"Such as?"
"Giant dewworms are nice."
Tarram's gorge rose. "To a halfling, perhaps, but…really? You truly like giant dewworms?"
"Only in the right sort of stew, with lots of leeks and pepper. Though they go down well seared in a fire, slaked in ox- or cow-drippings. If you have ox- or cow-drippings."
"Fascinating," Tarram pronounced, with the most devastating sarcasm he could muster. "I'll freely admit that halfling cuisine is lore I've sadly neglected …but it's lore I rather thought would stay neglected, on my part. And the more I learn of it, the more I'm convinced it deserves my enthusiastic neglect."
"Really? How fitting," his client shot back, as they ducked under the fourteen thousandth-or was it fourteen thousandth and first? — low horizontal tree bough. "As that's about what I've received from you since we left Halidon. Enthusiastic neglect."
"What? Princess, I have fought for you; run for you; robbed a shrine for you; faced a damned Lord Investigator for you; burned down three warehouses, any one of which has assuredly brought a 'slay on sight' order down on my head …all for you. This is neglect?"
"I did say 'enthusiastic,' masked man. And I'm not a princess. I'm-"
"Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra, I know. Sharp-tongued escaped slave, possessed of the pride of a princess."
"Are my ears failing me? Am I actually hearing a human accuse a halfling of pride? When all Golarion knows humans are walking bundles of arrogant presumption? Loud arrogant presumption?"
"Hey, lady, you hired me! I'm your walking bundle!"
Tantaerra's reply was short, pungent, and unprintable. They gave each other glares that quickly fell into wry grins and turned back to wearily stalking through the forest.
A branch snapped. "Oww!" the halfling said. She cursed, then added sourly, "Remind me again why we have to tramp along the edge of the forest in the dead of night when anything could be prowling out here, hunting us. I'm tired, and we're well clear of Halidon."
"Yes, but we haven't found the caravan yet."
"What caravan?"
"The one that dropped me off in Halidon," The Masked said, "then kept going. Because the caravan master, Halvran, is far too cheap to camp overnight in a place that'll charge him fees for its paddocks and water and such, when there are streams and grazing and space free for the taking out ahead of us somewhere. He had some lumber business to be transacted directly hereabouts, then is headed for Braganza."
"And if Halvran is too cheap to camp at all, and just kept going?"
"Well," Tarram growled, "if we keep on walking in this direction, Braganza shouldn't be more than seven or eight days away. Now quiet."
"Oh? Why, exactly?"
"Because I can still hear bloodcoats from Halidon blundering along far behind us, which means they can hear us. And because yon fires ahead mean someone encamped-and if they happen to be Molthuni soldiers, I'd rather they didn't see and stop us before we know who they are and can slip past them."
Tantaerra peered through the brush ahead of her, ducking this way and that, and finally espied a tiny moving point of light. Flame. "Oh, to be taller," she muttered, far more quietly. "So say yon fires are this Halvran of yours-what then?"
"I pay him handsomely, and he gives us space in the same wagon I was riding in before," Tarram told her.
"And when the bloodcoats arrive in his camp and start searching for us?"
"I promise Halvran far more coin to keep us hidden-delivered when we get safely to Braganza-than any bloodcoat will ever pay him," he told her smugly. "And Halvran, who's no fool and values his repeat customers-I happen to be one of them-considers how much more he'll make from years ahead of dealing with a still-living client than whatever he'll get, most likely nothing, for handing us over, and …"
He spread his hands expressively.
"So just how does a man from afar who wears a mask come to be a repeat customer of a pinchcoin caravan master in Molthune?" the halfling asked, tilting her head sidelong as she regarded him.
Tarram gave her a shrug. "A story for another day. When we know each other rather better than we do now."
"When we trust each other more, you mean," she said softly.
Hearing the bitterness in her voice, he gave her no words, only a silent nod.
∗ ∗ ∗
"Here they come," Tantaerra muttered. "I hope you bought Halvran's trust handsomely enough."
The masked man shrugged. "Here's where we stop talking and listen," he whispered in her ear, falling still behind the heap of blankets that walled them into one rather stuffy corner of a crammed wagon.
"Stand!" they heard Halvran roar. "Not a stride closer, or we'll start putting crossbow bolts in faces!"
"We're soldiers of Molthune, from Halidon, in pursuit of two escaped fugitives, and we demand-"
An old, crude crossbow fired with a sharp crack and rattle.
"The next one will be in your face," Halvran warned. "I see no soldiers of Molthune, only a bunch of brigands who come rushing out of the night, wearing bloodcoat soldiers' uniforms to lull honest, loyal Molthuni into letting them get inside their defenses. So just who are you to be demanding anything? This is a mixed-goods caravan, with all proper permits and passes, not slaver-wagons! So we have no fugitives here! Now, be off with you, or I'll make a report in Braganza that'll cut short some shining careers right quick, I will!"
"Show us your permits and passes, and who's traveling in this caravan, and we'll-"
"Stand back, or you'll be playing pincushions, that's what you'll be doing!"
"Caravan master, we're seeking a halfling, shorter than most, and a tall man wearing a mask, and if we're not allowed to search your wagons, there'll be-"
"Enough!" a new voice snapped, from just outside their wagon.
Tantaerra and the masked man she'd hired exchanged looks. They knew that voice.
"Worm your way out there to where you can make sure it's the man from the temple roof in Halidon," The Masked muttered. "But make damned sure you don't get seen."
"As you command," she told him sardonically, and set out to do just that.
She was in time to see it was indeed the brown-eyed man.
"Loyal soldiers of Molthune," he was saying, as he stood among the wagons with a lantern high in one hand and something small held up in his other palm, "do you recognize this badge? Do you know what it means?"
A little silence fell, ere one of the bloodcoats from Halidon said sullenly, "No."
"Well, you should know it. Lord Investigator Osturr showed some of you-or your superiors-one just like it, earlier today. It proclaims me a Lord Investigator from Canorate, reporting directly to the General Lords. As such, I outrank all of you, and everyone back in Halidon-and I am hereby ordering all of you to return there. Right now, and with no sly deceit nor continued pursuit. I am traveling with this caravan, and if there are any fugitives hiding in it, I'll find them. Now go."
"But-"
"But nothing," the self-proclaimed Lord Investigator said coldly. "Your work is guarding Halidon, not chasing fugitives across half Molthune. That's my work."
∗ ∗ ∗
"It's him, all right," the halfling hissed, "though I couldn't get a good look at the badge he was holding, or I'd have been seen."