The woman made a quiet move that took her to the side. She sat down on the cot, and that put their hands on different levels, at different angles to his vision. He recognized the stalking and the angle the man occupied between him and the door, the curtain at his shoulder, so he moved again a couple of paces along the wall, slipped his hands both into his belt (but the one not far from his knife) and shrugged with a wry twist of his mouth.
"I tell you I work cheap," he said, "to start."
"There's no hire," the man said.
"Oh, there has to be," Mradhon said softly, "otherwise you wouldn't like my leaving here at all, and I've walked in here in good faith. It's your pick, you understand, how it goes from here. An introduction to your man, a little earnest coin-"
"He's dead," the woman said, and shook his faith in his own bluff. "The hawkmasks are all like us-looking for employ."
"Then you'll find it. I'll throw in with you- partners, you, me, the rest of you."
"Sure," the man said, and scowled. "You've got the stink of hire about you already. What coin? The prince's?"
Mradhon forced a laugh and leaned back again. "Not likely. Not likely the Hell Hounds or any of that ilk. My last hire turned sour, and a post in the guard-no. Not with your complexion-or mine. Your man, now-So he and you are lying low a while, and maybe I've got reasons for doing the same. There are people I don't want to meet. No better service I can think of-than a man who might be building back from a little difficulty. Don't give me that. Jubal's gone to cover. Word's around. But one of those hawkmasks might suit me . . . keeping my face out of the sight of two or three."
"I'm afraid you're out of luck."
"No," the woman said, "I think we ought to talk about it."
Mradhon frowned, trusting her less, liking it not at all that it was the woman that took that twist, that looked at him from the cot and tried to demand his attention away from her brother? cousin? with a quiet, incisive voice.
Then the curtain moved, and a darkskinned man in a hawkmask stood there with a sword aimed floorward in his hand. "We talk," the man said, and Mradhon's heart, which had leapt several beats while his fingers, obeying previous decision, stayed still... began to beat again.
"So," Mradhon said cockily enough, "I was wondering when the rest of us would get into it. Look-I'm short of funds ... a little bit for earnest, so I can reckon I'm hired. I'm particular about that."
"Mercenary," the young man said.
"Once," Mradhon said. "The guard and I came to a parting of the ways. It's this skin of mine."
"You're not Ilsigi," said the mask.
"Half." It was a lie. It served, when it was convenient.
"You mean," the youth said, "your mother really knew."
Heat flamed up in Mradhon's face. He gripped the knife and let it go again. "When you know me better," Mradhon said softly, "I'll explain it all . . . how women know."
"Cut it," the woman said. She tucked her feet up within her arms.
"What would it take," the hawkmask said, "for you to consider yourself hired?"
Mradhon looked at the man, his heart pounding again. He sat down on the edge of the firepit, making himself easy when his instincts were all otherwise. He thought of something exorbitant, remembered the hawkmasks' fallen fortunes. "Maybe a silver bit-Maybe some names, too."
"Maybe you don't need them," the hawkmask said.
"I want to know who I'm dealing with. What the deal is for."
"No. Mor-am; Moria; they'll deal with you. You'll have to take your orders there-Does that gall you?"
"Not particularly," Mradhon said, and that too was a lie. "As long as the money's regular."
"So you knew Mor-am's face."
"From across the river. From days before the trouble. I dealt with a man named Stecho."
"Stecho's dead."
The tone put a wind down his nape. He shrugged. "So, well, I suspect a lot were lost."
"Stabbed. On the street. Tempus' games. Or someone's. These are hard times. Vis. Yes, we've lost a few of us. Possibly someone talked. Or someone knew a face. We don't wear the masks outside, Vis. Not now. You don't talk in your sleep, do you, Vis?"
"No."
"Where lodging?"
"Becho's."
"If," the voice grew softer still, difficult, for its timbre, "if there were a slip, we would know. You see, it's your first job to keep Mor-am and Moria safe. If anything should happen to the two names you knew-well, we'd suspect, I'm afraid, that you'd made some kind of mistake. And the end of that would be very bad. I can't describe enough-how bad. But that won't happen; I know you'll take good care. Go back to your lodgings. For now, go there. We'll see about later."
"How long?" Mradhon asked tautly, not favoring this threatening and believing every word of it. "Maybe I should move in here-to keep an eye on them."
"Out," said Mor-am.
"Money," Mradhon said.
"Moria," the hawkmask said.
The woman uncurled from the cot, fished a bit from the purse she wore and offered it to him.
He took it, snatched it from her fingers without a look, and strode for the door. Mor-am got out of his way and he opened it, stepped out into the foul wind and the dark and the reek of the alley, and walked, out onto the main way again.
Doubtless one of them would follow him. His mind seethed with possibilities, and murder was one. -For less than the silver, any one of them would kill. He sensed that. But there was the chance too that the hire was reaclass="underline" their casualties were real, and they could not get too many offers now.
He padded as quickly as he could toward his own territory down the main road, down which the last few stragglers moved, homeless and searching, muddle-minded, some, which kleetel left of one when its use had been too long; or moving with purpose it was unwise to stare at. He strode along in a world of faceless shapes and lightless buildings, everything anonymous as himself. Hooves sounded in the dark, moving in haste, and in a moment the streets were clear, himself among the lurkers that hid along the alleys: a. quartet of riders passed toward the bridge, Stepsons, Tempus' men. They were gone in a moment and life poured back onto the street.
So the business out by Jubal's estate continued, and Tempus settled in. A shiver ran down Mradhon's spine, for the inconvenience of the neighborhood. He wanted out-desperately he thought of Garonne-if he had had the funds. But they hunted spies. War with Nisibis was on them. Any foreigner was suspect, and one who really happened to be Nisibisi-
Most especially he avoided the main ways after that, grateful for the anonymity of Mama Becho's, which lay off the main track the carts and the riders took. Something in him shivered, remembering the hire he had just accepted, pay which had set him against the new occupants of the estate. Tempus' men hunted hawkmasks as they hunted spies and foreigners; and gods knew it was no prettier way to go.
The alleyways unwound, almost home territory now. A beggar or two always huddled near Mama Becho's, one wakeful enough tonight to put out a claw and want a coin a true cripple, perhaps, or too sick to make the bridge to richer streets. A dry spitting attended his lack of charity.
Then for one heart-stopped moment he heard a sound behind, and turned, but there was nothing but the moon on a muddy alley and the tilt-walled buildings leaning together like some fever dream of hell in the dark.
Followed, he thought. He quickened his pace, on the verge of home, and came to the alleyway by Mama's, where the drinking continued, and the hangers-about-the door still loitered, but fewer of them. He walked into that alley and Tygoth was there, to his relief, a hulking stick-carrying shadow making his rounds.