Preacher groaned from concealment. It was his turn to make the meal.
The officer said, "The sergeant of the guard said to tell you he's got a bunch of reports for you guys down in his office. Everyone in town wants a piece of that reward. They're lined up at the gate."
"I'll go down while you're getting House."
Greystone was astonished. Four harried scribes were taking statements as fast as they could write. They had completed a stack of reports nearly a foot high. "We didn't expect this," he told the sergeant of the guard.
"It's just getting started. Take a look outside."
Greystone looked. There must have been two hundred people waiting. Quite a few wore shantor's robes.
That made sense. Both Jehrke and Rider had done their best to help victims of the weeping sickness.
"I'll come back down as soon as we've digested these," Greystone promised, scooping up the stack already prepared.
"Anything strange happened around here lately?" Chaz asked as he joined General Procopio. The general was in his study again. Chaz noted that several meticulously mounted giant bees had been added to the old soldier's collection of memorabilia.
"Been as quiet as a mouse's fiftieth birthday party." Procopio moved to the window.
"Mice don't live ... " Chaz reddened.
"Unless you count the shantors." Procopio pointed.
Chaz watched as two victims of the weeping sickness moved slowly past the house.
Procopio observed, "They usually don't beg this neighborhood."
Chaz grunted. "Bet they usually ring their warning bells, too."
"And they don't keep shuffling around the same block."
"Maybe we should go down and give them some alms."
Procopio put on a big grin. There was a lot of adventure left in that old soldier. "Maybe."
The shantors Spud encountered were ringing their bells. They seemed old and advanced in their disease. They moved at a snail's pace, leaning upon their staffs heavily. "Alms?" one croaked hopefully as Spud came up.
Spud reached into a pocket.
And the instant his hand was engaged the shantor on his right swung his staff.
Spud managed to evade that blow but not the one coming in from his left. That fake shantor tapped him over the ear. He sagged into the grasp of his attackers.
Bystanders gawked. Then they began shouting. Someone had recognized Spud and reasoned that these fake shantors must belong to the gang Rider was hunting.
But there were few bystanders, and none of them armed well enough to overcome two villains skilled with staffs. The shantors dragged Spud away.
The two who tried to take Soup were less fortunate. Bystanders overcame them. In moments they were trussed up and on their way to cells in the Citadel. Soup was on his way, too. He whistled.
But now he was more alert.
The shantors outside the Citadel gate were not ringing their bells. They had been, but with so much enthusiasm that the sergeant of the guard had ordered them to stop.
They were very nervous. Their master had ordered out every man he had left on what seemed to be a desperate last gamble. One man, more bold than the others, dared say, "This is a pretty savvy plan. We go charging into the Citadel so we don't inconvenience anybody by making them drag us here from halfway across town."
"Shut up and listen for the signal."
The sergeant of the guard was never sure if the shrill whistle came from behind him or from outside. He would never forget exactly what happened next, though.
A mob of shantors poured through the gate, clubbing guards, would-be reward collectors, and scribes. He managed to cut one attacker with his shortsword, then his lights went out.
The gang split into two parties. One went upstairs. The other went down, toward cells where many of their associates were confined. As fate would have it, the latter group took a wrong turn, became lost for five minutes, and when they found their way again also found that they had used up too much time. Soldiers and jailors fell upon them while they were opening the cells.
What followed was a merry roughhouse.
The invaders did not get the best of it.
"It's that captain and House and a couple of soldiers," Greystone said from the peephole. He opened the door.
The soldiers started House through ...
A wave of shantors hit them from behind. Greystone, House, the captain, and the soldiers went down under the tide.
Preacher shot one man and brained another with his crossbow before the rush made a shambles of his hiding place. Then he was trying to defend himself against clubs with bare hands. He got in a few good licks before he fell.
He lay there in semi-consciousness while the raiders located Caracene, the prisoners, and the hairy man-ape. Going into and returning from the suite the raiders gave Jehrke a superstitiously wide berth. They kept yelling at one another to hurry.
Hands grabbed Preacher up. He saw Greystone lifted, and Caracene ...
After that there was a lot of confusion. A lot of fighting, in which a lot of Citadel folk seemed to be helping the raiders and getting killed for their trouble.
Then one of the men carrying Preacher got bashed in the face with a pike butt. His partner dropped Preacher and ran for it.
Preacher's world went watery for a while.
A vigorous shaking wakened Preacher. He swore, then admonished himself with a scriptural quotation. He opened his eyes.
It took him a moment to recognize the man shaking him. The fellow had blood in his hair and all over his face. It was the captain who had tried to deliver Polybos House. The captain asked,
"Are you all right?"
"I'll probably live. Worse luck. Did we get them all?"
"Maybe a dozen got away." The captain looked around. "Really brought all the rats out of the walls this time. Your eastern friend played every counter he had. And used most of them up."
"That seemed an awful lot of trouble just to rescue Polybos House."
The captain laughed a hard laugh. "Rescue him? He's the first one they killed."
"Then what? ... "
"The woman. That ape thing. You and your sidekick. But I think mainly the woman."
Preacher tried to get up. The pounding in his head forced him back down. "Greystone?"
"Took him with them."
The first reports began to filter in soon afterward. No one was stopping the raiders—they were moving faster than the news—but their every step was noted. Their path—of course—led directly to the river.
XXVIII
Rider noticed the men tailing him immediately. There were three of them and they were fairly good, but he spotted them all the same. He shook them by a method that was almost cruel.
He began running, confident none of his pursuers could stay with him all the way to his destination.
The toughest kept up for five miles.
Rider ran five more miles, at a slower pace. By then he was well into the farm country west of Shasesserre. He ducked into a woodlot and adjusted his disguise slightly. When he reappeared upon the road he looked to be just another farm laborer trudging along with hands thrust into pockets.
His trudge was deceptive. It ate ground quickly. And when he was sure no one was watching he ran.
It was the hard way to make this journey. The slow way. But Shai Khe's spies and eyes would not be watching for a man afoot. An airship or a dromon, yes. Perhaps chariots, coaches, or horsemen. But not a lone, stooped, tired farm hand.