The little guy moved with more speed, darting up the maze of narrow streets. At one point, he broke into a trot, and Hadrian was certain he’d been discovered. But after a few yards, the dwarf slowed to a quick walk. If he had looked back, the driver would have spotted Hadrian, who stalked with his own hood up. The dwarf certainly would wonder about the tall man with three swords strolling late at night in a dwarven enclave, but he wouldn’t see Royce. While the thief was much closer, he was slipping from shadow to shadow and appearing as little more than a flutter, a faint disturbance that could have been the corner of a firewood tarp blown by the wind. But the dwarf didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder as he maintained a generally northeastern course, avoiding windows, doors, and firelight.
Convinced they were finally on their way to the sinister ruined tower and alligator pit, Hadrian was puzzled when the dwarf approached a figure at the entrance to a cemetery. The burial ground was a modest patch of headstones walled in by a tight congestion of stone buildings, one of which might have been a small church. The tombstones, however, were marvelous. Even at a distance, they revealed artistry. Dwarves were known for stonework as much as for kidnapping young women, and the statuary in that yard was more beautiful than any he’d ever seen. Most were depictions of people—the deceased, Hadrian assumed. These weren’t the diminutive, malevolently hooded monsters of a host of cautionary tales, but the exquisite heroes of their own stories. Straight, proud, smiling figures looked up at the sky or down with empathy at those who might come to grieve on their behalf.
This is how they see themselves, he thought. Combining this sight with the scene in the shack, Hadrian began to wonder if there would be an alligator pit at all.
The dwarf walked directly up to the figure at the entrance, no hesitation, no greeting, either. The fellow waiting at the gate to the cemetery was tall, thin, and dark-skinned, with hair that was mostly gray.
Royce looked backward with apprehension, and in his gaze was a wealth of information. He wasn’t so much looking for anything as telling Hadrian to be wary. One slaughterhouse wagon was more than enough. Not that another runaway cart would be the threat again. This tiny street was peppered with windows, doors, and a host of other obstacles: barrels, awnings, porch steps, and piles of garbage. Royce wasn’t saying, Watch out for another killer wagon but rather, I don’t like the feel of this; keep your eyes open for a trap.
The fact that Royce had exchanged so much information with a look disturbed Hadrian. There was no doubt he had heard Royce correctly on all counts, and Hadrian’s utter confidence in that silent discourse only added to the anxiety that he was harmonizing with Royce’s mind. While that was good for work, Hadrian couldn’t shake the sense that it was bad for everything else—like his sanity.
Sticking close to the walls and staying out of the moonlight, Hadrian crept up to where Royce stood at the base of the three-story church—the only stone building in the neighborhood, which obviously predated everything around it.
“ . . . ninety-eight swords, half as many shields.”
“Why so few shields?”
“Shields aren’t as important and are harder to store,” the dwarf said. “We haven’t stopped. Production has slowed, sure, but that’s all. Don’t forget we’re the ones carrying the burden. The rest of you aren’t out a single din.”
“You’re just scared,” the Calian replied. “We all had great hopes the ransom would succeed, but the feast is the day after tomorrow. Spring is coming, my friend, and whether I’m the seed, the rock, or the sod, I fear the plow.”
The dwarf nodded. “Time’s up. A hundred swords is the best we can do.” He held out the box. “But with this, it should be more than enough.”
“I’m more frightened of what you hold than the swords.” The Calian eyed the container as if the dwarf were waving a crossbow in his face. “Griswold, if it becomes necessary, will you use it?”
“This one is yours.” The dwarf handed the box to the Calian.
He took it slowly, gingerly, and held it away from his body, as if a swarm of angry bees were inside.
“With that, I can ask the same of you. Will you use yours?” the dwarf asked.
“If it comes to it, what choice do we have? A hundred swords won’t be enough, and Villar will use his. Giving him a monopoly on such power would be the pinnacle of stupidity. We have a responsibility to act as safeguards to one another. And then there’s the sacrifices to think about. Not to mention what happens afterward.”
“That’s something we’ll decide when we get there—if we get there. One can’t start building a house without determining the size and shape of the foundation.”
“Comments like that are what make others see only your height,” the Calian said. “You’re reinforcing false ideas. You’re a woodcarver, for Novron’s sake!”
The dwarf laughed. “I’m a woodcarver, but in no way is it for Novron’s sake.”
They both smiled. Then the Calian stretched his neck and peered up the road. Hadrian and Royce froze, but the Calian didn’t see them. “Where is Villar?”
The dwarf gave his own casual glance. “He’s usually the first one here, isn’t he?”
“Do you think—”
Royce spun and shoved Hadrian out into the street. Off balance and bewildered, he staggered backward into the moonlight, catching the attention of the dwarf and the Calian. They both stared at him in shock and fear.
“What the—” Hadrian began just as the thief sprang to his side. An instant later, a massive block of stone struck the street where the two had been standing. It shattered, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
Looking up, Hadrian spotted a silhouette peering down from the roofline of the church. It withdrew from sight, melting into the darkness.
“Meet you back at the boardinghouse,” Royce said quickly as he leapt to a windowsill. From there, he scaled the stonework to the church’s roof where he, too, vanished.
Hadrian looked back toward the graveyard. The dwarf and the Calian were running away in opposite directions.
Hadrian had always considered himself a good runner, but that night he was handicapped by racing in the darkness of an unknown city. Weighed down by three swords while chasing a slender man with a solid head start didn’t help, either. Unable to pursue both, and already knowing where the dwarf lived, he chose to follow the Calian. The good news was that his target appeared to be considerably older, and he still protectively held the dwarf’s box.
The contents must be valuable or he would’ve dropped it before running.
The Calian cut through an alley Hadrian didn’t know existed, pulling down stacks of empty crates to block his pursuer’s progress. By the time Hadrian emerged from the debris-strewn alleyway, the Calian had gained a greater lead and was openly sprinting down the center of the next street. Hadrian didn’t know what time it was, but he guessed it was after decent folk went to bed. Few remained on the cobblestone thoroughfares, and while all of them stopped to watch, none made any attempt to stop his pursuit. The Calian tried to lose him by cutting through more alleys, and he succeeded. Hadrian lost sight of his target; the man was gone. Guessing that the man would head for the same gate that marked the exit from the dwarven community, Hadrian ran for it. He was rewarded by a glimpse of the Calian racing out.
He headed south toward the harbor, sandaled feet striking the stone in rapid slaps. In the growing fog of the silent streets, Hadrian could hear the man long after he’d lost sight of him. This was the only noise the Calian made. Hadrian generated a multitude of sounds: clapping swords, the flap of his cloak, and the pounding of his boot heels.
Luckily, the Calian was slowing down, getting tired most likely. Darting into a series of dilapidated houses, he dodged a ladder and jumped a pile of manure that Hadrian slipped in. He didn’t fall, but it was close.
They both ducked under a clothesline loaded with clothes someone had forgotten to take in. With boots still slick with muck, Hadrian ran past a cascading aval
anche of busted crates, over an open sewer grate, around a brimming water barrel, and into a yard enclosed by a battered wooden fence. The Calian managed to leap the stockade-style wall, and for precious seconds, Hadrian lost sight of him again.
By the time Hadrian had cleared the fence, he’d once more lost his prey.
The barrier was merely a dividing line between one property and another—separating an alley filled with a stack of broken wagon wheels and one filled with dented buckets. The Calian could have gone left or right. Rather than running off blindly, Hadrian stood still, held his breath, and listened. He had no idea where he was anymore. They had raced up a dozen different streets. The architecture was back to four-story buildings with stone bases and timber-and-stucco uppers. Damp, salty air accompanied a growing level of fog, which reduced his visibility to half a block. His only clue was a familiar pungent fragrance, a pervasive incense burned in many homes in Calis.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Off to his left.
He darted around the buckets and back out onto a street, another tiny affair. Again, he had a choice, and once more Hadrian paused to listen. He waited but heard nothing.
Is he hiding? Hadrian was exhausted after the long run. The old Calian had to be, too, or maybe he’d realized it wasn’t such a good idea leading his pursuer back to his home. Or perhaps he had simply taken off his sandals. Slowly, carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, Hadrian made a calculated guess that the Calian had continued in the same general, southerly direction, and he crept that way. Reaching an intersection, he found a lonely streetlamp illuminating three choices. Straight ahead lay the masts of ships, black against the starry sky. To his right, the dark edifice of the cathedral towered over rooftops and the bright-white fog. Its lower reaches were illuminated by the increased presence of streetlamps. To his left, there was only darkness.
I’d pick darkness, Hadrian thought and started down the dismal street. He’d only gone a few steps when he heard a wet tearing noise. In daylight, while surrounded by a crowd of smiling friends, the sound would have made him cringe, but in a strange, dark place of mist and twisting streets, it made him shudder. This wasn’t a happy noise. Hadrian drew his short sword. The metal made a soft ring as it left the scabbard. Something moved. Hadrian saw little more than a shift in shadows, but the sound was a harsh sudden jerk, the sort a startled deer might make. There was a thrash—something knocked over—and then silence.
Hadrian guessed his prey was fleeing again and quickly rounded the corner. He tripped, and this time he did fall. He hit the hard alley floor with his left shoulder and knee, grunting with the pain that shot up his thigh. His knuckles struck the cobblestones hard enough to make him let go of the blade. Instinct made him roll to one side and snatch up his weapon as he did. He raised the blade in defense against the expected attack.
No one was there.
He was alone, lying on the ground in a dark alley, feeling foolish. Hand throbbing, knee aching, shoulder sore, he once more held his breath to listen. All he heard was the distant ringing of cathedral bells.
It’s official, I’ve lost him.
Royce would never let him hear the end of this fiasco. You couldn’t even catch an old man?
Angry and disappointed, Hadrian looked for what had finally tripped him up. It took several seconds of staring to understand what he was seeing. It failed to make sense in so many ways that his mind took a great deal of convincing to finally accept it.
Three steps back, the Calian was sprawled on the wet stone. Hadrian knew him by the burgundy wrap, the green scarf, and the box. These features provided the identity rather than his face, because he no longer had one.
Chapter Fifteen
Bird Hunting
Royce leapt from the roof of the four-story building and landed on the slate tiles of the structure on the opposite side of the street. He ran to the ridgeline and sprinted along it. A slender figure in a dark, hooded cloak ran with abandon ahead of him. Racing entirely across rooftops, Royce had pursued his quarry out of the congested dwarven district toward the center of town. At that moment, the cathedral’s soaring tower began tolling ominous peals of cascading notes, providing musical accompaniment for the drama unfolding against the starry night sky.
With buildings tightly packed, the canopy tour had been without serious challenge. Still, Royce’s prey had been impressive. He’d proved more than comfortable with heights. He was fast, agile, and clever in his maneuvers. The moment his quarry had decided to make his flight across the high ground, Royce experienced a giddy sense of victory. Rarely did a target act so agreeably. Rather than trying to disappear into the unfamiliar maze of city streets, this guy was like a bird trying to escape a shark by diving into the ocean. Royce’s sense of jubilation was soon replaced with a rush of excitement at finding an unexpected challenge. This bird, he was stunned to discover, could swim.
Ahead was trouble. They were at the end of the easy jumps. Before them was another street-imposed gap, a wide one, and on the far side, the vertical wall of a much taller building.
Royce expected his prey to slow, to hesitate, to double back or climb down. Any of these would have granted Royce the opportunity to catch up to a lethal distance. Instead, once more his little bird did the unexpected. Reaching the end of the building, the figure didn’t slow or pause. Instead, he made a running leap directly at the wall of the taller building. He missed the wall and smashed through a window, taking down a curtain. Royce was right behind, diving through the narrow opening of shattered glass. He expected his bird to be on the floor tangled in cloth and bleeding from cuts. All he found was the glass-laden drape and an open door creaking slightly.
Royce rolled to his feet, bolted out the door, and raced down a corridor into a very strange place. He almost ran into a knight before discovering it was merely pieces of armor stacked in the shape of a man. It even held a spear in one of its gauntlets. Royce found himself on an upper-story indoor balcony that circled a large four-story chamber. No one was in the building. This was a public business of some sort, and at that late hour, the place was dark except for the glow of streetlamps entering the windows. Below, were numerous displays: pedestals supporting statues, books, musical instruments, tools, even clothing on stuffed dummies. In the center stood a huge chariot and two stuffed white horses. Much of one wall was covered in a mural depicting the landscape of an impossibly grand city lit by a perfect summer sun. Paintings in lavish frames covered the other walls. Hanging from the ceiling were still more oddities. The most eye-catching was a massive creature that looked to be a dragon suspended over the center of the chamber by several chains. The thing was huge, but not real. It appeared to be made of painted cloth wrapped over a wooden frame.
Distracted by the bizarre nature of the place, which seemed to be some kind of curio shop, Royce gave up several seconds to his fleeing quarry. The sound of shattering glass pulled his attention back. He spotted the figure breaking a window on the far side and raced around the balcony to the broken opening. Outside was a sheer drop to the street; his prey had gone up.
The climb wasn’t trivial. Several of the handholds were no more than fingertip-sized, but his bird had scaled the wall quickly. Before Royce was halfway up, his quarry was on the roof. A moment later a series of slate shingles flew his way. The first barely missed him, shattering on the stone to the left of his face. Royce had to duck the second, which he heard as it passed. More were coming.
With a lurch, Royce leapt up and caught hold of one of the grotesque downspouts. This one looked like an evil, sharp-toothed dog, snarling and extending a long serpent’s tongue. He hugged the statue around its neck as another shingle clipped his boot. The impact stung. If it had hit his head, Royce would’ve fallen. The next shingle came, this one aimed higher. Royce managed to catch it as he dangled one-handed from the dog’s head. His enemy boldly straddled the ridgeline. The rising moon was behind him, giving a silvery outline to his whipping cloak that snapped in the wind. W
ith his adversary’s hood up, all Royce could see was a nose, part of a cheek, and a chin.
I’m chasing myself.
Royce waited until his opponent bent down to pry up another slate before throwing the one he’d caught. Slate shingles weren’t knives, and his throw was off. Royce had aimed at the hood, but it hit his target in the thigh. Despite the bad aim, he was rewarded with a grunt.
Royce pulled himself up on top of the dog’s head, then sprang to the eave, catching the lip. Another strong pull and he was crouching on the roof. He scanned the ridgeline. The shingle-thrower had abandoned his attack and was back to running. He sprinted along the peak, then veered right, following a long gable. It acted like a plank extending off the side of a ship. By the time Royce reached the gable, his prey had made the long jump across the gap of an alley, which separated the strange shop from Grom Galimus—the same alley where, only hours earlier, he and Hadrian had followed the dwarf. His hooded bird landed safely on the far side, touching down on another gargoyle, its ugly head protruding out from the side of cathedral’s buttress. Royce made the same leap, landing on the same stony head: a hideous lion with fangs that extended well past its lower jaw.
By then, Royce’s twin was already climbing up the buttress’s pier, a sheer column of stone.
They were already up five stories. Royce could see the plaza out front, where the massive statue of Novron looked tiny. What he’d thought to be a curio shop was the Imperial Gallery, whose roof he was now looking down at. Still, they were only halfway up the side of the cathedral.
Slab after slab, ornate divider after divider, Royce scaled the stone pier in pursuit.
Who is this?
Royce had never encountered anyone who could match his skill at climbing, his ease in high places, or his ability to see in dim light. This hood-and-cloak really could be his long-lost brother. With each foot they scaled together, Royce’s respect for his adversary grew. Even if this guy wasn’t connected to the job, Royce couldn’t give up this chase.
The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter Page 18