"They're healed," Tolthar protested. "My wounds are healed!"
~"I'll try, anyway," Teneria replied. "Thank you," Lady Sarai said. "But first," she added, turning back to Tolthar, "I believe that this man was about to tell us the name of the woman who stabbed him."
The long-awaited question came as a great relief. "Tabaea," Tolthar said. "Tabaea the Thief."
CHAPTER 23
Tabaea was coming dawn the stairs of her current residence, a pleasant little inn called the Blue Dancer, and thinking out her plans for the evening, when she heard the sound of soldiers walking. There was the distinctive slapping of scabbard against kilt, the heavy tread of the boots-definitely soldiers, on the street out front, drawing nearer. She sniffed the air, but with the inn's door closed she could make out nothing unusual. Dinner had been beef stewed in red wine, and she could still smell the lingering aroma of every ingredient, and of the half-dozen different vintages that had been served to the Dancer's customers. The chimney was drawing well, so the scent of the hearthfire itself was relatively faint, but its heat was making Beren, the serving wench, sweat as she swept the floor; Tabaea could smell that, too. She could distinguish the moist odors of Beren's cotton tunic and wool skirt.
Dogs were amazing creatures, Tabaea thought. She had never realized how amazing until she had started killing them. They could all smell all these details.
The booted steps were coming directly up to the door of the inn; Tabaea wondered why. Soldiers were a common enough sight in the taverns and inns of Wall Street, but the Blue Dancer was a quiet and rather expensive place several blocks down Grand Street from the market, and the city guard was not generally found here unless someone had sent for them.
There were other footsteps as well-she hadn't heard them at first, with the door and the windows closed and the various sounds of the city drowning them out, but someone in slippers was walking with the soldiers, someone wearing a long, rustling garment.
Suddenly nervous, Tabaea hurried down the last few steps. The guards couldn't have anything to do with her, of course-nobody except the innkeeper and a few strangers knew she was here, no one would have any reason to connect her with any recent disturbances-but still, she didn't care to be caught in her room upstairs if there was trouble.
Now the soldiers were at the door, five of them, in addition to the person in slippers, and one soldier was lifting the latch. Now even Beren heard them; she straightened and leaned her broom in the chimney corner as Tabaea slipped back into the little alcove under the stairs. The table there was usually occupied at meals by young lovers, as it was the most private spot in the dining room; there was nothing suspicious about it if Tabaea should happen to sit there on a quiet evening, just minding her own business.
And it would scarcely be her fault that she could hear everything that went on in the main room. "Can I help you?" Beren asked.
"We're looking for a woman named Tabaea," an unfamiliar man's voice said. "We don't know what she's calling herself. A little below average height, thin, black hair-probably alone." Tabaea could almost hear Beren frowning. "Let me get my master," the serving wench said. "Is she here?" a different voice asked. "I don't know," Beren replied, "I'll ask." Tabaea watched through the archway as Beren vanished into the kitchen.
Tabaea bit her lip, worrying and wondering. Why were these men-these soldiers-looking for her? How did they know her name, or what she looked like? And what should she do about it?
It registered that the alcove was a dead end, that she could be trapped in it. True, she could hold off a small army, as they wouldn't be able to get at her more than two or perhaps three at a time, and she could use the table as a shield, but they could besiege her there and wait her out.
That would not do. Better to get out now, while she could!
But the soldiers were in the front door, while Beren and the innkeeper might be emerging from the kitchen at any moment, blocking that route. That left the window.
Tavern windows varied greatly in Ethshar, in number, size, placement, and nature. The Blue Dancer gloried in a single great bow window, a long, graceful curve made up of several hundred small panes, framed not in lead, but in imported hardwood, an exotic touch that added to the inn's expensive atmosphere. Three small casements were built into this structure, for ventilation; none of them looked large enough for even a person of Tabaea's size to fit through.
Tabaea knew that appearances could be deceiving, though. Moving as quietly as she could-which was very quietly indeed-she rose and crept to the edge of the sheltering arch.
There, she reached out with her poorly developed and ill-understood abilities, the witch-sight and warlock sense, and dimly perceived the intruders.
She could distinguish their scents, as well, but identity was not what interested her now. She wanted to know where they were looking, to be sure that she was somewhere else. One was watching up the stairs, very carefully. Another was guarding the door. The one in slippers… that one was a woman, and she smelled of magic. That was bad. She was looking about the room with interest, not focusing on anything in particular.
One of the soldiers was watching the magician; he was no threat to anyone just now.
That left two soldiers and a magician who were looking out into the dining room; one soldier was watching the kitchen door, the other was peering into the dimly lit farther recesses-including the one where Tabaea stood.
She nudged the one in the door, ever so slightly, with a little warlock push; he started, and made a surprised noise.
The others turned to look at him, and Tabaea made her run, fast and smooth and silent, across the room and up onto the broad sill. She was almost there when she was spotted; her distraction had only held for a fraction of a second.
She swung open the nearest casement and thrust her head through; her ears scraped the frame on either side, her hair snagged on the latch.
"Damn," she whispered. She wouldn't fit out that way. "Hey!" a guardsman called, and Tabaea, desperate, pushed at the wooden frame with the heel of her hand.
She had never really tried her accumulated strength; she had never had any reason to. Most of her killings had been for skill, more than strength. She knew she was strong-she had flung that demonologist, Karitha, around like a doll. But she had not realized until this very moment just how strong she had become.
Her hand punched through the polished window frame as if it were paper, spraying splinters of wood and glass into the street beyond.
"Stop her!" someone shouted, and the guards started for her. Frightened, Tabaea kicked at the window.
Debris burst out into Grand Street like spray from a wave-struck rock; the casement itself hung for an instant by one corner, then tumbled onto the street with a shattering of glass.
Tabaea dove through the hole and landed, catlike, on her feet; she leaped up and ran, eastward, without thinking.
Behind her, men were shouting.
Run, hide, run, hide-her years as a thief had drummed that into her. When anything goes wrong, you run; when you have run the pursuit out of sight, you hide. If they find you, run again. No need to think or plan; just run and hide.
And the best places to hide weren't empty attics or dark alleys; the best places were in crowds and busy streets, where there was always another escape route, were always other faces to distract the pursuers.
And the very best place of all was the Wall Street Field, where the clutter of destitute humanity lay down an obstacle course of ramshackle shelters and stolen stewpots, where most of the people would be on her side, where the soldiers felt outnumbered.