by Ed Greenwood
The Masked chuckled. "Someone's feeling victorious."
"Someone's feeling practical. The one who isn't a sword-swinging, get-himself-killed, heroic dolt."
He ducked his head. "Well said. Just purses, or are you still collecting daggers?"
"Only very good ones. And put on this bracer. It's a sheath for that needle-blade-"
"That the Hound tried to kill me with. All right."
He was still buckling it onto his forearm when Tantaerra slid the blade it had been fashioned to carry firmly into place, moved her hand down to his elbow, and tugged.
"Come on. Those soldiers won't stand around down there forever."
She hustled him off the roof and down the stairs. Aside from a stiffness and obvious ache, he could walk well enough, and went down the steps in a warrior's half-crouch, the best salvaged soldier's sword ready in his hand.
Tantaerra blinked. If she'd thought they'd turned the roof into a charnel house …
There were dead soldiers on the steps, and the main room of the shrine was awash in them. That statue-man must be even more impressive than she'd thought. There was no sign of the old priest, and no one alive in the place to challenge them, though when she skulked close to the door to peer out without showing herself, there were more than a few soldiers outside, spears or crossbows in hand, watching the shrine warily from a good distance back.
"Ready bows outside," she reported tersely. The Masked merely nodded. He had already plucked a burning log from the central fire, shielding it from eyes outside the door with his body, and started back into the rear chambers.
"Seeking a back door?" Tantaerra hissed.
"After I look for more healing, of the sort you gave me. That old man was more than a back-village priest, by his robe. He was once a high temple healer. So he should have some vials hidden away back here somewhere …ah!"
He'd been feeling his way along the side lip of a thick-topped table, and something had just shifted under his fingers. Tarram felt for a catch, failed to find it, and in exasperation drew his dagger and slammed its pommel against the wood. Twice, thrice-and the fourth time a carving broke off and fell away, allowing his fingers into a hidden recess hollowed out of the edge of the tabletop. A deep groove, really. He used his dagger point to move three vials out into Tantaerra's waiting hands before the hiding place was empty.
"He probably won't have much more than that-not that we could find without spending the rest of the night in here. And as I see no sign of food …"
"Let's be going," Tantaerra agreed. Then she spotted something dark in a corner of the next room. "Bring your brand over here."
What she'd seen proved to be a wet-weather overrobe with a cowl. A trifle short for Tarram, but quite different from what he'd been seen wearing around Halidon up until now, so he donned it, and they went looking for a back door.
It proved to be right where they'd expected it to be, which meant it would open out onto a close-up view of the still-blazing warehouses.
"Ready to get a bit warm?" Tarram asked.
"Being as the other way is straight into bowfire," Tantaerra replied, "yes. But let me borrow some boots first."
"They'll be far too large-"
"And I'll kick them off the moment we're not walking through flames and coals," she snapped. "If I stumble, catch me. You do want the other five silver weights, don't you?"
The Masked nodded, then carefully opened the door, keeping behind it.
Onto a view of crackling, dying flames wreathing blackened spars that were starting to lean perilously-but no shouts or hurled spears.
He stayed where he was until Tantaerra came back to him with a pair of oversized boots in her hands, and murmured, "When I was moving around well back, yonder, I could see that way, out the door. There're four or five soldiers over thereabouts, far left where we can't see them from here. They're watching the shrine, but it doesn't look like they've seen us. Yet."
"What d'you think of the fire, right ahead? Think we can make it through what's left of this nearest warehouse?"
Tantaerra looked up at him. "We'll have to, won't we?"
The Masked's blank visage somehow seemed to be smiling. "Ready?"
When she nodded, he put out one arm to bar her way and said, "Don't run. We stroll as if we've every right to be out walking, until they start shouting. Then you can start stumbling in those boots."
"And who are you to be giving orders, faceless man?" she asked him softly.
He stiffened, let his arm drop, and said gruffly, "The one you hired to help you escape, little Lady Daggertongue."
Tantaerra took a step away from him-and promptly stumbled in her loose boots.
They stared at each other for a long moment, as flames crackled outside and soldiers shouted far away down the south end of the village.
Then they both, more or less in unison, blurted out apologies. Tarram waved at the door with a courtier's grand flourish.
So Tantaerra lifted her chin, plucked up a dead soldier's short sword she'd decided to use as a walking stick, and set out on a stroll into the waiting flames.
∗ ∗ ∗
Eight slow strides, his thigh aching a little but seemingly as strong as if he'd never been wounded, nine …had the bloodcoats gone blind? Eleven, twelve, and still no-
"Hoy! Hayyah! You! Over in the burning! Halt! I said halt!"
Striding through fallen beams and embers, Tarram raised his arm, half-turned toward the bellowing soldier, and made the flat-hand-waving-at-the-ground Molthuni military sign for "Be stealthy."
It wasn't a ruse likely to work, but if it bought them even a few moments more before some hoghead fired his crossbow …
There were barrels ahead. Blackened and smoldering, yet a barrier against anyone aiming crossbows at them, even if they'd become brittle charcoal. And if they held liquid, they just might still be a lot sturdier than that.
Tarram tried to quicken his pace. Beside him, Tantaerra almost fell for the third time, hissed a curse, and kicked off one of her boots.
Only to promptly step on an ember and hiss a much louder curse. Words that came wreathed in a sharp, unpleasant reek of burning hair. Tarram wrinkled his nose. He'd heard the old saying many times, that roasting humans smelled like roast boar. But he lacked the words for what burnt halfling hair smelled like.
"Who are you?"
The shouting soldier again. Well, that signal had bought them more time than he'd thought it would …
Tarram shouted something incoherent back, making his voice sound irritated and clipped, like a high-ranking officer making a reply he didn't think he should need to give. Like the Lord Investigator.
And kept right on walking, in behind the barrels now. He didn't have to look to know that Tantaerra was right beside him. She'd found it impossible to walk in just one oversized boot, had abandoned it, and was now cursing constantly under her breath. As the smell of scorched halfling grew steadily stronger.
There were real flames right ahead, leaping up like a huge campfire, over a heap of ashes that marked the corner of the warehouse. Two steps to the right to go around it, and two more to get past it, and they were through it and into a cooler area beyond, the street between this burned warehouse and the next one.
"Come on!" he hissed.
"You, too!" the halfling hissed back at him, from somewhere beneath his right elbow. "Down this street back into Halidon, yes?"
"Yes!"
They sprinted, and with every step the night grew darker. There were still lanterns, of course, but if luck stayed with them …
It did. A lantern guttered out ahead, to the accompaniment of curses, and they were plunged into pitch darkness.
They shuffled forward, gently passing their swords back and forth in front of themselves to avoid running onto the points of any unseen spears.
The voice, when it spoke, was startlingly close. "That you, Thrykon?"
"No, soldier!" Tarram snapped, without hesitation, trying to remember the exact p
itch and tone of the Lord Investigator but settling for sounding as rudely imperious as he remembered the man being. "I am Lord Investigator Osturr, and I have had about enough of the shoddy, shocking lack of discipline here in Halidon! Are you soldiers of Molthune or not? Who assigned you here? Right here, I mean! You should be over there, where the lanterns are! Can no one follow simple orders around here?"
"I-sorry, sir. I'll-sorry!" They heard the chastened bloodcoat hurry off.
"I can follow simple orders," a new and nasal voice spoke up, "and mine were to stay right here and stop anyone passing me, until Morthus himself relieved me. And being as he hasn't, and as he gave me those orders himself, I'm staying right here."
"And what, soldier, might your name be?" Tarram inquired icily, edging forward but keeping well to the left of that voice. He felt Tantaerra's hand touch his knee and stay there, so she could move with him.
And then, just as suddenly as it had vanished, the moon came sailing serenely out from behind the clouds, bathing all Halidon in its pale glow. Stars twinkled around it in a largely empty silver sky.
Tarram and a truculent short-bearded soldier found themselves facing each other across a space that was largely filled by the spear in the bloodcoat's hand.
A spear he promptly raised menacingly, falling back a step so Tarram couldn't grab at the spear shaft.
Smiling tightly, Tarram bounded forward, ducking past the spearhead, and grabbed the shaft anyway.
The soldier snarled and tried to jerk it free-and Tarram let it go, so he could lean in and slam his fist down on the man's nearest hand, where it was gripping the spear. The man shouted in pain and swung the spear away to try to keep hold of it-and Tarram punched him in the throat, then locked his arm around the soldier's neck and hauled the man down backward, slamming the back of the Molthuni's neck hard onto his waiting knee. The man convulsed in a brief frenzy of waving arms and hands clutching air …then went limp. The fallen spear bounced and rattled.
"Stop amusing yourself and come on!" Tantaerra snapped, tugging at Tarram's arm. "The forest's only just there! Come on, you bloodthirsty boarbrain!"
Hearing pounding hooves ahead along the last street across their path, Tarram put on a gasping burst of speed and caught up to his client. Burying his fingers in her hair, he lifted her off the ground at a full run and hauled her to the left, hard.
She shrieked and spun around in his grasp with daggers flashing in both hands-so he let go, flinging her into a handy horse trough and then diving after her.
He landed beside the trough in a rich layer of fresh horse manure, reached into the heart of the splashing, grabbed hold of her, and snatched her out again. Slamming her hard against his chest to drive the wind out of her and quell any shouts before she made them, he rolled under a wagon.
There was a long, long line of carts and wagons drawn up down this last street. The forest they'd been trying for was an enticing four strides or so away, across the muddy road, but the soldiers of Molthune were determined to catch the two fugitives, and were even now thundering past the wagon.
"That way! Make sure they don't get past you!" a bloodcoat shouted. "Hrandel, bide here in case they're behind one of these doors and try to dart out later! The rest of you, with me!"
More hooves, the main din moving on along the street and away into the distance.
Lying on his back trying not to pant loudly, holding his client very gently now and trying to ignore the fire in the glare she was giving him, Tarram listened hard. If they thought to bend down and look …
"What an idiot," a rough voice said disgustedly, before spitting into the dirt not a hand-width away from Tarram's leg.
"Aye," another bloodcoat agreed. "Some stupid mother wasted a lot of time and food on that one. Always galloping after glory, all shouting this and ordering that and look at me, I'm so important …"
"They're gone, those two. A halfling and a masked man, still hiding in Halidon? I think not. Six streets one way and four the other, and the moon showing us every roof; where does he think they're hiding?"
"He hasn't got to thinking yet. He's too busy being all shocked that the two of them murdered the Lord Investigator."
"Which means we have to hunt them down and kill them, mind-because once word reaches Canorate that their precious investigator's been killed, it'll be our necks if we haven't brought down his slayers."
That brought a groan. "You're saying we're going to have to search every last damned house in Halidon. I knew it. Poking into reeking privies and dirty clothes that don't smell much better while the owners stand there glaring at us, hating us with their every breath for invading their homes, and I can't say as I blame them. Why can't murderers just stick to the streets when they're running, so we can ride them down tidily? Why do they always have to try to hide and lurk?"
"Because they're as fond of their necks as we are of ours, that's why. Gods look down, Braerve, sometimes I think you're as dense as yon post."
"Aye, you spoke truth for once, Larl: sometimes, you think."
"You looking for this spear in your eye?"
"By accident, you mean? The way you 'accidentally' tripped Arjon down the watchtower stairs?"
"Why, you-"
"If you two stalwarts are quite finished threatening each other," a new voice snapped from farther down the street, "there are some wagons here that need searching. In, under, and atop every one of them, and may I remind you we're looking for a shorter-than-most halfling, probably female, and a tall and rather thin man wearing a mask-or, if he's taken it off, someone with an untanned face who's a stranger in Halidon. Work together, starting with that wagon, and moving that way. And remember: I'll be watching."
That brought a sullen pair of "sirs" in reply, and the squeal of an opening coach door.
Followed, a moment later, by Tarram's client jerking free of his hold and clambering off him, to vanish into the night in a rustle of disturbed weeds.
He tried to twist his head around to see where she was going. She'd said not a word. A horse stamped, leather creaked, and there were some firm footfalls on wagon floors. A sagging cart groaned under sudden weight.
"Say, now," Braerve said suddenly, "there's food in this one! Crocks full of eggs, and this has to be fish, in oil, and-"
There was deep, metallic sound, as if a pot had struck something solid, then silence.
"Braerve? Braerve?" Larl snapped, sounding scared.
The metallic sound was more of a ringing, this time.
Silence.
As it stretched, Tarram rolled over as quietly as he could, and waited tensely under the wagon.
"Tarram?" That was Tantaerra's voice. "Tarram?"
He said not a word, but crawled in the direction of her voice, rising up warily in the lee of the next wagon with one of his short swords ready.
To find himself looking into the eyes of the halfling. "Carrying this crock of eggs is beyond me," she told him, tossing aside a skillet that had blood and tufts of hair on it, "but if we take any of the fish they'll smell us miles off. So if you'd care to do some lifting …"
"What about that bloodcoat who said he'd be watching?"
"He's watching from down the far end of the street, past those lanterns, where there seems to be beer. Now are you going to carry these eggs across this road into that damned forest, or not?"
Tarram found himself grinning. "I'll carry."
Chapter Five
City of Vipers
If I have to eat all these raw eggs," Tarram muttered, "I'm going to have the runs for days. Nonstop, rather aromatic days."
Tantaerra grinned. "All the more for me, then. So catch us something palatable we can eat raw."
"Such as?"
"Giant dewworms are nice."
Tarram's gorge rose. "To a halfling, perhaps, but…really? You truly like giant dewworms?"
"Only in the right sort of stew, with lots of leeks and pepper. Though they go down well seared in a fire, slaked in ox- or cow-drippings. If you
have ox- or cow-drippings."
"Fascinating," Tarram pronounced, with the most devastating sarcasm he could muster. "I'll freely admit that halfling cuisine is lore I've sadly neglected …but it's lore I rather thought would stay neglected, on my part. And the more I learn of it, the more I'm convinced it deserves my enthusiastic neglect."
"Really? How fitting," his client shot back, as they ducked under the fourteen thousandth-or was it fourteen thousandth and first? — low horizontal tree bough. "As that's about what I've received from you since we left Halidon. Enthusiastic neglect."
"What? Princess, I have fought for you; run for you; robbed a shrine for you; faced a damned Lord Investigator for you; burned down three warehouses, any one of which has assuredly brought a 'slay on sight' order down on my head …all for you. This is neglect?"
"I did say 'enthusiastic,' masked man. And I'm not a princess. I'm-"
"Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra, I know. Sharp-tongued escaped slave, possessed of the pride of a princess."
"Are my ears failing me? Am I actually hearing a human accuse a halfling of pride? When all Golarion knows humans are walking bundles of arrogant presumption? Loud arrogant presumption?"
"Hey, lady, you hired me! I'm your walking bundle!"
Tantaerra's reply was short, pungent, and unprintable. They gave each other glares that quickly fell into wry grins and turned back to wearily stalking through the forest.
A branch snapped. "Oww!" the halfling said. She cursed, then added sourly, "Remind me again why we have to tramp along the edge of the forest in the dead of night when anything could be prowling out here, hunting us. I'm tired, and we're well clear of Halidon."
"Yes, but we haven't found the caravan yet."
"What caravan?"
"The one that dropped me off in Halidon," The Masked said, "then kept going. Because the caravan master, Halvran, is far too cheap to camp overnight in a place that'll charge him fees for its paddocks and water and such, when there are streams and grazing and space free for the taking out ahead of us somewhere. He had some lumber business to be transacted directly hereabouts, then is headed for Braganza."