"How about it?" she asked.
The Masked stared at her. Was that admiration in his eyes? "You've done this before," he said.
"Halflings are good at avoiding notice," Tantaerra said. "It's why we make such good slaves-we're that much easier to overlook. But sometimes it works to our advantage."
The Masked bowed and swept out a hand. "I defer to your expertise, princess."
She snorted and moved back through the door. "Just point me to the inn, all right?"
∗ ∗ ∗
The crowded, warm din of Harl's Hearth was everything she'd expected, from the sodden rushes on the floor to the reek of beer, unwashed bodies, and faint gutspew. She ducked purposefully to the left the moment she was inside, as if she knew where she was heading, had business here, and didn't care who saw that. She took care to lurch a little with each stride like a forge-weary dwarf, and pointed her nose at the floor, keeping her face down.
The Hearth was elbow-to-shoulder full of men and women who all seemed to feel the need to bellow into the faces of comrades they were nose to nose with. Through this deafening din, out of the corners of her eyes, Tantaerra caught sight of faces peering watchfully over tankards everywhere. Not a few hard glances were being sent at anyone coming in the front door.
So a room full of hard drinkers who expected trouble and were watching for it.
They were all human, too. Even with her disguise, Tantaerra stood out as vividly as if she'd been painted green and stuck on a raised stage. Numerous pairs of eyes sized her up-but not the familiar brown ones she was looking for.
Tantaerra nodded toward the kitchens, as if she'd just received a signal from someone that direction, and scuttled for the door.
The Masked was busy being a patient statue in the darkest spot in the alley.
"No sign of him," Tantaerra murmured, as she spat out her throwing pebbles.
At that moment, the scullery door opened and two tavernmen muscled a drunkard larger than they were out into the alley.
"Gods spit, Agris, but you get heavier every night," one puffed, as they staggered over to a wall and dropped their belching, mumbling burden against it.
The drunk sagged to the unclean cobbles. "'S all th' drink y' sell me," he murmured. "'S heavy."
The two tavernmen grunted and returned to the door.
"Proper city of vipers, this is!" the drunkard groaned, to the cobbles his nose was pressed against. "Wrest a man's drink from his hand before he's found the bottom of it!"
The door slammed, and Tantaerra heard the thud of the door bar landing in its cradles, followed by a rattle of chain.
A city of vipers. Tantaerra found herself agreeing with the man.
She followed The Masked farther back into the alley's shadows. "So now what?"
"Now we wait," The Masked said. "Perhaps we just beat him here. If so, better to see him enter from here than meet him after we've holed up and cornered ourselves."
"Hmph," Tantaerra sniffed, but huddled down against the grimy wall to wait.
∗ ∗ ∗
"No. Absolutely not."
"I'm afraid it's the best idea I have."
"Putting me in a sack?" Tantaerra raged. "You need to start having some better ideas."
They were back in the abandoned construction site. They'd watched Harl's Hearth for several hours as the patrons gradually staggered or were carried out. When at last the common room closed down for the night, with still no sign of their mysterious tail, The Masked declared himself satisfied, and took them back to their staging ground to prepare his own disguise.
Which apparently consisted of sticking Tantaerra in a sack and pretending she was his grossly fat belly.
"I'll suffocate in there!" she pressed.
"As someone who's breathed through sacks on many occasions," The Masked said wryly, tapping his mask, "I can guarantee that you won't. And anyone looking for us will be looking for a thin man and a halfling, not a single hugely fat man."
"And you don't think your mask might be what they're looking for?"
In response, The Masked turned away and withdrew something from a pocket inside his shirt. When he turned back, his mask was covered by a fired-putty replica of a face, like those sometimes used by actors. He pulled his hood lower, and in the shadows beneath it the face looked almost real.
"I guess it's the best we can do," Tantaerra said slowly.
"It is," The Masked said firmly. "And if this takes much longer, it will be morning, and this won't work at all. Then maybe you can distract people by playing the role of my pet. On a leash."
"Don't push me, masked man."
"Wouldn't dream of it. I hear halflings bite."
Tantaerra gave him a dirty look. "Just give me the damned sack."
The cloth was actually closer to netting, and surprisingly smooth against Tantaerra's skin, allowing plenty of airflow. She could even see through it, after a fashion. As The Masked slung her over his shoulders, hanging her down across his chest and stomach, she said, "Leave a couple of buttons open as long as you can, hey?
"Of course."
Then they were back out in the alley again: one large-bellied man trudging wearily home, probably with a drink or two aboard.
The sway of his walk was hypnotic. Tantaerra suddenly felt very tired, too weary to even object to her circumstances. The bumping wasn't as bad as she'd feared, and she found she rather liked the smell of the man she was now pressed against. Though if he didn't bathe in the next day or so …
Sooner than she'd expected, they were pounding on the door of Harl's Hearth, demanding service. The Masked had left a single button undone, and through it Tantaerra could fuzzily glimpse a panel in the door sliding open, a suspicious eye glaring through it.
"Yes?" the eye asked suspiciously.
"A room, if you have one. Private, with a bed-and a large window, that opens. No stabling needed."
"We're closed up for the night."
"I can see that," The Masked said smoothly. "But I assure you I can make it worth your while."
"Show coin."
The Masked did so.
"Mere or Tel?"
There was only the briefest of pauses, and then The Masked said, "I'm afraid I'm from afar, and don't know what that means."
Silence fell and stretched.
"I think I remember you," the man on the other side of the panel said slowly. "You stayed here years back. At least twice. Before things got …as they are now."
Tantaerra could tell by the shifting movement that The Masked had nodded.
"It means," the innkeeper explained, "are you for Mereir, or Telcanor?"
"The Telcanors I've heard of. So, two large and wealthy city families at odds?"
"Bitter rivals. To the point of fighting each other in alleys, or more often setting hired swords to fighting. Nigh everyone in Braganza is loyal to one or the other."
"So are you for Mereir or Telcanor?"
The eye behind the panel favored The Masked with a cold look. "Mereir. Of course."
The climb to the room was a long one, up old and narrow stairs, through a house that was either sleeping soundly or more likely had few guests staying this night. The room was small and spartan, but had, as promised, a large window that could be opened onto a sloping roof-if one didn't mind disturbing a dozen or so seemingly incontinent pigeons.