Shield of Stars

by Hilari Bell

  “Five minutes guaranteed,” said Weasel. “But I’ll try for ten.”

  They finally settled on ten minutes guaranteed and try for fifteen, though both of them knew Weasel was unlikely to succeed.

  “So now we got the job set,” the man went on, “what’s this special payment you’re wanting?”

  “It’s information,” Weasel told him. “I want coin, too, mind. Five gold blessings for the pair of us. But I also need to contact the Falcon.”

  “The Falcon?” The old man’s brows rose. “What do you want with a road bandit, boy?”

  “He’s a rebel leader,” said Arisa. “Not a bandit.”

  Weasel scowled at her. “What I want him for is my business,” he told the old man. “Do you know someone who could take me to him?”

  “Hmm. I can’t m’self, you understand, but … We could maybe arrange that. But you’re not getting five blessings for the job. Not on top of introductions. Five copper flames are enough.”

  They settled on eight silver stars, two in advance, with the job to take place two days hence. Final payment would follow completion.

  By the time they left the Empty Net, Weasel was sweating as if he’d been running races.

  “We did it!” Arisa exclaimed as they reached the street. “You’ve got your job, they’ll guide you to the Falcon at the end of it, and I’ll have enough money to get home. Why are you looking so grim?”

  “Because these are my kind of people,” said Weasel. “And I know why he was trying so hard not to pay us up front. I thought I’d never get him to agree, even to the terms we got!”

  “I noticed that,” said Arisa. “But I don’t understand why you care. Of course he doesn’t want to pay us too much up front; we might have taken his money and left town. Though knowing how long we’ve been looking for a job, I’d think he’d believe us. Especially since it was pretty obvious that an introduction to the falcon is what you really want.”

  “Oh, he knew that,” Weasel told her. “If it had been straight coin, we’d probably have gotten six or seven gold blessings for this job. If they have a way to approach the Falcon without getting themselves killed, they got a bargain.”

  Arisa frowned. “Then why did he haggle so hard about paying up front?”

  “Because even two stars isn’t as good as free,” said Weasel.

  “Free?”

  “if the guards catch us, they won’t have to pay anything. That’s what they’re gambling on. They’ve got pretty good odds, too.”

  Fifteen minutes. Ten guaranteed. He must have been mad.

  “Arisa.”

  “What?”

  “There’s nothing you can do to help with this. And it could be … it will be dangerous. I think it’s time for you to go home.”

  Arisa snorted. “It hasn’t been dangerous before this? Besides, I’m a better fighter than you are.”

  “This isn’t going to involve fighting.” He hoped. “It’s a matter of running and escaping, and that’s my job, not yours. And don’t give me any blather about your duty to fight the regent,” he added as she opened her mouth to argue. “The conspiracy’s over. Pettibone will probably rule till he dies—the One God help that spoiled princeling—and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him. This is going to be dangerous.”

  Arisa closed her mouth and thought a moment. “All right,” she said finally. “Forget about duty, to your realm, to your people, to your God. Or I suppose you can’t forget it, since you never gave it a thought in the first place. Let’s say I’m doing it because I owe you.”

  “What do you mean? You don’t owe me anything.”

  “You got me out of the dungeon, remember? I couldn’t get out on my own. You saved me, so I owe you. Just like you’re saving Justice Holis because he saved you. Why else are you risking your neck, if you don’t owe him?”

  “It’s not because he saved me,” said Weasel. “It’s because … because …”

  Because Holis was the first person who had loved Weasel since the mother he scarcely remembered. But that had nothing to do with Arisa. She’d become a friend, yes. The first he’d had in … Maybe the first he’d ever had. But she had a mother who loved her, and the other friends she’d talked about, so why was she doing this?

  “Why are you doing this?” Weasel demanded.

  “Because I owe you.”

  Weasel recognized that stubborn expression—she would say nothing more. He played his final card. “If we get caught, your mother may be the one who pays the price.”

  “My mother would agree with me,” Arisa told him calmly.

  “Then she’s as foolish as you are.”

  But it seemed this fool was now his partner.

  “You won’t get caught,” Arisa told him confidently.

  “How do you figure that? The odds against us are—”

  “You won’t get caught,” Arisa repeated. “Because if you get caught, Justice Holis will hang.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The Six of Fires: the traitor. A trust betrayed, or a promise broken. A spy.

  Weasel gazed at the guardsmen who lounged on the street in front of the warehouse. Three of them today, and he knew there were four more scattered around the building. Yesterday there had been five, and he wondered why two had been added. Two more men should make no difference in the execution of his plan. Should. Weasel wiped damp palms on his britches, even though the day was cool and clear.

  He must have been mad to agree to this.

  He had no choice.

  Coverton’s town guards wore uniforms, too, but their coats were a shade of blue that didn’t go well with their black tricorne hats. And the bright red waistcoats were downright vulgar.

  When he’d told Arisa that yesterday, she asked acidly if he was studying to be a tailor. So Weasel pointed out unpolished boots, missing buttons, and stains that no city guardsman would have tolerated. Arisa scoffed. Patiently, Weasel commented on a number of potbellies, and one man with the reddened nose and cheeks that spoke of a long addiction to bottle and jug. Men who hadn’t the discipline to care for their clothes usually didn’t keep their bodies in good condition either.

  Arisa eyed Weasel’s too-large britches and the patched elbows of his coat.

  “That’s different,” he told her. “We’ve been traveling. Besides, they’re your clothes!”

  He then spent the rest of the day scouting escape routes in three different directions, proving to her that in his case sloppy clothes didn’t indicate a sloppy mind.

  But only going east, into the business district that bordered the warehouses and docks, gave them a real chance of keeping those men on their trail for fifteen minutes, so he had stationed Arisa to wait for him on that route. If he could draw them east, he might succeed. Otherwise …

  The town clock chimed one, the hour the gang had told him to start his diversion.

  Weasel studied the people on the street. The woman with the shopping baskets? She couldn’t chase him without dropping her purchases, and she’d probably set up a great screech, but she didn’t look very prosperous. Would these guards chase a thief for fifteen minutes if they didn’t think they’d get a reward? Not likely.

  The young man with the silk coat and the lace cravat looked more than merely prosperous—a local shareholder’s son, like as not. But he also looked fit enough to run Weasel down without the guards’ help, and thrash him with his own two fists into the bargain.

  Long minutes crept by as Weasel rejected one possibility after the other. Most people in this area were working men and women; sailors, stevedores, fishmongers. There was nothing in their purses to tempt a thief, and they couldn’t afford to reward the guards if they chased Weasel a single block.

  Surely someone would turn up…. Wait! There. A stout middle-aged man, in an embroidered waistcoat, was coming out of a tobacconist’s shop with a parcel under his arm. If his clothes were any indication, he had money, and he didn’t look like the type who’d go chasing after a pickpocket.

/>   The gentleman left the shop and started down the street to the west. Perfect. Weasel pulled himself off the step where he’d been idling and followed the man, walking briskly to close up the distance, but not too fast. He didn’t want to catch up till they’d passed the guardsmen.

  Watching closely, without seeming to watch anything, Weasel saw that the three guards straightened up and smoothed their waistcoats into place as the man approached—though the gentleman paid them no attention. An important man; someone they wanted to impress. Excellent. Weasel might be able to keep them on his heels for fifteen minutes after all.

  Weasel waited till the gentleman was well past the guardsmen, but not yet to the corner. Then he darted forward and, deftly now, deftly, eased the fat purse from the man’s coat pocket. The gentleman walked on, oblivious.

  So he hadn’t lost his touch. Justice Holis would not have approved, but for once, Weasel didn’t care. Sighing for the betrayal of his craft, he tugged gently on the man’s coattail.

  The gentleman started and spun around, groping for Weasel, who danced out of his reach. The man’s purse was plainly visible in his hand.

  “Ho! Thief! Stop him! I’ve been robbed!”

  For a gentleman, he had good lungs. The woman with the shopping baskets couldn’t have made more noise. Weasel ran for the corner, without looking back to see if the guards followed. If this didn’t fetch them, nothing would.

  Darting among the startled pedestrians, avoiding those who looked alert enough to make a grab for him, Weasel heard the guards shouting behind him.

  “Stop him! Grab that boy! Thief!”

  He was smiling as he rounded the corner and ran north, down the side of the warehouse. Only one guard was posted here, looking around as if he’d heard the shouts but didn’t yet know what they meant.

  Weasel slipped to the other side of the street, behind a dray loaded high with barrels and pulled by a four-ox hitch. He’d passed the guard before the man realized he was there, but the other guards, who were rounding the corner, remedied that.

  “Stop that boy! He’s a thief!”

  The shouts sounded a bit breathless, and Weasel grinned, even as the fourth guard joined the chase. Four down, three more to go. The new guard was closer than the other three, and fresher, too, so Weasel was running hard when he turned the next corner and discovered that the two guards stationed there were more alert than their fellows.

  This street was narrower. When they saw Weasel running toward them, they had the good sense to spread out, one on one side, one on the other. It would be hard to get past them if they kept those positions, but that was a big if.

  Weasel didn’t even slow down. He raced along the side of the warehouse as if he didn’t see the guard who swung in to intercept him. And sure enough, as his partner shifted toward the warehouse, the second guard followed, moving into the center of the street and then past it.

  Weasel looked up and started, as if noticing them for the first time. Then he changed course, as if he intended to run between them. Both guards leaped to intercept him, bumping into each other. Weasel zigged sharply to the center of the street, passing just out of reach of the farther guard.

  This maneuver left the two guards right behind him, forcing Weasel to put on a burst of speed. He was breathing harder now, and he might not have managed it if not for the sudden surge of fear. Being captured by guards was the first part of the nightmare that ended in his hanging.

  He was only a few yards ahead of them, but the distance was growing. He had almost reached the corner of the warehouse when the final guard came out to investigate the commotion.

  He wasn’t supposed to join in till he saw the others run by! But he’d appeared early, and there was no help for it. At least he wasn’t entirely certain of what was going on, though he was alert enough to stand in front of Weasel and hold out his arms.

  “Halt, in the name of the—”

  No time for finesse. Weasel bent down, raising his arms to protect his head, and ran into the guardsman’s stomach like a battering ram. When the guard doubled over and fell, Weasel ran right over him and off down another street… toward the east.

  A swift glance over his shoulder showed him that the men in the lead had paused beside their fallen comrade. In fact, it looked like one of them had tripped over his body and fallen as well, so Weasel allowed his headlong pace to slow.

  He could use a breather, and he had no fear that these plump old men could overtake him. The difficulty would be holding them to the chase for fifteen minutes—they’d probably burst their hearts if they ran that long. On the other hand, if they began to gasp and slow, they shouldn’t be too suspicious if he slowed down as well. They were already too winded to shout instructions at passersby.

  And Weasel had other tricks in store.

  The first of them was Arisa, who was now trundling a barrow-load of dirty laundry down the street toward him.

  Weasel gave her a cheerful wave as he jogged past. He’d gained enough distance that he felt entitled to turn and watch the next act.

  He’d guessed that she’d have good timing. Arisa overturned the barrow right in front of them, bringing down both of the lead guards—one tangled his feet in the tumbling cloth, the other caught his shin on the barrow as he tried to leap over it.

  Arisa started running the moment the barrow fell. Weasel had time to wait for her while the guards clambered, cursing, to their feet, and the men behind them worked their way around the obstacle.

  “Good job!” he exclaimed, as she raced past him. She gained half a dozen yards before she realized he was running much slower than she was and fell back to join him.

  “Not so fast,” Weasel told her, as they sprinted on together. “They’re getting tired. It’s too soon … for us to shake them.”

  He was a bit winded himself—clerking really was making him soft, curse it. But the building where he’d planned his main delay was nearing, and he could run that far.

  Looking back, he judged the distance and decided it was about right. He signaled for Arisa to go ahead of him, and she raced for the tree that stood next to Weasel’s “really good idea, honest!” and scrambled into the branches with the speed and agility of someone who’d practiced it several times. In the dark, too.

  She was halfway up by the time Weasel reached the base, and by the time he hauled himself into the branches after her, she was crawling along the branch that stretched to the roof of the leatherworker’s shop.

  If it had been summer, with the tree in leaf, they might have lost their pursuers at this point—though the people in the street, who’d stopped to stare, would probably have given them away. But in late Moran, with all the leaves gone, anyone could see them. As Weasel crawled out on the branch, he heard a breathless shout: “Look! On th’ … roof!”

  By the time the branch began to sag, the low railing that skirted a flat section of the rooftop was within easy reach. It still took a bit of nerve to transfer his grip from branch to railing and let his body fall against the building’s wall. If he hadn’t practiced it, he might have hesitated. But he and Arisa had returned to this building after dark, when the streets were almost empty and the shop deserted, to make certain his plan would work. Now she reached down and helped him drag himself onto the roof, which made it even easier.

  Weasel peered over the edge.

  Seven sweaty, red faces looked back at him, frustrated, furious. Even if they were willing to make the climb, the branch he’d used would never support their weight.

  Come on, figure it out. I haven’t got all—

  “Hey!” one of them cried. “We’ve got them trapped! Spread out and surround the building.”

  Weasel pulled his head back and sat, leaning against the railing. He needed a rest—now he could get it.

  “How long do you think it’ll take them?” Arisa was still looking down.

  The sound of pounding boots told Weasel the guardsmen were moving.

  “Five minutes,” he said. “First t
hey’ve got to surround the building—and that’s tricky.” The leatherworker’s shop might have started as one small building, but as the business grew it had expanded to encompass a number of neighboring shops, connected by covered alleys and yards, some of which had been walled in and some of which hadn’t. From the ground, it was almost impossible to tell where one building ended and another began.

  “Then it has to occur to them that there’s probably a hatch to get up here,” Weasel went on. “And judging by what I’ve seen, that’ll take longer than it should. Then they have to convince the shop owner that they really do have a desperate villain trapped on his roof. At least five minutes. And at a slow walk, which is the best pace they’ll be able to manage afterward, it’s almost five minutes back to the warehouse. We’ll give our employers fifteen minutes, easily.”

  “Maybe we should get the ladder ready,” said Arisa. “Just in case.”

  That wasn’t as easy as it might have been. Only parts of the roof were flat; the rest was a frozen sea of peaked slopes, at odd angles, and the slates were slippery beneath his boots. But in a few minutes they had the ladder ready to go, and from where they stood they could see the trapdoor that led onto the roof. Anyone who came through it could also see them, but this was the only place they could be certain of wedging the ladder in securely. You couldn’t have everything, Weasel told himself philosophically. They’d been incredibly lucky as it was.

  They’d found the ladder, lying against the back wall of a neighbor’s warehouse, when they’d first scouted the area. It had inspired Weasel’s “really good idea,” for it was long enough to cross the narrow street from the leather shop to the much-flatter roof of the warehouse next door. And as he and Arisa had discovered, propping one end on a rain barrel and the other on an abandoned crate, it was sturdy enough to hold both of them at once. With practice, they’d learned to cross it quite quickly. It hadn’t even been too hard to get it up on the roof, though that proved noisier than he’d liked.