"I know," Tris replied nervously, "but it doesn't mean I like it."
On the second day, they worked their way down more of the narrow, winding streets of Ghorbal. On a tip, they lingered for two candle-marks near the entrance to a silk merchant's warehouse where the man said he thought he saw Vahanian just that morning. But before anyone emerged from the warehouse, Tris spotted three guards in the livery of Margolan on horseback.
"We've got company," he whispered to Harrtuck. They retreated into an alehouse until the guardsmen moved on, but the encounter made Tris feel even more vulnerable.
"We're not going to be able to wait here forever," he murmured to Harrtuck, as they sat in the shade of a kerif vendor's shop and sipped the hot, bitter drink while they watched passers-by.
"Patience," Harrtuck counseled. "He's here. I'm sure of it. He's got his own reasons to lay low. But there are too many people who've spotted him recently. He'll be back."
They repeated their inquiries the next several days, piecing together more clues about Vahanian's movements. Finally, on the seventh day since their arrival in Ghorbal, Harrtuck veered toward the stall of a rug merchant who was hawking his wares in the thick river patois of the Cartelasian traders.
Tris hung back, watching for any sign that he and Harrtuck might be attracting undue interest. So far, the traders and buyers seemed intent on their business, unfazed by a few more strangers among them.
"We're looking for a trader," Harrtuck began, but once he lapsed into the unintelligible patois, Tris could not follow his conversation. After a few minutes, he returned to where Tris stood, and planted his hands on his hips.
"Well, he says that wagon over there belongs to Vahanian, but he hasn't seen him around all morning," Harrtuck said, gesturing to a sturdy wagon filled with bolts of cloth. The wagon was still hitched to a strong horse, tethered near the entrance to three branching side streets. Just the right spot for a quick getaway, Tris thought. "So assuming he hasn't been hauled in by the authorities, if we keep his wagon in sight, we should find him."
"Eventually," Tris added. He was uncomfortable out in the open. Carroway had altered their appearances, dying Tris's white-blond hair an unremarkable shade of brown, and chopping his own fashionable court style into a more common style. Soterius's hair was lightened to a muddy blond, and Harrtuck had shaved off his beard. Still, there was only so much that the disguises could do to hide them from anyone truly searching.
A commotion erupted, and Tris strained to see more. At least a dozen Nargi priests were clustered around a row of merchants near the wharf, gesturing angrily and shouting in their clipped, staccato language. It was starting to get ugly, as their voices rose and the priests began to ransack the traders' wares, shouting even louder as they held up goods and shook them for emphasis. Tris took a step closer to get a better look when Harrtuck grabbed his arm and pulled him into an alcove.
"We've got trouble, m'boy," the armsmaster breathed. "Those Margolan guards are back, and they're coming this way. Don't turn," he hissed.
"We've got to warn the others."
"No time. They're smart enough to get back to safety," Harrtuck growled, stepping behind a stack of baskets.
"Those guards aren't just wandering around, they're looking for someone," Tris added, keeping an eye on the three guardsmen, who made their way through the crowd, asking questions. From behind the pile of baskets, Tris watched as the guards approached a woman in a blue robe who nodded as they talked with her and gestured toward where he and Harrtuck had stood moments before. "They're coming our way."
"Over here," Harrtuck rasped, dragging Tris by the sleeve toward Vahanian's wagon. The large cart overflowed with rolls of Cartelasian rugs and bolts of fine Kourdish silks. With the cart between them and the street, Harrtuck nudged Tris. "Climb in, m'boy," Harrtuck whispered. "Unless the guards mean to search every merchant, we can wait for Vahanian here."
They no sooner burrowed beneath the carpets and silks before the voices of the Nargi priests reached them, even louder and more strident. Chaos erupted as the arguments turned to shouts and stacks of goods crashed to the ground. From their hiding place, Tris and Harrtuck could see little, but the sound of running footsteps pounded closer.
Suddenly, the cart lurched forward, then began to roll faster, straight toward the Margolan guardsmen. Behind them, the angry priests came almost within reach of the cart's back gate.
"You there, stop!" the guardsmen ordered, but the wagonmaster paid no heed, driving his cart and horse at breakneck speed.
With a cry, the wagonmaster rode straight for the hapless guards, giving them no choice but to throw themselves out of the way or be ridden down. The tangle of angry priests gave chase, plowing past the guardsmen and knocking them back as the desperate priests lunged toward the escaping cart.
Tris and Harrtuck struggled to hold on as the cart lurched down the rutted street. The rolls of carpet and bolts of silk pummeled them as the wares bounced and shifted. "Hang on!" Harrtuck hissed as the cart cornered on two wheels, spilling some of its precious cargo behind it. The Nargi priests, unable to run any longer, hefted the spilled silks and carpets in the air, still shouting curses and threats.
Heedless of the crowd, the wagon's driver careened through the streets. "Where is he going?" Tris managed through clenched teeth as he struggled to hold on. A roll of carpet whacked him in the head from behind as two more slippery bolts of silk slid down on him from the front, burying him. Some of the loose silks flew behind them on the breeze like richly colored flags.
"Don't know, but he's riding like the Avenger herself is behind us," Harrtuck rejoined, struggling for a handhold and being pummeled by falling carpets.
Their driver gave a cry of exultation as the wagon shot out of the city gates and onto the open road. "We're going to have a long walk back," Tris muttered, hanging on with all his might, his arms aching from the strain. There was no choice but to stay with the wagon, wherever it was headed, at least until it slowed. Finally, at least a half a candlemark after they left the city, the wagon reduced its breakneck pace, then stopped near a small grove of trees.
"Where are we?" Tris whispered. Harrtuck shrugged. "Do you think he knows we're here?"
Harrtuck shook his head. "Can't. Whoever it was wasn't even in sight when we—"
Just then, a crossbow bolt thudded into the carpet a handsbreadth from Harrtuck's shoulder.
"I would advise you to move real slowly," a man drawled. "My aim gets better on the second shot."
Harrtuck broke into a broad grin. "By the Whore!" he spat. "That was your best shot," the armsman rejoined. Tris looked at the soldier as if he were mad, but Harrtuck's grin broadened further.
"Come out!" the wagonmaster ordered, but Tris could hear a shade less certainty in their captor's tone. Slowly, hands raised, Tris and Harrtuck pushed off the bolts of silk and rolls of carpets that covered them and stood.
Their captor's crossbow was notched and leveled at their chests. He was young, perhaps ten seasons Tris's senior, with chestnut brown hair that fell shoulder length in a neat queue. His dark eyes glinted with a quick intelligence, and his tan spoke of seasons spent outdoors. A scar ran from below his right ear down into his collar. But what struck Tris most was the self-assurance in the way he held the crossbow, and in the solid, fighter's stance that told his captives that his marksmanship was no bluff.
"Vahanian?" Tris breathed, his hands still raised in surrender.
"Would you put that toy away, Jonmarc?" Harrtuck groused good-naturedly. "The blood is running out of my fingertips."
Jonmarc Vahanian looked at Harrtuck in astonishment for a heartbeat, and then slowly unnotched and lowered his bow. After another instant, a broad, lopsided grin broke across his handsome features. "Harrtuck, you old devil," he laughed, stepping forward.