The three men, Emmis, Kelder, and the guard, marched up Canal Avenue – or rather, Emmis trudged under the weight of the body, Kelder shuffled along reluctantly, and the guardsman marched. Despite Emmis's burden, it was Kelder who slowed their progress; he clearly didn't want to go anywhere, and Emmis thought he caught the killer glancing down various alleyways along the way.
He was looking for Tithi or the Lumethans, Emmis was sure.
There was no sign of Fendel's Assassin, and Emmis was fairly sure the creature was really gone, but he did not want Kelder to know that, and occasionally directed a remark to the invisible monster, to keep Kelder uncertain.
Emmis also kept an eye on Zhol's sword; it was still in its scabbard, hanging from the dead man's belt, and Emmis made a point of keeping it untangled. If Tithi did jump out of an alley at them, Emmis wanted to be ready to drop the corpse and snatch the sword from its sheath.
Tithi did not appear, nor did anyone else; the street was dark and deserted, the windows on either side mostly shuttered and the torches at the intersections burning low. Canal Avenue was a surprisingly direct route from Southmarket to Lower Street, a walk of perhaps a mile or so with no need to change course, much faster than going by way of Cut Street Market, but it did lead directly over the largest hill in the city, and even a mile was a very long way when carrying two hundred pounds over one's shoulder. Emmis had to stop to rest more than once, switching the body to the other shoulder at each break.
"Once we're past New Cross Street it's all downhill," the guardsman mentioned at their first such stop.
"I know," Emmis said. That fact was small comfort; the body was heavy at any angle. And the weight wasn't the only problem; he was always uncomfortably aware of exactly what he was carrying. Something deep in him wanted to get away from the corpse, not carry it. Emmis thought that was some part of his mind reacting to the smell; while there was no real reek of corruption yet, the odor was subtly but definitely not that of a living man. And of course, the skin was horribly cold to the touch.
He wondered what time it was; the sky was too cloudy to be any help, even if he remembered where the moons ought to be this time of year. The emptiness of the streets implied that it was very late indeed – and seemed a little unnatural, as most of Shiphaven was never this quiet; there were always a few drunken sailors or desperate whores staggering about.
He wished the guardsman could help with the weight, but he knew that wasn't possible; he was busy enough keeping Kelder upright and moving. Emmis wondered just how bad a break Fendel's Assassin had actually inflicted, and how much pain Kelder was really feeling; he certainly wanted everyone to think he was suffering unbelievable agony.
They crested the hill and started down through the New City; Kelder was growing steadily more agitated. Emmis doubted this had anything to do with his injury; he thought that Kelder had expected a rescue attempt before now, and was beginning to realize that his partner had deserted him and he was really going to be hanged.
At High Street, as Emmis had half expected, Kelder made a break for it, but not at all in the way Emmis had anticipated; he did not simply tear loose from the guard's grip and run for it. Instead he pretended to stumble and thrust out a leg, tripping Emmis.
Emmis struggled to remain upright, but with the weight on his shoulder it wasn't possible; what was possible was to twist as he fell, so as not to knock down the others, and to drop his burden so that he would not be trapped beneath it. He landed hard, catching himself on his elbows.
"Are you…?" the guard began, turning to see what was happening.
Then Kelder's elbow rammed into the guard's side, and the soldier flinched – not much, but enough to loosen his grip, which allowed Kelder to turn, and to swing his knee up, obviously aiming for the soldier's groin.
The guardsman was not that stupid; he twisted away from the blow, but let Kelder's arm slip from his grasp. Then Kelder was free and running west on High Street, toward the Old Merchants' Quarter.
The guardsman let out a wordless bellow and charged after him, pulling his truncheon from his belt.
Emmis made no attempt to join the pursuit; he lay sprawled on the hard-packed dirt of the street, catching his breath, his face inches from the pale, cold neck of Zhol's corpse. He closed his eyes, and wished he could close his nose; the smell of Zhol's dead flesh was definitely disturbing.
This was, he thought, the worst night of his life, even worse than the night of Azradelle's wedding. Lar might be paying him more than he had ever imagined he would earn, but it wasn't enough to make this worthwhile.
He rolled over and sat up.
People were shouting somewhere on High Street; a woman screamed. This neighborhood was apparently not as deserted as the other side of the hill. Emmis put his hands to his temples, brushed his hair from his eyes, and looked west.
People were struggling; in the dim light he could not see exactly who they were, or what was happening. A blade flashed. Then an arm rose, holding a truncheon, and came down hard, and the struggling stopped.
Emmis swallowed bile, and began the process of getting back on his feet.
By the time he was upright and ready to take another look the scene on High Street had changed; two guardsmen were dragging a limp figure toward him, while a small crowd watched from a safe distance behind them. As they approached Emmis heard an unfamiliar voice ask, "What about him?"
The guard who had accompanied him to and from Southmarket replied, "I think he's all right; he says he works for Lord Ildirin. We were going to meet someone he knows on Lower Street – a wizard."
"If this man killed a guard, shouldn't he go to the nearest magistrate?"
"He said Lord Ildirin would want to question him."
"What? Who said?"
Emmis saw the guard on the left nod toward him. "He did."
"Well, I hope they aren't in any hurry about questioning him; you hit him pretty hard."
"He was asking for it."
"Then I'd say he got it. Was it you who broke that arm?"
"No, Emmis did that." Again, the guardsman nodded toward him.
"Good for him."
Then the trio, the two guards and the unconscious Kelder, reached the intersection of High Street and Canal Avenue. Emmis could see that the stranger carried a lantern on his belt; the night watch was earning its pay tonight.
He also held a long, narrow-bladed dagger in his free hand – definitely not anything the city watch would issue. Kelder had probably had that hidden somewhere.
Emmis was glad he hadn't kept it somewhere readily accessible; if the assassin had pulled that when they were grappling back on Merchant Street, matters might have gone very differently.
"Emmis of Shiphaven, this is Gror Grondar's son," the familiar guard said.
"Good to meet you," Gror said.
"Thank you," Emmis said. Then he turned to the other. "I never got your name."
Gror laughed as the other said, "Arnen of Freshwater." Arnen cast Gror an angry look.
"Arnen says you're taking these two to Lower Street."
Emmis nodded. "To Guildmaster Ithinia. Lord Ildirin is waiting for Zhol and me there."
"Guildmaster? Which guild, the wizards?"
"Yes."
"Then we don't want to keep her waiting, do we?" He shifted his grip on Kelder, glanced down at Zhol's corpse, then looked at Kelder's face. The prisoner's jaw was hanging open, a thread of drool trailing down one side of his pointed beard. His eyes were closed.
Gror turned back to Emmis, and jerked a thumb toward the body on the ground. "You carried that all the way from Southmarket?"
"Yes."