The smuggler was trying to give the appearance of a normal citizen, caught out in the deluge while going about his rightful business, and heading for home as quickly as he could go. He had forgotten that he was not the only criminal to be out and about on the streets of Nexis after dark. He was alone and off his guard, and the farther down into the labyrinths of the old town he went, the greater was his chance of being set upon by the desperate relics of humanity that haunted the night-dark streets. And the nearer to the docks he went, the more the risk increased. As he hurried on his way, he was unaware of the eyes that watched him from the shadows. The sheets of rain obscured swift forms that slipped in and out of concealment behind him, and the pounding of the deluge drowned the scuff of stealthy feet.
One minute Yanis was striding along, his eyes and thoughts turned inward; the next, something hard and heavy struck him, and he stumbled, fetching up hard against a wall and falling facedown on the oozing ground with his head ringing and a mouthful of mud. Instinct took over and he rolled, choking—but a bolt of cold fire in his right arm told him he’d moved too late. The knife had gone right through the muscle of his forearm before its point hit the cobbles beneath. Yanis yelled and jerked his arm away, and the blade came with it, jarred from his assailant’s hand. Even as the agony hit him, the smuggler glimpsed a shadow stooping over him, a darker silhouette against the glimmer of a lantern in a nearby doorway. Two other shapes lurked beyond, closing in on him like wolves.
With his left hand Yanis scooped up a fistful of mud and flung it into his attacker’s face. The man yelled an obscenity and reeled back, clawing at his eyes. Yanis struggled to his knees and grabbed the knife, his muddy fingers fighting for a grip on the blood-slick shaft. He yanked it from his arm in a spray of blood as his assailant came at him again and plunged it into the robber’s belly, ripping the blade upward and out. The man fell screaming, tripping one of his fellows as he went down. Using the wall for support, Yanis staggered to his feet and kicked the sprawling fellow solidly in the face.
The third footpad—a scrawny little man who so far had shown little stomach for the fight—was closing in now, wielding a long, sturdy cudgel. Yanis saw him glance down at his fallen companions and hesitate, and marked the little rat as a coward. He flipped the bloodstained knife and threw it, clumsily and left-handed. Thought the blade was not designed for such work, the closeness of the target made up for the lack. The small man shrieked and dropped his weapon as the knife hit him in the chest, though Yanis knew the throw had lacked sufficient force to inflict much more than a scratch. He groped awkwardly for his sword, and at the sight of the gleaming steel the scrawny robber took to his heels and fled. The Nightrunner, his arm still dripping blood, staggered away in the opposite direction, only wanting to put as much distance between himself and his attackers as he could.
Luckily, he had already come close enough to the river to be able to see the high roofs of the warehouses looming over the lesser buildings. Though his left hand was still firmly clenched around his sword hilt, Yanis used his forearm to brush the rain and his muddy, tangled hair out of his eyes. He set his teeth against the white-hot agony in the useless right arm that dangled at his side, and his mind against the knowledge that, even if he could find the shelter he so desperately needed, he stood little chance of being able to bind the injury effectively left-handed. But there was no sense in worrying about that now. He was losing too much blood, and the wet and cold were weakening him further. Added to that, the longer he roamed the open streets, the greater was the risk of encountering another gang of footpads. Unless he could quickly find a safe haven out of the rain where he could light a fire, the problem of treating his wound would never arise. Yanis looked around and, seeing no one, laid his sword reluctantly against a wall for a moment. Clenching his jaw against the pain, he worried a rag loose from the torn sleeve of his shirt and bound it as tightly as he could above his leaking wound, tying a clumsy knot with his teeth and the cold-numbed fingers of his left hand. Then, picking up the sword again, he struggled onward.
As the dim light of a leaden dawn began to crawl across the sky, the rain finally slowed to a dismal drizzle before stopping altogether. The Nightrunner tottered down the last twisting alleyways, in a darkening dream of pain and exhaustion, toward the flat, sprawling, semiderelict area of the waterfront. He was past the stage of worrying now. The single thought of shelter that he had fixed in his mind’s eye was all that kept him going. Beneath the blurring of his conscious thoughts, however, the instinctive part of his mind was still at work, taking note of familiar landmarks. He was much more at home in this area than the upper parts of Nexis. In better times his people had done much of their surreptitious business on the wharves, and lately he and Tarnal had spent a good deal of time here, searching among the warehouses and derelict buildings for any trace of Vannor. The overwhelming need for sanctuary that was uppermost in the young man’s mind automatically led his steps toward the place that he remembered as a haven for so many of the city’s desperate and wretched folk.
Nonetheless, Yanis blinked with astonishment as he caught sight of the familiar silhouette of crumbling, soot-scarred stone rearing against the slate-gray sky. How did I get here? he thought blearily. Am I dreaming? Memories came flooding back to him of the night when he and his mother, Remana, had come with Tarnal to Nexis in search of Zanna, and had emerged from their secret underground route through the sewers into a nightmare of blood and fire, and the tearing sound of screams. He remembered the big old warehouse, its roof collapsing inward in a fountain of sparks and flame, and Pendral’s soldiers with their thirsty swords that drank the blood of women, children, and infirm old folk with brutal impartiality. He remembered Remana’s desperate attempt to get the survivors down to safety in the old drain that ran below the fulling mill, while Jarvas, the unlikely founder of this sanctuary for the destitute, had witnessed the destruction of his dream with tears of anguish running down his ugly face. And most of all, Yanis remembered Emmie, the blond-haired girl who combined an ethereal loveliness which had captured his heart, with a relentless practicality that had thoroughly daunted him and left him tongue-tied.
With reluctance, Yanis shook himself back to the present. What was he thinking of, standing here gawping and daydreaming like a moonstruck fool when the shelter that he needed was so close? There was no longer any need to find the gate of the stockade—the scorched timbers of the once-high fence had been pulled down in ruins. Though the warehouse was a burned-out shell, the fulling mill was still intact—and it also contained a water supply and a safe escape route. Blessing the gods for his good fortune, Yanis staggered with weaving steps toward the tall old building.
The wan light of the gray morning did not pass beyond the doors of rotting wood that sagged ajar. It was so dark within the mill that Yanis wondered, with a chill of fear, if his vision was starting to fail him as he succumbed to blood loss at last. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, however, he thought he could discern a faint glimmer of brightness, like the warm amber flicker of firelight, far down the length of the dusty, echoing chamber. If his mind was not playing tricks on him, the light seemed to be coining from behind the row of great dye vats at the farther end. As he was about to start forward, the Nightrunner found himself hesitating. If that was a fire, then who had made it? And would they prove to be friend or foe? At that moment, a slurred and wavering voice broke into song—and Yanis made up his mind to go on. Whoever was down there, they sounded far too drunk to do him any harm. Indeed, if they had wine or strong spirits with them, he only hoped they would be in a mood to share. Nonetheless, a certain amount of caution seemed a good idea. Creeping down the long, narrow chamber as quietly as he could on uncertain feet, Yanis slunk around the edge of the dye vat and peered around the corner.