“Passable, is it?” Bahzell ran an appreciative eye over the horses. “Aye, you might be calling them that!”
“Here-take ’em!” Rianthus stuck out the reins, then caught Bahzell’s forearm as he took them. “And watch yourselves, you two! Gods know you’re not the brightest pair I’ve ever seen, but we’re fond of you.”
“Speak for yourself, high-pockets,” Hartan grunted, but he, too, clasped arms with them both. Then the two captains nodded brusquely and turned back to their business, and Bahzell and Brandark walked slowly into the streets of Riverside.
They soon found Kilthan’s warnings well founded. They were no longer a wealthy merchant’s guards, and Riverside had its share and more of prejudice. Like most of the Border Kingdoms, Morvan was a land of mixed races, but no hradani were numbered among them, and if their people’s fearsome reputation meant no one cared to push a quarrel to the point of drawn steel, neither were they welcome. There was a mysterious lack of room in the better inns, and they ended up lodging above a miserable tavern on the wrong side of the city.
Their quarters were wretched enough, but the bad side of Riverside was worse than most, and the tavern’s location brought them face-to-face with half the city’s would-be bravos with predictable results. Word soon got around that it was wiser to leave them in peace, however, and Bahzell hardly had to break more than an arm or two to bring it about. It took a bit more effort on Brandark’s part-his balalaika and dandified air made him less elementally threatening-but after the night four burly longshoremen took flight through a second-story window, their fellows decided to leave him alone, too.
None of that was calculated to endear them to the City Guard, and the unpleasant aura of official displeasure added itself to their other problems. All in all, Riverside was not a place either of them cared for, yet finding a way to leave was far from simple.
Their pay from Kilthan, coupled with what remained of Bahzell’s original purse, was enough to carry them for a time, especially at the prices their cheerless lodgings could command, but it would never last clear through the winter. Nor would it take them very far along the road. In the long run, if they wanted to eat they needed work, and there was little of that in Riverside for hradani, even with Kilthan’s letter. Not, at least, on the right side of the law, and the local underworld quickly gave up on recruiting either of them.
Had an opportunity offered, they would gladly have used that same letter to hire on with another caravan, but autumn had caught up with them once more. Norfressa looked forward to winter, and no one willingly took to the road in winter, which lent added point to the necessity of finding some means of earning their way through the icy months to come. But as days turned into a week, then into two weeks, and then into three, and the nights grew steadily colder, it began to seem they had no choice. If there was nothing for them here, they must move on soon and trust to fortune. Besides, Bahzell’s dreams were back. His memories of them were as fragmented and confusing as ever, but even more disturbing, and the Horse Stealer’s feet itched to be leaving.
The moonless night was windy and cold. Thin clouds, just thick enough to hide the stars without cutting the chill, pressed down on Riverside like a hand, filling the frosty shadows with a darker, more solid blackness. There were no streetlights on this side of town; only the occasional privately maintained flambeaux outside some gambling den or brothel broke the dark, and Bahzell muttered balefully to himself as he moved down the mean little street. He’d found a few days’ work, of a sort, as a bouncer, but that was at an end now. He didn’t know who the Krahana-cursed idiot was or why he’d tried to stick a knife in Bahzell’s back, and no one ever would know now. The Guard seldom ventured into the Broken Bucket, and no one had seemed inclined to summon them when his attacker landed in the sawdust with a broken spine, but the bar’s halfling owner had decided he could manage without Bahzell’s services after all. So here he was, picking his way back home to Brandark with no more than a few miserable silvers in his pouch, and-
He paused in one of the many shadows, ears cocking as a sound came from in front of him, and his jaw clenched.
His ears went slowly flat in the blackness, and a vast sense of ill-use suffused him as he heard snarling male voices and a lighter, more breathless female one that tried to hide its fear. They came from an alley ahead of him, and he raised his head to glare at the low clouds.
“Why me, damn it?” he demanded. “Why in the name of all of Fiendark’s Furies is it always being me?! ”
The clouds returned no answer, and he snarled at their silence. The voices grew louder, and then there was a sudden scream of pain-a man’s, not a woman’s-and the male voices were abruptly uglier and far more vicious. The Horse Stealer lowered his eyes from the clouds and swore vilely. This wasn’t even Navahk, and he’d spent long enough among the other Races of Man now to know rape was a far more common crime among “civilized” people than any hradani clan would tolerate. If they didn’t want to stop it, it was certainly none of his business-and the woman was probably no more than one of the whores who worked these wretched streets, anyway!
He wrestled with himself, and as he did, he heard the sudden patter of light, quick feet fleeing while heavier feet thundered in pursuit. Another scream split the night-this one female-and Bahzell Bahnakson spat one last, despairing oath at his own invincible stupidity, and charged.
Someone looked up with a startled cry as the huge hradani appeared out of the night. Dim bands of light spilled through a shuttered window high in one wall, patching the alley’s shadows with bleary illumination, and Bahzell swore again as he realized there were at least a dozen of them. Probably more, and three of them had hold of a kicking, scratching, hissing wildcat below the window. Cloth tore, a soprano voice spat a curse, and hoarse laughter answered it even as he turned the corner, and he wasted no time on words.
The closest man had time for one, strangled cry as an enormous hand reached for him. Then he thudded headfirst against the alley wall and oozed down it while his companions whirled in astonishment. Knives glinted, but Bahzell wore his scale mail, and he was in no mind to make this any more of a killing matter than he could help. Gods knew the authorities were more likely to hang a hradani than thank him for saving some whore’s problematical virtue, he told himself bitterly, and smashed a fist into the nearest face.
His target flew backward, taking two of its fellows down with it, and someone else dashed at him. Perhaps he meant only to dart past the hradani and flee, or perhaps he hadn’t realized how large Bahzell was when he started, but his feet skidded as he suddenly found himself all alone and tried too late to change his mind. Bahzell caught his right wrist and twisted, a knife rang as it fell to the paving, and the man screamed-first in pain, then in raw panic-as he was plucked off the ground by his wrist. But a scale mail-armored elbow drove up into his jaw from below, bone crunched audibly, the scream was cut off as if by an axe, and Bahzell dropped him and reached for another one.
A knife slashed the back of his hand, but the cut was shallow, and he bellowed as his other fist came down on top of the knife-wielder’s head like a maul. Another body slithered to the paving, and a bass-voiced curse turned into a falsetto scream on the far side of the crowd. Bahzell had no time to wonder why, for a knife grated on his mail from behind, then withdrew and came up from below. The stiletto-thin blade was narrow enough to find a gap between scales, but it hung for just a second, and he reached back for a handful of cloth and heaved. His assailant cried out as he flew forward, but then he hit the alley on the back of his neck and flopped with the total inertness of a dead man, and Bahzell stepped over the body as another knife thrust at him.