"I-sorry, sir. I'll-sorry!" They heard the chastened bloodcoat hurry off.
"I can follow simple orders," a new and nasal voice spoke up, "and mine were to stay right here and stop anyone passing me, until Morthus himself relieved me. And being as he hasn't, and as he gave me those orders himself, I'm staying right here."
"And what, soldier, might your name be?" Tarram inquired icily, edging forward but keeping well to the left of that voice. He felt Tantaerra's hand touch his knee and stay there, so she could move with him.
And then, just as suddenly as it had vanished, the moon came sailing serenely out from behind the clouds, bathing all Halidon in its pale glow. Stars twinkled around it in a largely empty silver sky.
Tarram and a truculent short-bearded soldier found themselves facing each other across a space that was largely filled by the spear in the bloodcoat's hand.
A spear he promptly raised menacingly, falling back a step so Tarram couldn't grab at the spear shaft.
Smiling tightly, Tarram bounded forward, ducking past the spearhead, and grabbed the shaft anyway.
The soldier snarled and tried to jerk it free-and Tarram let it go, so he could lean in and slam his fist down on the man's nearest hand, where it was gripping the spear. The man shouted in pain and swung the spear away to try to keep hold of it-and Tarram punched him in the throat, then locked his arm around the soldier's neck and hauled the man down backward, slamming the back of the Molthuni's neck hard onto his waiting knee. The man convulsed in a brief frenzy of waving arms and hands clutching air …then went limp. The fallen spear bounced and rattled.
"Stop amusing yourself and come on!" Tantaerra snapped, tugging at Tarram's arm. "The forest's only just there! Come on, you bloodthirsty boarbrain!"
Hearing pounding hooves ahead along the last street across their path, Tarram put on a gasping burst of speed and caught up to his client. Burying his fingers in her hair, he lifted her off the ground at a full run and hauled her to the left, hard.
She shrieked and spun around in his grasp with daggers flashing in both hands-so he let go, flinging her into a handy horse trough and then diving after her.
He landed beside the trough in a rich layer of fresh horse manure, reached into the heart of the splashing, grabbed hold of her, and snatched her out again. Slamming her hard against his chest to drive the wind out of her and quell any shouts before she made them, he rolled under a wagon.
There was a long, long line of carts and wagons drawn up down this last street. The forest they'd been trying for was an enticing four strides or so away, across the muddy road, but the soldiers of Molthune were determined to catch the two fugitives, and were even now thundering past the wagon.
"That way! Make sure they don't get past you!" a bloodcoat shouted. "Hrandel, bide here in case they're behind one of these doors and try to dart out later! The rest of you, with me!"
More hooves, the main din moving on along the street and away into the distance.
Lying on his back trying not to pant loudly, holding his client very gently now and trying to ignore the fire in the glare she was giving him, Tarram listened hard. If they thought to bend down and look …
"What an idiot," a rough voice said disgustedly, before spitting into the dirt not a hand-width away from Tarram's leg.
"Aye," another bloodcoat agreed. "Some stupid mother wasted a lot of time and food on that one. Always galloping after glory, all shouting this and ordering that and look at me, I'm so important …"
"They're gone, those two. A halfling and a masked man, still hiding in Halidon? I think not. Six streets one way and four the other, and the moon showing us every roof; where does he think they're hiding?"
"He hasn't got to thinking yet. He's too busy being all shocked that the two of them murdered the Lord Investigator."
"Which means we have to hunt them down and kill them, mind-because once word reaches Canorate that their precious investigator's been killed, it'll be our necks if we haven't brought down his slayers."
That brought a groan. "You're saying we're going to have to search every last damned house in Halidon. I knew it. Poking into reeking privies and dirty clothes that don't smell much better while the owners stand there glaring at us, hating us with their every breath for invading their homes, and I can't say as I blame them. Why can't murderers just stick to the streets when they're running, so we can ride them down tidily? Why do they always have to try to hide and lurk?"
"Because they're as fond of their necks as we are of ours, that's why. Gods look down, Braerve, sometimes I think you're as dense as yon post."
"Aye, you spoke truth for once, Larclass="underline" sometimes, you think."
"You looking for this spear in your eye?"
"By accident, you mean? The way you 'accidentally' tripped Arjon down the watchtower stairs?"
"Why, you-"
"If you two stalwarts are quite finished threatening each other," a new voice snapped from farther down the street, "there are some wagons here that need searching. In, under, and atop every one of them, and may I remind you we're looking for a shorter-than-most halfling, probably female, and a tall and rather thin man wearing a mask-or, if he's taken it off, someone with an untanned face who's a stranger in Halidon. Work together, starting with that wagon, and moving that way. And remember: I'll be watching."
That brought a sullen pair of "sirs" in reply, and the squeal of an opening coach door.
Followed, a moment later, by Tarram's client jerking free of his hold and clambering off him, to vanish into the night in a rustle of disturbed weeds.
He tried to twist his head around to see where she was going. She'd said not a word. A horse stamped, leather creaked, and there were some firm footfalls on wagon floors. A sagging cart groaned under sudden weight.
"Say, now," Braerve said suddenly, "there's food in this one! Crocks full of eggs, and this has to be fish, in oil, and-"
There was deep, metallic sound, as if a pot had struck something solid, then silence.
"Braerve? Braerve?" Larl snapped, sounding scared.
The metallic sound was more of a ringing, this time.
Silence.
As it stretched, Tarram rolled over as quietly as he could, and waited tensely under the wagon.
"Tarram?" That was Tantaerra's voice. "Tarram?"
He said not a word, but crawled in the direction of her voice, rising up warily in the lee of the next wagon with one of his short swords ready.
To find himself looking into the eyes of the halfling. "Carrying this crock of eggs is beyond me," she told him, tossing aside a skillet that had blood and tufts of hair on it, "but if we take any of the fish they'll smell us miles off. So if you'd care to do some lifting …"
"What about that bloodcoat who said he'd be watching?"
"He's watching from down the far end of the street, past those lanterns, where there seems to be beer. Now are you going to carry these eggs across this road into that damned forest, or not?"
Tarram found himself grinning. "I'll carry."
Chapter Five
If I have to eat all these raw eggs," Tarram muttered, "I'm going to have the runs for days. Nonstop, rather aromatic days."
Tantaerra grinned. "All the more for me, then. So catch us something palatable we can eat raw."