“I said, what was that?”
“Oh, that’s a binding seine for a water elemental,” said Praxle. “Very curious design, I admit. There must be something below the hole to afford the elemental a better grip to get this scow across the sound. Perhaps a keel, laid sideways. Very clever.”
“No,” said Teron. “What was that up there? That had to be you.”
“Hm? Oh, indeed it was,” said Praxle with a pompous smile. “You seemed like you were getting ready to spring, monk.”
Teron shrugged. “I could have taken them.”
“I know,” said Praxle. “I saw how you handled my so-called bodyguard. But I didn’t want that kind of trouble. It would be inconvenient, especially since we are liable to remain here for several days at best.” He sat on one of the benches, drawing one leg up and leaving the other dangling. “So, since they were done with me,” he continued, waggling his fingers in the air, “I used my magic to throw my voice into your mouth. Judging by your reaction, monk, it even made you think twice about whether or not you said it.”
A sailor dipped the silver rudder into the roiling water at the center of the boat. The turbulence settled down as the barge accelerated from the shore, gliding smoothly and quickly across the sound toward Daskaran on the far shore.
“I know,” said Teron, a steely tone entering his voice. “I am very displeased to have been associated with such words.”
“Drop it in the river, monk,” said Praxle. “You should know by now that all Thranes are religious zealots beholden to the Silver Flame and itching for the next Great Missionary War. You’ll hear a lot worse during the next few days, so count this as your first lesson in accepting an insult to stay out of trouble.”
“I don’t need a les—”
“Yes, you do, monk,” snapped Praxle, “You’re the most hotheaded, fight-focused, cold-hearted, socially inept mendicant I’ve ever laid eyes on. Everything you do, you do with fists and fierceness. You barge your own way through everything like it’s a war and you’re a warforged juggernaut. If you had the discipline of magical training, you might be great. As it is, you’re a pair of fists looking for a face to punch.” He exhaled explosively. “You’ve shown that you’re smart, monk,” he admitted, more softly now, “but you have to learn to relax, as well. The war ended, you know.”
Teron raised one hand, fingers tensed somewhere between a gesture and a strike. He tried to say something, but his seething anger kept his lips pressed together, so instead he steepled his hands in front of his solar plexus and walked slowly to the side of the barge to look out at the setting sun reflecting off the rippling waters of the sound.
Jeffers looked over at the sullen monk and shrugged. “That could have progressed more congenially,” he commented.
“He needed it,” said Praxle. “He’s far too suppressed. I hit the mark dead-on. If I hadn’t he’d have been able to respond.”
“I must confess, master, that I was thoroughly impressed with your ability to replicate his voice.”
Praxle waved a hand dismissively. “All I had to do was speak in a flat tone through clenched teeth. It was easy.”
In the darkness of midnight, a cloaked figure debarked from a carriage, laden with two bags. The moon Vult shone its scarred face on the city, casting ghastly shadows in the streets.
The figure sauntered toward a doorway, then darted down a narrow alley. The high walls concealed the figure from the moons and Ring of Siberys, casting shadows that meshed with the dark cloak and wrapped all within the alley’s narrow, inky embrace.
Somewhere in the night a rat scuttled for shelter, the scratchy sound of its claws upon the cobbles sounding like a small hail of bone shards.
The cloaked figure stumbled, looked around, and slid down another alley, a thin canyon between large stone edifices. The figure looked once more to ensure that no other soul was in sight. A hand reached out, touched a miscolored stone, the knot in a large timber, and then pushed on a rusty spike embedded in the wall. The spike slid in, clicked, then slid back out. The figure stepped to the side and pushed up on a windowsill. It gave way, moving up an inch before settling back into place. After a moment there was a soft grating sound as a section of the stone wall backed into the building, revealing a short, narrow hallway.
The figure entered, and the secret door slid shut again.
Utterly fatigued, the Shadow Fox pulled back her hood and slumped to the floor. She sat in the claustrophobic darkness, her head leaning back against the wall, and cried tears of relief and exhaustion. At last the awkward position made her lungs and stomach ache, so she roused herself once more. She abandoned her shoulder bag there in the hall, bringing only the large black leather bag.
Navigating by touch, she staggered down the hall, trying to keep the bag as far from her as possible in the tiny space the passage allowed. At last she entered a larger, open chamber illuminated by an everbright lantern.
Her team’s secret den. Then she realized that that label no longer applied. It was just her secret den, now.
She moved over to the side wall, opened a well-concealed hatch in the paneling, and placed the bag containing the Sphere of Xoriat behind the wall. Closing the hatch, she moved over to the bunk farthest from the concealed compartment.
She sat heavily on the bed and kicked off her boots.
Safe at last, she thought.
She glanced at the secret panel. Or am I? she wondered.
Not even bothering to strip off her sticky travel clothes, she flopped onto the bed. The pillow still smelled of Rander, but she was too weary to move. The smell permeating her senses, she cried herself to sleep.
Praxle, whistling happily, led the quiet Jeffers and sullen Teron through the quiet Daskaran streets. Teron cradled his cat in his arms, idly scratching Flotsam’s head.
Teron, unable to seethe in silence any longer, spat out a question. “Where are we going?”
“To the Daskaran docks,” said Praxle. “Hire ourselves a small ship or a berth to Flamekeep.”
“Why by sea?”
Praxle snorted. “Because it’s faster. Monk.”
“We should go overland,” said Teron.
Praxle stopped in his tracks, then turned around wearily. “That would be slower. Monk.”
Teron put his cat down and rested his hands on his hips. “If the Cyrans went by ship, we won’t beat them to Flamekeep,” he said. “If they went overland, we might overtake them on the road, all alone and away from Thrane sentries. If we get good transportation and travel fast. Given the choice, I’d rather take a small chance than no chance.”
Praxle drummed his fingers on his chin as he considered this. “Well, then, that’s a very good point,” he said. “In fact, that makes a lot of sense. You killed, what, two Cyrans in the catacombs? Then there’s that frozen one we saw on the platform across the way, and I dropped one when we were bushwhacked back in Wroat. So that’s four Cyrans dead. I’d wager there are naught but two or three left. They wouldn’t have the strength or courage to try to prize the notes from the Thranes until they had more support from their fellow Cyrans. But if we caught them on the open road when their numbers were so depleted, that would make life ever so much easier.”
He reached out and clapped Teron on the hip. “You’re still pretty smart, monk. At least about things that involve killing. Let’s see what we can find, shall we?”
Praxle looked about and spotted a cluster of Thrane soldiers a few blocks away, lazing underneath an everbright lantern, leaning against the wall and chatting. One of them puffed on a pipe, and the smoke rose up like an ethereal serpent in the cool nighttime air.