by Ed Greenwood
"Stop! Stop, thief!"
Good, go right on bellowing, Tantaerra thought. Robs you of air and tells me just how far back you are. Far enough that I've ample time to get up to that roof before you can lay hands on the drainpipe.
Back in Canorate, she'd once encountered a guard who'd had no hesitation at all in trying to tear a downspout off a building to bring down a certain halfling scrambling up it. He'd managed it, too, though not before she'd reached a balcony and let go. It was to be hoped that these Watchswords of Braganza weren't quite so reckless, but as the old saying went, "Never trust a lawkeeper. They use laws like shields and swords and snares, all three."
And so they did—if they were swift enough. By the approaching sounds of panting and thudding boots below, this one wasn't.
"Stop! In the name of—"
Tantaerra left the drainpipe behind and set out along the roof. It was older and steeper than the last one, its tiles slippery in spots and rough in others. She resisted the temptation to look back until she'd leaped to the next roof, and scrambled around behind a dormer. Let the Watchguard look for a small boy, not a halfling.
The drainpipe was rattling behind her now, and she could hear snarls of rising rage.
Well enough, she thought. Destroy someone else's building, and I'll just be on my way. Over the roof-ridge, and down the backslope to leap to the topmost balcony of a soaring whitestone mansion with carved roosting eagles everywhere and drainpipes galore, descending between more balconies than she had time to tarry and count.
Ah, but it felt good to be prancing acrobatically among rooftops and spires again, like a little bird.
Too good. Unfamiliar city, chased by the local swords of the law already, and separated from her hired protector. Not wise.
Best get back to The Masked as soon as she could. Without leading the Watchswords right to him, of course. He knew Braganza. Well, perhaps not its rooftops, but—
The whitestone mansion was new and grandiose but not all that well built. In its facings and ornamental ramparts there were cracks even the clumsiest hod carrier could cling to, to say nothing of fissures a halfling could store a fine meal in.
Tantaerra resisted the impulse to explore and peer in through windows. The chimneys looked clean and long cold, so the place was probably uninhabited. Which meant it might make a suitable den to sleep or hide in, if such became necessary.
Thanks to the way the alley ran, The Masked must have headed that way, and from what she'd seen of him in their admittedly short time together, he'd have turned off the alley at his first opportunity, probably to the right, there, so as to still be hastening to Ferkel's but by a different route, so his spine would itch a little less in anticipation of speeding crossbow bolts.
Which meant her best road on was to leap swiftly to the next rooftop, over it to the dunstone mansion with the overblown facade but a much smaller, lower roof behind it, then start seeking drainpipes that could serve as swift ladders down.
She cast a swift look back, to make sure no Watchsword with a crossbow had reached a nearby rooftop. Nothing.
No, nothing at all. Empty dark windows, ornamental spires and carved gargoyles and glorious round full-leaded panes ...all empty, all for show. She was alone among the upperworks of deserted, new-built grandeur, with no sign of any nearby lofty watch post from which the Watchsword could look down across the city.
Well, not that she'd been expecting such. Pigeons were perhaps the only inhabitants of Molthune not viewed by the authorities with suspicion. The eyes of authority would be lower down, where men had footing enough to carry heavy chests of coins—and sharp swords.
Tantaerra turned, made a swift leap, and let loose a growl as she headed for the overblown facade.
She'd just decided she hated Braganza.
The roof behind the facade did nothing to change that opinion. Its tiles were new, and of the heaviest, most expensive thrice-glazed sort, but hadn't been dogged down properly. Several spun free under her landing to slide and clatter down the roofslope.
Abadar-damned fake city.
She dared not move that fast if these soaring mansions were all so hastily and sloppily built. Braganza in a gale must be a deathtrap for anyone on a roof or balcony, if tiles and shingles, trim and all, were loose enough to go whirling about.
Yes, a gold-fisted deathtrap, to be sure. Yet she'd seen no pattern of missing tiles and slates, gaping cracks or missing windows. Perhaps Braganzan builders were like masons just about everywhere, doing a sturdy shell but leaving little touches—like securing things properly, and sealing out the wet and the burrowing furry things wanting warmth in winter—for the occupants who came after to either pay someone to see to, or suffer. And as all of the buildings flanking this alley seemed empty ...
She was four roofs beyond that dunstone facade now, and moving more quickly. She could see a tricky stretch ahead, with a very steep roof plunging to gutters that looked more ornamental than sturdy. A dodge right would avoid it entirely, but take her farther west than she wanted to go.
Along this ridgepole, then, keeping low and ready to lean right if a fall began, so her tumble would be down those shingles to that scaffolding, where there'd be ropes and projecting boards galore to catch and cling to. She leaped—
The drop was just a little longer than she'd thought it would be, and her own knees caught her belly and chest, driving the wind out of her.
Which meant she was staggering and gasping as The Masked—trudging along an alleyway with a casual air that fell away like a cloak as he whirled, sword flashing up—spun to face her.
"The man from Halidon!" she gasped. "He saw us leave the wagons!"
The Masked nodded. "Forget Ferkel's, then—if he's been spying on us, he might have heard where we're headed. We'll try another place I know. Not my first choice, but..." He grabbed her shoulder, pushing her into a run. "Come on. After me, quick now!"
∗ ∗ ∗
"I thought we were going to another inn!"
"We are," The Masked responded testily, kicking open the boarded-up doorway of an abandoned construction site. "But like I said, it's one I know to be safe—which means that if this man following us has done his research, he might expect me to try for it. Which is why we need to disguise you."
"Me?" Tantaerra grumbled. "I hardly think that I'm the more recognizable one of us."
"Precisely. That's why you're going in to scout it out, and I'm going to wait in the shadows. Now come on."
She followed him into a large, dark room. It felt empty, as if noises made here would echo through chamber upon deserted chamber, abandoned by mice and rats because there was nothing at all to eat. It was too dark to see properly, but Tantaerra could make out archways and a staircase, far away across a cold, dusty marble floor.
The Masked held the door board partway open, creating a patch of lighter gloom, and beckoned her into it. He reached into a pocket, then dropped its contents into her hand.
"An eye patch?" Tantaerra scoffed, looking down at the bit of cloth. "This is your clever disguise?"
"Better than letting your real face be seen and remembered."
"While drawing the attention of every non-pirate in the place," she shot back. "Here. Watch."
She dug into her own pockets and withdrew several smooth river pebbles she'd picked up days before—it always paid to have a few throwing pebbles handy. These she tucked into her cheeks, changing the shape of her face. Then she reached down through the open door, adding smears of alley-grime near her temples, shadowing to make her head seem narrower. Grimacing, she used an even larger dollop to slick back and darken her hair, then doffed her top and turned it inside out to reveal a different hue entirely before putting it back on.
"How about it?" she asked.
The Masked stared at her. Was that admiration in his eyes? "You've done this before," he said.
"Halflings are good at avoiding notice," Tantaerra said. "It's why we make such good slaves—we're that much easier to ov
erlook. But sometimes it works to our advantage."
The Masked bowed and swept out a hand. "I defer to your expertise, princess."
She snorted and moved back through the door. "Just point me to the inn, all right?"
∗ ∗ ∗
The crowded, warm din of Harl's Hearth was everything she'd expected, from the sodden rushes on the floor to the reek of beer, unwashed bodies, and faint gutspew. She ducked purposefully to the left the moment she was inside, as if she knew where she was heading, had business here, and didn't care who saw that. She took care to lurch a little with each stride like a forge-weary dwarf, and pointed her nose at the floor, keeping her face down.
The Hearth was elbow-to-shoulder full of men and women who all seemed to feel the need to bellow into the faces of comrades they were nose to nose with. Through this deafening din, out of the corners of her eyes, Tantaerra caught sight of faces peering watchfully over tankards everywhere. Not a few hard glances were being sent at anyone coming in the front door.
So a room full of hard drinkers who expected trouble and were watching for it.
They were all human, too. Even with her disguise, Tantaerra stood out as vividly as if she'd been painted green and stuck on a raised stage. Numerous pairs of eyes sized her up—but not the familiar brown ones she was looking for.
Tantaerra nodded toward the kitchens, as if she'd just received a signal from someone that direction, and scuttled for the door.
The Masked was busy being a patient statue in the darkest spot in the alley.
"No sign of him," Tantaerra murmured, as she spat out her throwing pebbles.
At that moment, the scullery door opened and two tavernmen muscled a drunkard larger than they were out into the alley.
"Gods spit, Agris, but you get heavier every night," one puffed, as they staggered over to a wall and dropped their belching, mumbling burden against it.
The drunk sagged to the unclean cobbles. "'S all th' drink y' sell me," he murmured. "'S heavy."
The two tavernmen grunted and returned to the door.
"Proper city of vipers, this is!" the drunkard groaned, to the cobbles his nose was pressed against. "Wrest a man's drink from his hand before he's found the bottom of it!"
The door slammed, and Tantaerra heard the thud of the door bar landing in its cradles, followed by a rattle of chain.
A city of vipers. Tantaerra found herself agreeing with the man.
She followed The Masked farther back into the alley's shadows. "So now what?"
"Now we wait," The Masked said. "Perhaps we just beat him here. If so, better to see him enter from here than meet him after we've holed up and cornered ourselves."
"Hmph," Tantaerra sniffed, but huddled down against the grimy wall to wait.
∗ ∗ ∗
"No. Absolutely not."
"I'm afraid it's the best idea I have."
"Putting me in a sack?" Tantaerra raged. "You need to start having some better ideas."
They were back in the abandoned construction site. They'd watched Harl's Hearth for several hours as the patrons gradually staggered or were carried out. When at last the common room closed down for the night, with still no sign of their mysterious tail, The Masked declared himself satisfied, and took them back to their staging ground to prepare his own disguise.
Which apparently consisted of sticking Tantaerra in a sack and pretending she was his grossly fat belly.
"I'll suffocate in there!" she pressed.
"As someone who's breathed through sacks on many occasions," The Masked said wryly, tapping his mask, "I can guarantee that you won't. And anyone looking for us will be looking for a thin man and a halfling, not a single hugely fat man."
"And you don't think your mask might be what they're looking for?"
In response, The Masked turned away and withdrew something from a pocket inside his shirt. When he turned back, his mask was covered by a fired-putty replica of a face, like those sometimes used by actors. He pulled his hood lower, and in the shadows beneath it the face looked almost real.
"I guess it's the best we can do," Tantaerra said slowly.
"It is," The Masked said firmly. "And if this takes much longer, it will be morning, and this won't work at all. Then maybe you can distract people by playing the role of my pet. On a leash."
"Don't push me, masked man."
"Wouldn't dream of it. I hear halflings bite."
Tantaerra gave him a dirty look. "Just give me the damned sack."
The cloth was actually closer to netting, and surprisingly smooth against Tantaerra's skin, allowing plenty of airflow. She could even see through it, after a fashion. As The Masked slung her over his shoulders, hanging her down across his chest and stomach, she said, "Leave a couple of buttons open as long as you can, hey?
"Of course."
Then they were back out in the alley again: one large-bellied man trudging wearily home, probably with a drink or two aboard.
The sway of his walk was hypnotic. Tantaerra suddenly felt very tired, too weary to even object to her circumstances. The bumping wasn't as bad as she'd feared, and she found she rather liked the smell of the man she was now pressed against. Though if he didn't bathe in the next day or so ...
Sooner than she'd expected, they were pounding on the door of Harl's Hearth, demanding service. The Masked had left a single button undone, and through it Tantaerra could fuzzily glimpse a panel in the door sliding open, a suspicious eye glaring through it.
"Yes?" the eye asked suspiciously.
"A room, if you have one. Private, with a bed—and a large window, that opens. No stabling needed."
"We're closed up for the night."
"I can see that," The Masked said smoothly. "But I assure you I can make it worth your while."
"Show coin."
The Masked did so.
"Mere or Tel?"
There was only the briefest of pauses, and then The Masked said, "I'm afraid I'm from afar, and don't know what that means."
Silence fell and stretched.
"I think I remember you," the man on the other side of the panel said slowly. "You stayed here years back. At least twice. Before things got ...as they are now."
Tantaerra could tell by the shifting movement that The Masked had nodded.
"It means," the innkeeper explained, "are you for Mereir, or Telcanor?"
"The Telcanors I've heard of. So, two large and wealthy city families at odds?"
"Bitter rivals. To the point of fighting each other in alleys, or more often setting hired swords to fighting. Nigh everyone in Braganza is loyal to one or the other."
"So are you for Mereir or Telcanor?"
The eye behind the panel favored The Masked with a cold look. "Mereir. Of course."
The climb to the room was a long one, up old and narrow stairs, through a house that was either sleeping soundly or more likely had few guests staying this night. The room was small and spartan, but had, as promised, a large window that could be opened onto a sloping roof—if one didn't mind disturbing a dozen or so seemingly incontinent pigeons.
"No fires, for any reason," the innkeeper ordered, silently gesturing coin after coin from The Masked's palm into his own until a rather stiff sum had been reached. He evidently judged his late-hours patron to be someone on the run, or in great need of shelter. In this, he was, of course right.
With a silent wave at a basin and ewer that turned into pointing at a battered chamber pot under the bed, Harl withdrew.
The Masked went to the window so he could whisper to Tantaerra, "Keep silent. He hasn't moved away from the door yet."
She patted his stomach through the sack to let him know she'd heard, and held her peace. The Masked examined the bed and then the room's lone chair, settling onto it with a groan worthy of the weariest of travelers.
That seemed to satisfy the master of the Hearth, whose departure they could hear as a series of faint, increasingly distant creakings.
The Masked went and slid
the whittled peg on its length of twine through the hasp that would keep the door closed, presuming nothing stronger than a feeble child tried to get through it.
Then he unbuttoned, went to the bed, and eased off clothing and sack to let Tantaerra out.
She stretched like a cat, wincing at sudden aches in one thigh and the opposing shoulder, then grabbed at her nose to keep from sneezing as dust rose from the bed like a drifting ghost.
She was still struggling not to erupt when there was a sudden sharp knock on the door.
"Open up, in the name of Braganza!" a voice firm with authority thundered.
Chapter Six
Swords in the Night
Tantaerra wasted no time in cursing, but made for the window, sneezing hard—only to find three grim-faced men had appeared outside on the roof. Heavily armored and menacing, they held hand crossbows. Cocked, loaded, and pointed at her.
She skidded to a halt, then sighed and waved at The Masked to open the door.
He did so.
In the narrow passage outside, bearing a hooded lantern that gave off even less light than the innkeeper's lone-candle lamp had done, was a grand-looking armored warrior with half a dozen armored fellows at his shoulders—all aiming more loaded hand crossbows past him at The Masked.
"Yes?" The Masked asked gently. "Can I help you?"
The man took a step forward. The Masked held his ground.
The man took another step forward, bringing them chest to chest, almost brushing noses.
"I am here," he announced grandly, "to recruit you."
His gaze slid to Tantaerra, now standing truculently on the bed with hands on hips, face half-hidden behind netting. "Both."
"Recruit us into—or for—what?" she asked boldly.
The warrior regarded her for a moment, then turned back to The Masked.
"It talks," he told the masked man, almost resentfully.
"It's something of a princess," The Masked told him calmly. "Recruit us for—?"
"To stand with House Mereir."
"Ah. Mereir or Telcanor, I see. The problem is, I don't see."
"We don't see," Tantaerra corrected crisply.
