“I remember him signaling with that blue lantern.” Anton lifted his dented pewter cup in salute to Dalabrac, drained it, rose, and pushed back through the curtain into the tavern’s common room.
As he strode toward the door, he told himself that the difficult part of his enterprise was over. Falrinn’s boat was nimble enough to evade the Iron Jest and any other seafaring hunters. At some point, Stedd might realize where they were truly headed, but it would be too late for him to do anything about it. If need be, Anton would tie him up to keep him out of mischief.
Although imagining that made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. He didn’t know why. A man did what was necessary to make his way; if he balked, some more enterprising soul would only knock him down, walk over him, and commit the selfsame act he’d been too squeamish to perform. With that truth held firmly in mind, he pulled open the door.
Stedd was gone.
Hoping that the rain and gloom had momentarily deceived him, Anton cast about. To his growing dismay, he still saw no sign of the boy. He paced along the narrow street and peered into the various shops. Stedd wasn’t inside any of them.
Had waveservants or other hunters recognized the child and snatched him away? Possibly. But wouldn’t Stedd have scurried into the Golden Helm in search of his protector if he saw trouble headed his way?
Not if he’d been taken by surprise. Not if someone struck him down before he had a chance to act. Anton imagined the little boy sprawled facedown with Umberlant priests standing over him, and the surge of rage the picture evoked surprised him. No doubt it was anger at the thought of someone else snatching his prize away from him.
Although he didn’t know for certain that was what had happened. Maybe Stedd finally realized his traveling companion remained what he’d always been, an enemy resolved to sell him for the bounty.
But if so, how? Anton was confident he’d given the boy no reason to suspect him. To the contrary; he played the part of a true guardian and friend. At first, the pretence had required effort, but as the days wore on, it had become habitual, perhaps, in some sense, even natural.
Still, maybe Stedd had discovered the truth with magic.
On their first morning together, Anton had deemed it prudent to prevent the boy from renewing his abilities. But it had proved impractical to do the same with each new sunrise, and so, although he’d kept interfering when circumstances provided a good excuse, the boy nonetheless possessed some magic. It might only be healing of the sort that had aided Anton aboard the Jest and sick folk they’d met along the trail. That was all the Turmishan had witnessed so far. But for all he knew, when turned to the purpose, it might also yield warnings and revelations.
With a jaw-clenching spasm of frustration, Anton decided there was no way to guess with any degree of confidence why Stedd had disappeared. There were too many ambiguities involved. In any case, what mattered was finding him, but how was a lone pirate, himself a fugitive, supposed to find a single missing child in the teeming sprawl that was Westgate?
Plainly, he couldn’t. But the Fire Knives had eyes throughout the city. He was just going to have to tell them the truth and cut them in for a full share of the bounty.
He strode back into the Golden Helm and ripped open the curtain screening the alcove. Startled, Dalabrac peered at him.
“I need your help with another problem,” Anton said.
“What?” the halfling asked, perhaps a shade too quickly, or with a bit too much concern. At any rate, something about his reaction gave Anton a twinge of unease. But that didn’t alter the fact that he needed help.
“I had a boy with me,” he said, “born and raised on Pirate Isle and unfortunately, unhappy there. He stowed away aboard a ship, and his father has posted a reward …”
Dalabrac grimaced. “Stop. I know you were traveling with a child. I also know who the child truly is.”
Anton blinked. “How?”
“I warned you I’m not a simpleton, and neither are the new leaders of your former crew. They’ve been in touch to tell me you absconded with the boy prophet that Evendur Highcastle wants and might turn up here to ask for help.”
“In which case,” Anton said, “they wanted the Fire Knives to return the two of us to their keeping instead.”
“Of course,” the halfling said, “I wouldn’t have turned an old friend over to be killed.”
“Of course not,” Anton said, making no effort to conceal his skepticism.
“But once the boy was actually standing in front of me, it’s possible I would have proposed that you and I renegotiate our arrangement. And that, I infer, is the problem. You wouldn’t even have told me there is a boy if you hadn’t just discovered that you’ve lost him.”
“Unfortunately, yes. He was right outside in the street, and now he’s disappeared. I need your help finding him.”
“But do I need your help?” Dalabrac replied. “The Fire Knives know Westgate far better than you ever could. At this point, what can you contribute to the enterprise?”
“The lad trusts me”-Anton hoped that was still true-“and I know how he thinks. I can also fight if need be. You may remember, I’m pretty good at it.”
Dalabrac hopped down from his stool. “I remember having to stab that Shou son of a troll in the arse and save your hide. But still, yes, you are. So, a new arrangement. One third of Evendur Highcastle’s bounty for you, two thirds for the Fire Knives, and no need to cut in your former crew. Agreed?”
“Yes,” Anton said.
“Then let’s get moving.”
Despite the rows of stalls, the marketplace, a plaza where three streets came together, felt relatively open, and despite the scarcity of goods and the high prices that periodically elicited cries of amazed disgust, a fair number of folk were shopping. It all made the skin between Stedd’s shoulder blades crawl like someone was about to stick a dagger there.
But on the trek from the Star Peaks to the Sea of Fallen Stars, Questele had told him that sometimes, the safest place to hide was in a crowd, and whether or not this was one of those occasions, he hadn’t figured out anywhere else to go. So he drifted from one vendor’s stand to the next and struggled not to constantly look around for signs of pursuit like the fugitive he was.
Hooves clattered and wheels rumbled and threw up water as four wagons rolled into the marketplace. Someone had painted a white hand clasping a blue rose on the side of each, and the men driving them or riding in the backs wore livery marked with the same symbol.
The wagons headed down one of the busier aisles, busier because, despite the paucity of harvests out in the countryside and the reluctance of farmers to send produce to market that they might end up needing to eat themselves, the grocers had some fruit and vegetables to sell. Some of their customers had to scurry out of the way of the draft horses with their jingling harness.
A thin man with a weak-chinned but keen face like a weasel’s hopped down from the bench of the lead wagon, and ignoring those who’d arrived ahead of him, started talking to a grocer. At the end of the exchange, he tossed her a purse and his associates loaded up her bushel baskets of cucumbers and ambercup squash, not stopping until they stripped her area clean.
By that time, the weasel had moved on to a second grocer. After another brief bit of haggling, he purchased all of that vendor’s wares, this time, radishes and pears.
The other shoppers-reduced to would-be shoppers now-were glowering and grumbling among themselves. The weasel ignored them and moved on to a stand selling sacks of flour. But before he could begin another transaction, a big woman in an apron with a wicker basket hanging on her arm grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him around.
Stedd was too far away to hear the exchange that followed, but he could imagine it. The woman was saying it didn’t matter how rich or important the weasel’s master was; the nobleman or merchant had no right to buy all the food. And, sneering, the weasel was replying that what he was doing was entirely legal, and if she didn’t like it, that was her problem, not his.