He waved an amiable assent to Chio and threaded his way toward the enticing tripod, where he had to wait for the preceding customers.
’Ware cutpurse, murmured Des.
This square being demon-free, Pen had gratefully eased Des’s extended senses, but he flared them a little now. The back of his neck crawled in expectation of a very sharp knife slicing the cord of his purse, in preparation for some drunken-seeming collision later where he would be relieved of it. But to his astonishment, the hand rose to his shoulder braids. A butterfly landing upon him would have had no more weight.
Pen was so boggled, he almost gave the man another few seconds just to see if he would succeed in his delicate unpinning operation. He was fairly certain the answer was yes.
Sadly, no. Pen reached up, seized the pickpocket’s wrist, and turned in one smooth motion, yanking the man forward. A reach, a sorcerer-physician’s precise twist to the axillary nerve—not hard enough to snap it, but enough to leave the whole arm limp and stinging.
“Was this a dare or a death-wish?” Pen breathed in the man’s ear.
“Dare!” he squeaked. “Pardon, pardon, learned sir! Just a prank! Forgiveness on our god’s day!”
No question that this was no prank, but the man’s trade—he’d been far too adept for an amateur thief. From the corner of his eye, Pen spotted a couple of his probably-colleagues, who had been watching the show and grinning, retreat hastily into the shadows at this abrupt reversal of fortune. Pen could imagine the conversation that had led up to this—I wager I can lift the braids right off that skinny sorcerer’s shoulder! If Pen had been any other sort of Temple divine, he likely could have.
Servile, grinning, and terrified, an unsavory combination. Pen took a deep breath to calm himself, and continued his sermon at a whisper’s range. “Your hand will be useless for a day. If I chose to take you to a city constable, it would be removed altogether. Consider this foretaste a god-given chance to pray and reflect on your poor choice of callings. Some craft where your fifth mistake won’t result in your hand being amputated would be good. You have skill. Use it for better ends.”
Pen released his assailant-turned-victim, who backed away bobbing bows and babbling apologies until he could turn and scamper.
Pen sighed. Do you think my homily will take, Des?
Hard to say. Impressive try, though. Demonic amusement. On both your parts.
Pen wondered if Don’t drink and rob! would have been more pointed advice. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have two spare sets of braids in his clothes chest.
He fished his purse from under his coat and shirt, thankful to find it still there, and settled up for three skewers of meat. Aromatic with garlic, otherwise not very identifiable; browned sufficed tonight. A stop at the wine booth for something red and redolent to wash it down would delay them, but it was tempting. Toasted sticks in hand, he looked around for Chio and Merin.
They were gone.
He was puzzled. Not alarmed, Pen told himself and his leaping pulse as he swept the square with his gaze. Chio’s showy striped dress should stand out even in flickering shadows. No luck. He flashed Des’s demonic sense to its fullest range. By now, he could recognize those souls at a distance much as one would recognize the form of a friend seen down the street. Nothing.
He wheeled, checking the square again. The cutpurse and his cronies were gone, naturally enough. He didn’t see how they could have taken Chio and Merin with them by force without his or Des’s notice in the few moments he’d spent collecting the meat. Nor why, actually.
No, agreed Des. But when a demon sounded worried…
The canal here had no footpath, lapping right up to the buildings on either side. The sole access was by oarboat at the market landing. Water traffic had thinned out, only a few hardy boatmen still circulating to ferry inebriated customers home.
This market had three dry entries, the alley they’d come in by, and the other two leading who-knew-where—just because they started off in one direction didn’t mean they’d continue that way.
Pen picked the wider, cobbled one and trotted down it, frugally munching his meat skewer. The snack didn’t settle well in his newly nervous stomach, despite his peckishness. After a hundred paces, the street narrowed and ended in a close-built ring of houses. A Lodi rat could have escaped between them, but not a girl in a party dress and whoever she’d left with. Merin must be accompanying her, Pen reasoned with himself, his pulse, and his digestion. Chio could not be completely unprotected.
I’ve lost the saint! Envisioning himself explaining this to Learned Riesta, Pen fought panic. She was only temporarily mislaid, surely.
Back to the market. Taxing a few bleary men and the less bleary vendors for witness bore no fruit; the first had been too drunk and the second too busy keeping them so. Pen scowled at the time he’d lost and headed into the final street. In a minute, the first crossing presented him with the usual three-way dilemma.
Pen halted, thinking of his late father’s description of a dog trying to chase two rabbits. Doomed to catch neither, in the paternal parable. Increasingly frantic circling was not the answer. He’d been doing that all night.
If the pair hadn’t been kidnapped, one must have persuaded the other away. But which? He wouldn’t put some impulsive start past Chio, certainly. Earlier in the evening, he might have imagined her growing bored with her stodgy Temple protector and haring off to find a better party, but not since their sobering encounter with the distraught Iserne. So she must have had a reason. A god-inspired reason? Attempting to picture what, or how, made him want to gibber.
The notion of Merin luring her away from Penric also left him at a loss. Not slyly divesting a romantic rival of his prize; he’d shown no hint of being interested in Chio that way, although it would take a brave man to approach a saint.
Or the penniless orphan part accounts for his lack of ardor, Des put in.
Would Iserne concur with her? But no, Merin had been as intent on their pursuit as the rest of them. Pen had not misread that.
“Des, what do you make of Merin?”
The impression of a doubtful Hmm. I see souls. I don’t hear their thoughts as you and I hear each other’s, you know that. Handy as that god-like gift would be. He’s upset, but then he would be. More determination than malice, and more fear than either. Much more fear. For Ree, and unease at his dangerous situation, I’d thought.
Thus Merin, regardless of the details of his motivation, would still be set on finding Ree. So… maybe Pen wasn’t chasing two rabbits. Maybe there was only one, or in any case two going in the same direction. Where haven’t I searched yet?
He reviewed his routes around a mental map of Lodi. The city was ten times the size of Martensbridge, itself ten times the size of Pen’s mountain home of Greenwell Town, but he’d chewed through most of it by now. He hadn’t covered any of the outlying islands except the Isle of Gulls, though how a penniless madman could contrive to get across the lagoon defeated even Pen’s imagination.