"Did a slave pass you in the tunnel?" I asked. "Cicek? She is not very big, but she is very nicely curved."
"No," he said, "Who are you?"
"Bosk," I said.
"Have you seen anyone else in the tunnel?" he asked.
"It is pretty hard to see anything in the tunnel," I said.
"Is there someone in the tunnel who is not in an alcove?" he asked. "Yes," I said.
"Where is he?" he asked.
"He is ahead of you," I said. That is exactly where I was.
"What is he doing?" asked the man.
"He is just staying in one place," I said. That is what I was doing at the time, of course, just staying in one place.
"I thought so," said the fellow, decisively. "Thank you, Citizen." "That is all right," I said. "You are sure you have not seen Cicek?" "No," he said.
"Maybe she is in the other direction," I said. I turned about and started down the tunnel.
"Enter an alcove," said the man. "Keep the tunnel clear."
"Do you know a good one?" I asked.
"Move," he said.
"Very well," I said. I saw no point in being disagreeable. They were all probably nice enough.
I moved back down the tunnel. I was reasonably well pleased. As far as I could tell there were only two of them, one at each end of the tunnel. They were two in number doubtless to spring a trap in a tunnel. The invitation had been to the Tunnels. They might have assumed, thus, that I, sooner or later, from curiosity, or, perhaps growing wary, and attempting to escape, would enter one of them. Too, surely they would not wish to wait until morning to locate their quarry. I no longer found it judicious to speculate that their intent was merely to make polite contact and transmit information. I suspected somewhat more serious things were on their minds. As I had not emerged from the tunnel, or tried to emerge from it, they would assume that I was waiting within it. They would also assume, presumably, and I had encouraged them in this belief, that their quarry might be in the tunnel and not in an alcove. In a tunnel he might swiftly move in whatever direction seemed opposite danger. In an alcove, it might seem he could be too easily trapped. Actually, of course, given the structure of the alcoves, as I had determined it, it could be extremely dangerous to attempt to enter it if it were defended. Indeed, one would only have to stay there until morning, at which time, presumably, they would feel obliged to make away. The fellow I had left behind me was probably the leader. Presumably he would wish to signal his fellow down the corridor in some way.
I heard, in a few Ehn, a soft whistle behind me. It carried well in the tunnel. It was answered, momentarily, by another soft whistle, ahead of me. I moved ahead. I felt the alcove numbers. There was another whistle behind me, closer now. The answering whistle, however, was still rather toward the end of the tunnel. The fellow there, not the leader, it seemed, was less eager to move forward into the darkness. I, for one, did not blame him.
I had then come again to the area of Alcove Twenty-Six. It was well down the tunnel. I had felt it before. I thrust back the curtain. "Master?" I heard, within, and a sound of chain. I then again closed the curtain. I moved to the next alcove. That was Twenty-Seven, on the left. I moved back the curtain. I heard nothing within. This one, I thought, would do nicely. I then entered the alcove. I then listened to the whistles approaching more closely.
It is normal practice, in a situation of this sort, to separate the enemies, meeting first one, and then the other, substituting two one-to-one conflicts, so to speak, for one two-to-one conflict. This works best, of course, when one can see what one is doing. Too often, darkness neutralizes skill; too often chance thrives in darkness. There are, of course, tactics for fighting in the darkness, such as misdirection, the casting of pebbles to encourage an opponent to make a move, the use of back kicks, giving extension to one's striking capacity while providing a minimum exposure of vital areas, the attempt to lure a blow from a distance, with full-arm knife probes, to encourage an opponent to lunge and overextend himself, and so on, but, in the true darkness, very different from what commonly passes as "night fighting," there is probably no really satisfactory way to reduce risk levels to tolerable limits. I prefer to avoid it. Accordingly, in entering the tunnel I had determined, from the beginning, in the event it was unlighted, that I would prefer to arrange matters in such a way that the considerable risks involved be taken by the other fellows. I myself did not care for the odds.
I stuck my head out of the alcove. "Who is there?" I called, as though alarmed. "Is there anyone there?" Who is it?"
I then heard another whistle, from my right, toward the entrance to the tunnel. This was answered by one from my left, toward the end of the tunnel. There was then another insistent whistle from my right. It was no closer. The whistle from my left, then, was a bit closer. This was what I had hoped for. They would hope to coordinate their efforts, to take me between them, at the same time.
"Who is there?" I called again, once more as though alarmed.
"Do not fear," called a voice, from the right. "We mean you no harm. Are you Tarl, of Port Kar?"
"Yes," I said. "I am he!"
"We have a message for you," said the voice.
"Yes," I said.
"Remain where you are," said the voice. "We will bring you the message." "You are certain that you mean well?" I inquired.
"Yes, yes," said the fellow to the right, soothingly. I could now hear the small sound of the metal, presumably a knife, on the stones, coming from my left. Did they really think I would believe that two fellows were needed to deliver a message?
"I am not certain of that," I said.
"Do not be alarmed," said the fellow to the right.
"You have a message for me?" I asked.
"Yes," said the fellow to the right.
"I am drawing my sword," I said. I then withdrew the blade from the sheath a good deal more noisily than was necessary. I did not want them to mistake the sound. I thought that that would give them something to think about. I wanted them to be somewhat alarmed. Then, when I sheathed it, they might be inclined to act more swiftly, more precipitately. "We are friends," said the fellow to the right, in the darkness. In there intentness, in their hunt, in the darkness, I did not think they would be keeping track of the alcoves. They would, in any case, have had to feel carefully for them. They would be thinking, I expected, only in terms of the tunnel and the walls. I had, further, led them to believe that I was in the tunnel itself. Too, surely this would seem reasonable to them. I had further confirmed this suspicion by the drawing of the blade. Presumably such a draw would not take place in the close quarters of an alcove, were there was little room for its wielding. To be sure, there was not much room in the tunnel either, though thrusting could surely be dangerous. With the sword drawn I did not think either would care to be the first to make contact with me. With it sheathed both, for all I knew, and particularly the fellow on the right, might be eager to make the first strike.
"Sheath your sword," said the fellow on the right.
"No," I said.
"We will then not deliver the message," he said.
"Very well," I said.
"But we must deliver it," he said. "It is a matter of life and death." "That sounds serious," I granted him.
"It is," he assured me.
"From whom does this message come?" I asked.
"From the regent himself," said the fellow.
"I see," I said.
I doubted, personally, that the regent would be sending me messages, and, if so, that he would be doing it in this fashion. I was prepared to believe, however, that the business to which these fellows were about might have its origins in individuals close to the regent. Their mention of the regent, of course, convinced me that they were not common assailants, after a purse.