it? Halidon? Not that doings in backwaters of the land are any concern of ours, officer. What is of concern to us is being so aggressively accused of such things, out of seeming nowhere. And I cannot help but ask myself, is this accusation of yours one more part of this foolish feud that seems to have swept Braganza? Are you and your fellow Watchswords for Mereir? Or for Telcanor?"
The patrol commander stiffened, his eyes flashing. "Let me inform you of something, prisoner. The Watchswords serve the Lord of Braganza. We're loyal to our oaths and to our city, and hold ourselves above the Mereir and Telcanor foolishness—which is a festering rot that shall be rooted out soon enough!"
He slammed his fist down on the roof-ridge beside him. As if that had been a cue, the air behind the assembled patrol was suddenly full of hurtling cobblestones—missiles that thudded into Watchsword backs and arms and heads. The struck soldiers toppled, several falling off the roof with despairing cries.
Over this din rose a voice that rang like a bugle. "Die, foul dogs of Mereir!"
The Watchcaptain turned, sword flashing out. "Stand together, Watchguard! Together!"
Two stones came right at him. The patrol commander dashed them aside with a curse, and then there seemed to be no more stones, just a line of dark-armored men charging across the rooftop. Men who'd stealthily come up the same stair the Watchguard patrol had used, and now stood between the Watchswords and any way down from the roof alive.
"Telcanor! For Telcanor!"
"Telcanor!"
"Mereir!" one Watchsword snarled back, in the instant before blades met and men started hacking at each other deafeningly. The Masked pounced on the constable who'd taken most of his weapons from behind, slammed the man's face into the roof so hard a tile cracked under it, then did the same to the next Watchsword, so he could recover his entire arsenal.
Tantaerra stayed where she was, chin-down on the tiles, watching men chopping and slashing each other above her.
Among the Telcanor attackers was someone who moved with far more agility, ducking low and coming fast, avoiding everyone else as he made for the Watchcaptain who commanded the patrol. It was the man from Halidon. Obviously he'd found and led this band of Telcanor warriors right back to the rooftop he'd so recently fled from, to mount this attack. But why? Who was he, and what was he up to?
The Masked had seen the man too, and shot a questioning look Tantaerra's way. She jerked her head at the night behind herself in a "Let's be gone from here!" signal, saw him nod, and started climbing carefully across the roof to join him.
It wasn't an easy traverse. Wounded or dying men and women kept crashing to the tiles and then sliding or rolling down it, taking anyone in their way down to the street with them. As she clawed her way across blood-smeared tiles, more than one body tumbled past to thud wetly on unseen cobbles below.
Halfway there, a particularly furious clash of arms made Tantaerra look up from trying not to kill herself long enough to see that the Watchguard commander was down. Their mysterious pursuer was now fighting his way toward The Masked, yet the patrol seemed to have rallied, and he was having to fight his way through at least five Watchswords to reach his quarry. Five good warriors who were holding their ground.
Heartened, Tantaerra hurried as quickly as she dared, reaching The Masked just as he finished prying up a roof tile to lay bare the lattices beneath.
"That dagger you just ruined," he muttered, reaching out a hand for it.
Tantaerra gave it to him. Without another word he tied it to an end of cord he'd just wound around two lattices as a stop-wedge, hauled her to his breast as if he was a wet nurse and she a hungry baby, and launched himself down the roof.
Tantaerra clung to him grimly through the battering that followed, trying to turn her fingers into talons, digging into The Masked's chest, not caring if she tore out hair by the handful.
Her clawings made him growl in pain as they went over the edge, the cord unrolling from around him in jerks that came faster and faster, tumbling them head-over-bootheels.
"What're you trying to do to me?" Tantaerra shrieked, flinging both arms around his masked head and shouting right into his ear. "I'm going to spew!"
"Spew away, then!" he bellowed. "If our friend up there cuts the line before we get low enough—"
There was a sudden, sickening lack of tension in the cord, and then they were falling, the severed end of cord leaping after them.
They struck hard cobbles, bounced once, slammed down again, and rolled, groaning in mutual pain. Luckily they'd only fallen about the height of a small room, but gods, it hurt.
Gasping for breath, Tantaerra rolled free of The Masked, clutching a lot of hair—and his mask.
She looked back and saw him reaching for her, his eyes ablaze with fury in that melting ruin of a face.
"I didn't mean—" she gasped, as he swept his mask out of her hands, clapped it back into place, then snatched her up and started to stagger along the street.
"Not angry ...with you ..." he grunted, unsteadily gathering speed. Right behind him, a plummeting Watchguard of Braganza greeted the cobbles with a sprawled and final splat.
A sword followed, all by itself, clanging and ringing like a maltreated bell as it bounced and clattered. Then another man crashed down wetly.
By then, they were more than a cross street away and hurrying, and Tantaerra had her breath back.
"I can run for myself, you know," she told her hireling, who was staggering and breathing heavily.
"Good," he gasped, setting her down with more speed than grace. "Then look back and tell me if you can see our friend anywhere. Following us, for instance."
Tantaerra looked, casting her eyes everywhere, even along rooftops across the street from where the battle was still raging.
"Can't see him," she reported, scurrying to catch up to The Masked, who hadn't stopped hastening down the street, reeling in the severed cord as he went into an untidy bundle. "Which means—"
"Nothing," The Masked put in grimly, saying that last word in unison with her. "He could be anywhere. If the right sort
of rooftops happen to be handy, he could even be ahead of us, waiting for us."
"You're not used to such a foe," Tantaerra murmured, looking up at his masked face as they ran. "Not used to being afraid."
The Masked looked at her. "I'm not afraid," he said gruffly. "I'm pissed off. I want a good night's sleep and a decent meal—and a long, hot bath wouldn't come amiss, either. And I doubt I'm going to get any of those very soon. I had the sleep snatched away from me when I thought I'd procured it, and since then, I've been too damned busy fighting and running to be afraid."
"Lanterns ahead," Tantaerra told him, pointing.
"I can see that," he replied testily. "What I can't see is what's behind me—I'm not wearing the mask with the mirrors. Check again—are we being followed?"
Tantaerra swung around again—in time to see an all-too-familiar shoulder and arm duck into an alley mouth. "Yes," she said bitterly. "By him."
"Then we head for those lanterns," The Masked growled.
He strode right toward the bright lanterns, and all the armed and armored men holding them.
Tantaerra dashed after him. "He's right behind us, running down the street, sword out!"
The Masked cast a quick look over his shoulder, saw their mysterious foe two streets back and closing fast, and chuckled.
"A rescue!" he shouted, sounding desperate. "Fellow men of Mereir, a rescue! We are beset by vile Telcanors!"
His cry was answered by snarls and curses, and Tantaerra saw that amid the eager, angry armed men was an improvised litter made of cloaks slung over poles. On it sagged a bandaged and bloody man whose face—through several dark and swollen bruises—she recognized. The warrior of Mereir who'd come to their room at the Hearth to try to recruit them.
The Masked pointed down the street at the brown-eyed man, sprinting with sword in hand.
With a roar, the Mereirs charged, leaving four litter-bearers hesitating with the wounded man between them.
The brown-eyed man took one look at them, skidded to a halt, spun around, and raced back the way he'd come.