They were falling down a dark shaft-no, riding something that squealed, as something else hissed past her ear …
"It's me, stop struggling," The Masked said in her ear. "And watch where you wave that knife. People get hurt that way."
He was standing atop a dumbwaiter, riding it down its shaft, its rope hissing past. Very quickly, which meant-
The crash as it hit the bottom of the shaft was deafening, teeth-jarring, and ended in loud splinterings as The Masked's boots went through the top of the wooden dumbwaiter box.
He kicked his way free, the last kick smashing open the doors at the bottom of the shaft and striking senseless a Watchsword on the other side of them, who'd been rushing to snatch them open.
That left an escape route that The Masked took without hesitation. And being as he hadn't let go of Tantaerra, she took it too, up an earthen ramp cluttered with wheelbarrows into the slightly less dark night, where three Watchswords had time only to turn and shout and start after them before they were out, along the street, and starting up a promising-looking drainpipe attached to the wall of the nearest dark mansion.
The masked man climbed one-handed with a speed that astonished Tantaerra. Halflings owned drainpipes, not hulking humans who wore masks and manhandled those who hired them and-
This empty mansion had a gently sloping roof split by five towers, a square of four around a higher central spire. The Masked headed across it in surefooted haste.
Only to almost run into someone coming around the nearest tower. Someone whose brown eyes looked all too familiar.
The man who'd been on that temple roof in Halidon. His mouth fell open in surprise, then closed again in a cold smile.
He stepped forward, a long, wicked dagger in his hand.
Chapter Seven
Unless one carried an endless supply of daggers, throwing them was for desperate moments, attempts to impress, or overblown fireside tales. Tantaerra clutched hers firmly as she sprang.
A skirling shriek announced that The Masked's dagger had already met the steel of their foe-who ducked, darted, and slashed with a speed that made Tantaerra gulp. The Masked backed away only just in time, that wicked blade slicing cloak and leather.
Its wielder rolled, kicked, and came up inside The Masked's guard-too close to miss.
He drew back his arm for a gutting thrust, and Tantaerra flung herself frantically at his elbow, knowing even as she launched herself that she'd be too late.
The Masked sprang into the air, drawing up his knee sharply in a kick that slammed the point of that wicked dagger up over his shoulder even as he clutched at his foe's arms. He and the brown-eyed man went over backward, leaving Tantaerra hurtling toward empty roof. As they fell back, grappling, The Masked slammed his face forward, then hard sideways.
The brown-eyed man cried out as sharp points along the top of the mask laid open his forehead, blood spurting into his eyes-and the two men crashed thunderously to the roof together, bouncing once before they started sliding toward the edge. Fast. The Masked slammed their faces together again.
Then Tantaerra was busy hitting the roof in her own bone-shaking crash. She bit her tongue involuntarily as the hard landing drove the breath from her, rolled as she tasted her blood-no nicer than last time, she thought fleetingly-and slid down smooth tiles a frighteningly long way before desperate jabbings with her dagger brought her to a halt.
Attacking this brown-eyed man had been a bad mistake. Whoever he was, he was a far better fighter than either of them. They'd be lucky to escape, even if-
"Hold, and down weapons, in the name of Lord Ravnagask! The Watchguard commands you!"
— this rash battle didn't bring the Watchguard patrol up onto the roof.
"Hold, I said! You! Hold!"
Tantaerra rolled over to see who the Watchsword was bellowing at, just in time to see the brown-eyed man leap off the edge of the roof into the night.
Two Watchswords rushed to peer after him, almost lost themselves over the edge, and hastily grabbed at tiles and the nearest tower to keep from falling.
Tantaerra knew the man from Halidon wouldn't fall to the cobbles below. He'd catch hold of a balcony, stair, window or some such, and get clean away.
Disgusted, a young Watchsword, clinging to one of the towers to lean out perilously and peer, was reporting just that to the older, gray-haired officer who'd shouted the orders. "Clean away, sir! Three buildings on, and I've lost sight of him! Leaps like a spider!"
"No doubt," the ranking Watchsword said sourly. "Which leaves us with these two who were fighting him-presumably after arranging to meet him in this empty house. For no good nor legal purpose, I think. Take them."
The Masked had been crawling slowly up the roof, all weapons put away-and a ring of Watchswords had been warily closing in around him.
"No!" The Masked said sharply. "Don't touch it! There's a curse!"
Tantaerra looked over at him in time to see Watchswords drawing back from where they'd been about to unmask him.
"A likely tale," the Watchguard commander growled. "Off it comes."
Tantaerra watched the ring of Watchswords waver, all of them hesitating.
"I'm telling the truth," The Masked told them grimly-and the cautious hands reaching for him drew back again.
The commander sighed in exasperation, stumped along the roof-ridge, reached down, and wrenched the mask off.
There was a collective not-quite-gasp, a shared indrawn breath, as every Watchsword stared at the revealed ruin of a face.
Into the silence that followed, the man they were staring at said politely, "Please return that to me as quickly as you can. The curse is not of my doing, and I can't protect you or anyone from it. Quickly."
The Watchguard officer regarded him expressionlessly for a long moment. Then, without a word, he handed the mask back.
"Weapons," he commanded The Masked curtly. "Slowly."
Mask back in place, the man Tantaerra had hired back in Halidon started handing over steel. A sword, two daggers, a third …and then a well-hidden fourth, before he stopped, folded his arms, and looked up at the Watchguard officer.
"Keep going," the patrol commander growled. "I know you have more."
The Watchswords Tantaerra hadn't quite reached yet stirred on the roof above her. She stopped climbing to meet them.
"After we surrender our weapons," she piped up, deciding she'd been meekly silent long enough, "then what? Is it too soon to tender my personal complaint to Lord Ravnagask?"
"Much," the commander replied flatly. "You're in for some harsh questioning first. He'd probably add some heavy questions of his own, if you somehow got to see him. Thieves and murderers aren't welcome in Braganza."
The Masked was yielding up daggers from both boots. "That's good to hear. However," he added loudly, "we happen to be neither. We're merchants from afar, newly arrived in fair Braganza-but chased out of the room we rented, a short while ago, by warring bands of recruiters for the Mereirs and the Telcanors. Who were so bent on carving each other up that we feared for our lives, and sought a rooftop to sleep on-only to find a foe up here, too!"
The lead Watchsword's eyes were cold. "Merchants you may be, from time to time …as are all who have something to sell. Yet to my eyes you match descriptions just arrived from Halidon, of two fugitives who murdered a high-ranking investigator on a rooftop there. Not to mention burned down no less than three warehouses full of valuable wares. And here we are, on a rooftop."