“Well, it sure beats your fists,” said Praxle.
“Perhaps,” said Teron, “but I can never be disarmed.”
“Sure you can,” laughed Praxle, “if your arms get chopped off!” He laughed uproariously at his joke, while Jeffers gave Teron a long-suffering look.
The gnome’s hilarity was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Teron?” called a familiar voice. “Teron, it’s Kelcie! Are you there?”
“Kelcie?” Teron started walking over to the door. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s some strangers at the Phaire; I think they’re after you!”
“Who?” asked Teron, opening the door.
Kelcie smirked. “I brought them over to meet you, you bastard.”
21
A Nest of Cyrans
A mallet flew around the corner of the doorjamb. Teron had a split second to react, and ducked just enough that the blow took him on the brow rather than square on the nose.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor. He looked to the door, but Kelcie had already vanished. In her stead he saw two burly humans stepping through the door. One had a mallet, the other a small axe.
Instinct took hold, focused by years of intensive training. The man with the axe closed in, stepping between Teron’s legs and raising his weapon for a killing blow. Teron hooked his right foot behind the man’s ankle and drove his left foot into the man’s knee as hard as he could. The angle was a little bit off, the man too close for Teron’s kick to get the momentum needed to snap the axeman’s knee, but the leverage of Teron’s kick shoved the man to the ground. He fell into the mallet-wielding man and landed hard on his posterior.
Teron did a reverse somersault and rolled to his feet, his arms raised defensively.
Praxle grabbed the satchel that contained the Thrane notes. “Jeffers!” he yelled. “Get me out of here!”
Jeffers glanced at the door, now filled with three or four intruders. Two tried to push their way over their fallen comrade, while the third tried to help him to his feet. Trusting Teron to delay them for a few moments at least, Jeffers grabbed a chair and swung it into one of the latticed windows. It smashed through the wood and glass, sending shards toppling to the pavement a story below. Jeffers placed the chair right by the window.
“What the Six are you doing?” yelled Praxle, as his hands started flying through the motions for an illusion.
Jeffers declined to answer. Instead, he grabbed Teron’s mattress and, with a growl of effort, heaved it around and thrust it through the window. It hung up on the shards and splinters, but Jeffers leaned into it with a roar. Glass creaked, wood cracked, and fabric tore in multiple places, but the half-orc forced it through. It fell to the cobbled street below, landing with a dull thump.
“Jump, master!” yelled Jeffers, “Before they notice!”
Praxle unleashed his illusory couatl, a feathery rainbow of serpentine danger, then turned and ran. Clutching tightly to his satchel, he leapt onto the chair and jumped headlong through the shattered window, passing cleanly between the shreds of fabric that hung on the jagged glass.
“Teron!” yelled Jeffers. “Follow!” He turned to the window as well, climbing out more slowly to ensure that in his haste he didn’t land on his employer. He jumped, flopped onto the mattress and rolled immediately to the side.
A moment later, Teron burst through the window, lead leg extended as he hurdled the broken pane. He overshot the mattress, but landed into an easy tumble and rolled to his feet. “Flotsam!” he gasped, casting a glance at the broken window. “Did you—”
“Forget the cat!” said Praxle. “If it’s your familiar, it’ll find its way home.” He grabbed Teron by the arm and pulled him away from the lodging. Jeffers added his weight, impelling the monk before any fireballs started dropping on them.
“If not,” muttered Praxle as they ran, “then you won’t have to worry about its smell any more.”
“They’re getting away!”
“Dyen, take two and follow them,” bellowed Rezam. “The rest of you, leave nothing unturned! I want those notes!”
Dyen grabbed two other Cyrans and ran downstairs, while the mage and the remaining Cyrans tore the room apart. Two broke open the packed luggage and tore the contents apart, while another overturned all the furniture, slitting cushions in her desperation.
Rezam stood in the center of the room, chanting quietly and turning a slow circle. As he did so, his anger and impatience grew rapidly.
“Nothing here,” reported one of the Cyrans.
“WHAT?” bellowed Rezam.
“They must have taken the papers with them. But we’d better make ourselves scarce before the Crown Knights show up.”
The Cyran mage growled. “Come!” He stormed downstairs with the others close at his heels. In the streets, he saw Dyen and the others scattered about, “Dyen!” he bellowed, arms wide in disbelief. “Where are they? Did you let them escape?”
“There’s a number of people who saw what happened,” answered Dyen. “They say the three of them ran to the end of the block and hailed a hansom. But no one here saw where they went after that.”
Rezam roared in frustration. “How dare you hold out on us!” he bellowed to the crowd in general. “Where are they?”
“Easy, now,” said Dyen. “Even if they had seen, there’s no way we’d have any prayer of finding them. They have too much of a lead. They could have turned any number of ways a block from here. And now that we’ve tipped our hand, we need to go about this carefully.”
The elf wizard turned about with a snarl, then suddenly his voice turned sweet. “Of course we will,” he said. “Anything for the Glo—anything for the cause, that is.”
“Good,” said Dyen nervously. “Because I did leave one of us down here, and the people say that he hired a trap and may have followed them. He’ll tip us off later on, once he figures where they went.”
Rezam sighed. “Then we shall wait a while longer.” He looked at the gathered commoners that milled about the scene, staring, watching, muttering among themselves. He moved his hands, uttering foul words, and abruptly clouds of poisonous gases erupted at each end of the street. The noxious green clouds quickly billowed through the onlookers, obscuring them even as their voices choked and cried out in agony.
“What are you doing?” asked Dyen.
“No witnesses for the Crown Knights,” whispered the mage conspiratorially. Then his expression buoyed up again, becoming positively jovial. “Come, everyone, let’s depart through the rear of the building. Oargesha is waiting to show our enemies the secrets of the Black Globe. Soon we let everyone in, and the whole of Galifar shall pay the debt for its perfidy to Cyre.”
Darkness was starting to devour the sky to the east when Teron, Praxle, and Jeffers reached the Stalsun estate. They found a squad of three Thranes in House Stalsun livery, one of whom jumped aboard. He led them to a lower-class part of town and ordered the carriage driver to stop at a nondescript intersection. “Down the boulevard,” said the guard, “then turn into that side street there. She’s waiting for you.”
They followed the guard’s instructions, and found themselves on a little-used street with small service shops, all closed for the night. Lady Hathia Stalsun awaited them at the corner of the street and another small avenue, beneath the sole operative everbright in the area.
“Good evening, my lady,” said Praxle eagerly.
“What happened to your eye, Teron?” she asked. “That’s a nasty bruise.”
“We had some trouble back at the lodge,” said Teron.
“Which is to say,” added Jeffers, “that a passel of ruffians chose to assail us in our room.”
Lady Hathia narrowed her eyes and canted her head. “The Cyran thieves, perhaps?”
“Either that or friends of the serving wench,” said Praxle, cutting in. “It seems our dear Teron doesn’t have a way with women. I’m telling you, Teron, you should have ridden that filly when you had the chance. Made her feel like she mattered. Illusions are the first step in creation, you know.”