by Ed Greenwood
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."
"And if Halvran is too cheap to camp at all, and just kept going?"
"Well," Tarram growled, "if we keep on walking in this direction, Braganza shouldn't be more than seven or eight days away. Now quiet."
"Oh? Why, exactly?"
"Because I can still hear bloodcoats from Halidon blundering along far behind us, which means they can hear us. And because yon fires ahead mean someone encamped—and if they happen to be Molthuni soldiers, I'd rather they didn't see and stop us before we know who they are and can slip past them."
Tantaerra peered through the brush ahead of her, ducking this way and that, and finally espied a tiny moving point of light. Flame. "Oh, to be taller," she muttered, far more quietly. "So say yon fires are this Halvran of yours—what then?"
"I pay him handsomely, and he gives us space in the same wagon I was riding in before," Tarram told her.
"And when the bloodcoats arrive in his camp and start searching for us?"
"I promise Halvran far more coin to keep us hidden—delivered when we get safely to Braganza—than any bloodcoat will ever pay him," he told her smugly. "And Halvran, who's no fool and values his repeat customers—I happen to be one of them—considers how much more he'll make from years ahead of dealing with a still-living client than whatever he'll get, most likely nothing, for handing us over, and ..."
He spread his hands expressively.
"So just how does a man from afar who wears a mask come to be a repeat customer of a pinchcoin caravan master in Molthune?" the halfling asked, tilting her head sidelong as she regarded him.
Tarram gave her a shrug. "A story for another day. When we know each other rather better than we do now."
"When we trust each other more, you mean," she said softly.
Hearing the bitterness in her voice, he gave her no words, only a silent nod.
∗ ∗ ∗
"Here they come," Tantaerra muttered. "I hope you bought Halvran's trust handsomely enough."
The masked man shrugged. "Here's where we stop talking and listen," he whispered in her ear, falling still behind the heap of blankets that walled them into one rather stuffy corner of a crammed wagon.
"Stand!" they heard Halvran roar. "Not a stride closer, or we'll start putting cros
sbow bolts in faces!"
"We're soldiers of Molthune, from Halidon, in pursuit of two escaped fugitives, and we demand—"
An old, crude crossbow fired with a sharp crack and rattle.
"The next one will be in your face," Halvran warned. "I see no soldiers of Molthune, only a bunch of brigands who come rushing out of the night, wearing bloodcoat soldiers' uniforms to lull honest, loyal Molthuni into letting them get inside their defenses. So just who are you to be demanding anything? This is a mixed-goods caravan, with all proper permits and passes, not slaver-wagons! So we have no fugitives here! Now, be off with you, or I'll make a report in Braganza that'll cut short some shining careers right quick, I will!"
"Show us your permits and passes, and who's traveling in this caravan, and we'll—"
"Stand back, or you'll be playing pincushions, that's what you'll be doing!"
"Caravan master, we're seeking a halfling, shorter than most, and a tall man wearing a mask, and if we're not allowed to search your wagons, there'll be—"
"Enough!" a new voice snapped, from just outside their wagon.
Tantaerra and the masked man she'd hired exchanged looks. They knew that voice.
"Worm your way out there to where you can make sure it's the man from the temple roof in Halidon," The Masked muttered. "But make damned sure you don't get seen."
"As you command," she told him sardonically, and set out to do just that.
She was in time to see it was indeed the brown-eyed man.
"Loyal soldiers of Molthune," he was saying, as he stood among the wagons with a lantern high in one hand and something small held up in his other palm, "do you recognize this badge? Do you know what it means?"
A little silence fell, ere one of the bloodcoats from Halidon said sullenly, "No."
"Well, you should know it. Lord Investigator Osturr showed some of you—or your superiors—one just like it, earlier today. It proclaims me a Lord Investigator from Canorate, reporting directly to the General Lords. As such, I outrank all of you, and everyone back in Halidon—and I am hereby ordering all of you to return there. Right now, and with no sly deceit nor continued pursuit. I am traveling with this caravan, and if there are any fugitives hiding in it, I'll find them. Now go."
"But—"
"But nothing," the self-proclaimed Lord Investigator said coldly. "Your work is guarding Halidon, not chasing fugitives across half Molthune. That's my work."
∗ ∗ ∗
"It's him, all right," the halfling hissed, "though I couldn't get a good look at the badge he was holding, or I'd have been seen."
Tarram snorted. "Never mind. They don't carry badges, and he's no Lord Investigator."
"Oh, and you can be so sure how, exactly? It very much looks to me as if he slipped into this caravan to get to us. How exactly are we going to hide from him, all the way to Braganza?"
"We stay right here with our raw eggs—and the food Halvran has promised to bring—not budging from this wagon, and we take turns sleeping, one of us awake and on watch at all times. That should work, if he doesn't set fire to the wagon."
"If. As we've started with the 'ifs,' be aware that if we somehow make it to Braganza unharmed, I'll be expecting you to rent me a palace with a hall set for a feast."
By way of reply, Tarram demonstrated that he knew a rude gesture common among halflings.
"Sir! I'm shocked, simply shocked!" Tantaerra plucked an egg from the crock, cracked it, and deftly swallowed the contents.
Tarram rolled his eyes, and that made her giggle. He did it again.
She turned suddenly solemn. "The man's dangerous, remember?"
"So am I," Tarram purred.
She rolled her own eyes. "Idiot."
∗ ∗ ∗
The minutes passed slowly. After several hours with no incidents, Tarram decided that not only could he probably sleep now, but that staying awake for a few yawns more might be nigh impossible.
"Will you take first watch?" he asked his client.
When there was no reply, he opened one eye for a proper look at her—it took a real effort—and discovered that she was no longer an alert and armed halfling poised for battle in their blanket-walled corner of a wagon, but rather a shockingly small huddled heap.
"Tantaerra?" he murmured.
Silence. Gods, it was like traveling with a puppy. Snap at you one moment, and fast asleep the next. And she was so tiny. Like a little prancing doll.
Louder, closer: "Tantaerra?"
The only answer he got was a small but emphatic snore.
Smiling, Tarram fell back and let his eyes close.
Luraumadar, the voice of the mask greeted him gently. It sounded faintly amused. Luraumadar.
Well, at least there were some things in his increasingly dangerous life he could depend on.
Luraumadar.
∗ ∗ ∗
Wagon wheels echoed off the looming stones overhead. Then Tantaerra and The Masked were through the great arched gate and inside Braganza.
All around them grand buildings soared up into the sky. Somewhere behind them stood the gate guardians: a dozen cold-eyed and bright-helmed Watchswords. The city's armored soldier-police wore the scarlet tabards of Molthune emblazoned on their left shoulders with the arms of Braganza, the crossed sword and hammer of the realm bisected by the upright gold key of Abadar the Banker God. The officers also wore armbands emblazoned with the same badge, and The Masked had quietly warned Tantaerra that the Watchguard of Braganza was far more competent than the garrison of Halidon had been. Remembering Canorate, Tantaerra didn't doubt that.
Ahead, the foremost wagons rumbled along a broad but dusty cobbled street littered with sawdust, odd cuts of wood, and broken roof-tiles. Soaring up on all sides were magnificent, many-balconied buildings. No matter where she looked, Tantaerra could see nothing less than four floors high.
Braganza was nothing like as large as Canorate, but these buildings were tall, clean, and new. Every last one of them, new!
"You're gawking," the masked man muttered warningly beside her. "Even if you came from Nirmathas, you've seen tall buildings before."
"So this is Braganza," Tantaerra replied softly, still trying to peer at everything at once. "Everything's so new and grand."
"And most of it stands empty. They build here to the glory of Abadar, not because it's a sensible spending of coin, or because there're enough citizens to fill all these mansions."
Tantaerra was still shaking her head at the soaring towers. Wherever one looked, carved archways and pediments. Turrets and spires and columns sculpted to look like heroic Molthuni warriors. All this must cost a fortune ...
"Indulge me," she murmured. "I've never been here before."
"I have," The Masked replied darkly. "With luck, they won't remember me. But luck and I seldom dance together."
The streets were choked with open wagons piled high with fresh lumber, dressed blocks of stone, and suntanned laborers with pulleys and ropes and crates of tools. The caravan had slowed to a crawl, wagons turning off at almost every cross street.
"Splitting up," Tantaerra murmured. "You know where we're heading, I suppose?"
"If I didn't," The Masked told her wryly, "I'd stand a rather small chance of getting there, wouldn't I?" He pointed down the street ahead. "See the sign of the cask? Remember it; not a good tavern, but one we could meet at, later, if mischance splits us up. It's called Ferkel's—Ferkel's Flagonhouse, actually, but folk will think you a tax collector if you use its full name."
"Got it," Tantaerra replied, with a calmness she didn't feel. "So tell me, where're we bound?"
"Down and out of this wagon, when we reach the right alley. That's why I wanted you to gather that sack together—we'll probably have to scramble, if we don't want to spend the rest of our first day in Braganza being chased by Watchswords."
"We don't," Tantaerra agreed dryly. "There do seem to be a lot of them."
"Armed vigilance is the Molthuni way," The Masked replied
. "And bored armed vigilantes go looking for trouble, or make their own. Wherefore all the heavy-booted street patrols and suspicion. There are also nobles in this city who've taken feuding to the heights of art. Wherefore heavier patrols, and more suspicion."
"You paint such a welcoming picture of Braganza," Tantaerra said bitingly. "Don't you like it here?"
"Little tyrant, leave off for a bit, will you? I crave a certain unity of purpose right now—and some quiet in which to think."
The wagon promptly hit a pothole where a cobble had split. It rocked with a growl of protesting wheels, loud groans of wood trying to flex in two directions at once, and more than a few snorts from the oxen; Tantaerra almost had to shout to be heard over it all as she replied, "Quiet, of course! Here you go, offered gladly!"
The Masked growled wordlessly—and plunged out of the wagon, hauling her and the sack with him.
"Come!" he hissed in her ear. "Quick and quiet! No talking!"
The wagon groaned on its way as they left it behind, scrambling down the alleyway.
Out of long habit Tantaerra looked back, seeing wagon after rumbling wagon passing, then glanced up at the buildings that hemmed the alleyway in, looking for anyone watching out of windows or perched on a rooftop.
Almost immediately, with a sudden chill, she caught sight of a face peering at her from a high window. A brown-eyed face she knew. Their eyes met—and the face was gone.
It was the man who'd been on the shrine rooftop in Halidon.
"Dung," Tantaerra cursed under her breath, striding on down the alley but staring hard at the building that the window he'd just vacated was part of, so she'd be able to find it again. Green tiles, two slanting drainpipes, and—
"Ho! You! Boy!"
The voice was coming from behind her, and held the snap of command. A Watchsword. She'd bet all the coin she had.
"Stop! Stop in the name of Lord Ravnagask! The Watchguard commands you!"
Ah, being right was such fun.
"Split up," The Masked murmured. "Go." Then he turned and disappeared down an almost invisible side-alley.
Not bothering to look back—doing so would probably let her pursuer know she was a halfling, and not male to boot—Tantaerra burst into a sprint, heading down the alley for the nearest sturdy drainpipe.
