Fish grunted and walked off.
Smeds began his rounds. He crossed Tully's trail several times. The spike was all the talk everywhere he went. Tully had to know about the reward. He wasn't running to Exile. That was a good sign. Except…
Except that a dozen independents had let out that they would go higher than Exile. A witch named Teebank had offered a hundred fifty thousand.
Smeds believed none of them except Exile. He had seen them when the hunt had been a race between thieves. They wouldn't change. They would talk mountains of obols but the payoff, when it came, would be death.
But Tully had that knack for deceiving himself. He might decide they were legitimately offering. Or he might fool himself into thinking he could outwit them. He had an inflated opinion of his own guile.
Smeds soon concluded that the pattern of Tully's movements indicated he was looking for someone.
Likely one of those fabulous purses.
He had no regard left for his cousin.
The evidence suggested Tully was gaining no ground on his quarry. Smeds was, though. He wondered if Tully was getting nervous, knowing they would be after him as soon as they knew he was gone.
Probably.
Smeds caught up but the situation was not suited to the confrontation he had been rehearsing for hours.
He was moving along a street unnaturally quiet even for after the riots, getting nervous about that, when Tully came flying out a doorway a hundred feet ahead and across the way. He hadn't yet gotten stable on his hands and knees when soldiers in black surrounded him. They bound his hands behind him, put a choke cord on him, and led him off toward the center of town.
There were six of those soldiers. Smeds stared numbly, seeing the end of his days. What the hell could he do? Get Fish? But what could Fish do? No two men were going to ambush six soldiers in broad daylight.
He tripped along behind. With each step he became more certain what had to be done, became more sick at heart. No matter that Tully had been ready to write him off.
He ducked into an alley and ran, the energy starting to burn in his veins. He went faster than necessary, trying to leech the growing fear in frenzied physical activity.
His pack hammered against his back. Like half the men in Oar he was carrying his home on his back. He had to get rid of it somehow. Somewhere safe. Most of his take from the Barrowland was in it.
He came on a pile of rubble in deep shadow. No one was around. He buried the pack hastily, hurried on to the point where he wanted to intercept Tully and the soldiers. They were not in sight. His heart sank. Had they decided to go some longer way? No. There they were. He'd just gotten way ahead. He crossed the street to a dark alley mouth. He would run back the way he had come, to his pack, through some useful shadows, on a route barren of witnesses.
The wait stretched interminably. He had time to get scared again. To talk himself into freezing up, almost.
Then they were there, a pair of soldiers out front, a pair behind, one leading Tully by the choke cord and one behind to poke him if he slowed down. Smeds's knife slipped into his hand. It was the knife he'd taken off that man in that cellar.
He flung himself forward, running hard. They barely had time to turn and see him coming. Tully's eyes got huge as he saw the knife come to his throat.
Smeds hit the choke cord and smashed through and in a moment was back in shadows clutching a knife that dripped family blood. Soldiers shouted. Feet pounded after him.
There was very little physical or emotional reaction. His mind turned to the pursuit. Two men, he decided. Very determined bastards, too. He wasn't gaining on them.
He did not want to deal with them but it looked like they might give him no choice.
He knew the place. It was only a few yards from where he had hidden his pack, where the alley was darkest. He would use the trick the physician had tried. If they went on by he would sneak away behind them.
He was amazed at himself. Smeds Stahl, scared, could still think.
He slipped into a crack in a brick wall that, probably, was a legacy of the Limper's visit. It had been improved upon by someone who had used it to get into the building, a thief or squatters. He could slide through and get away, but something that was not concern for his pack stayed him.
He picked up a broken board and waited.
They did not continue their headlong rush once his footsteps stopped. They exchanged breathless words in an unfamiliar language. Smeds grew tense. If they stuck together…
He still had the out through the building.
One soldier put on a burst that took him a hundred feet past Smeds. He called to the other. They began moving toward one another.
The one who had not run was much closer.
He did not notice the gap in the wall till Smeds popped out behind his knife. He made one strange noise, surprise that turned to pain.
Smeds tried to pull the knife free as the man fell and the other soldier yelled. It would not come. Goddamn it! Again!
Feet pounded toward him.
He grabbed his board and swung it just as the other soldier arrived. The impact slammed the man against the wall. Smeds hit him again. And again and again, feeling bones crunch, till the broken thing stopped whimpering.
He stood there panting, unaware that he was grinning, till he heard more men coming. He darted toward where his pack lay, realized he did not have time to dig it out, darted back, and tried the knife again. It would not come. Still. Then he was out of time before he could appropriate a weapon from one of the dead men. He slithered through the crack into the darkness inside the building.
Moments later there was an outraged roar from the alleyway.
Smeds kept his head down as he stepped into the street. There was little foot traffic. No one paid him any mind. He set off at a brisk pace, but not one so fast it would attract attention.
What now?
He didn't dare go find Fish. Some damned soldier might recognize him.
But Fish would hear about Tully. Fish would understand. Best thing would be to go back to the Skull and Crossbones and wait. Fish was sure to check there.
As his heartbeat slowed toward normal he became aware of the hollow in his stomach. He had not eaten since yesterday. The Skull and Crossbones was dry. Where could he find something? With stores getting low, nobody might be willing to sell…
It was a meal. Of sorts. A bowl of bad soup and a chunk of stale bread, and the fat old geek who ran the filthy place hadn't tried to rob him.
He was nearly done when a kid blew in, yelled, "Run mister! Press gang!" and sailed out the back.
"What the hell?"
"Press gang," the greasy fat man said. "Round here the grays been grabbing all the young men they can find—"
Two grays stamped in. One grinned and said, "Here's a likely-looking patriot."
Smeds sneered and went back to work on his meal. He did not feel troubled.
A wooden truncheon tapped him on the shoulder. "Come along, then."
"You better hope there's no splinters in that thing. You touch me again I'm going to shove it up your ass."
"Oh, a tough one, Cord. We like them tough, don't we? What's your name, boy?"
Smeds sighed, hearing the voices of all the bullies who'd ever baited him. He turned, looked the soldier in the eye, said, "Death."
Maybe the man saw seven murders in his eyes. He backed off a step. Smeds decided the one who kept his mouth shut was probably more dangerous.
He felt no fear at all. In fact, he felt invulnerable, invincible.
He rose slowly, flipped his bread into the talker's face, kicked him in the groan. A bully had done that to him once. He shoved his chair at the other man's legs and while he was dealing with that shoved his soup into the man's face. Then he grabbed the truncheon away from the first and went to work.