The Masked blinked, then spread his hands. "This is what passes for evidence in Braganza? Do you arrest anyone you find on a street after someone breaks into a warehouse from-gasp! — a street? Be aware, before you answer, that my next report to Canorate will certainly make mention of how you treat us, Watchcaptain."
"Oh? See that it mentions murder," the Watchguard commander replied, "and three warehouses."
The Masked waved a dismissive hand. "My, my, busy little fugitives you have in …where was it? Halidon? Not that doings in backwaters of the land are any concern of ours, officer. What is of concern to us is being so aggressively accused of such things, out of seeming nowhere. And I cannot help but ask myself, is this accusation of yours one more part of this foolish feud that seems to have swept Braganza? Are you and your fellow Watchswords for Mereir? Or for Telcanor?"
The patrol commander stiffened, his eyes flashing. "Let me inform you of something, prisoner. The Watchswords serve the Lord of Braganza. We're loyal to our oaths and to our city, and hold ourselves above the Mereir and Telcanor foolishness-which is a festering rot that shall be rooted out soon enough!"
He slammed his fist down on the roof-ridge beside him. As if that had been a cue, the air behind the assembled patrol was suddenly full of hurtling cobblestones-missiles that thudded into Watchsword backs and arms and heads. The struck soldiers toppled, several falling off the roof with despairing cries.
Over this din rose a voice that rang like a bugle. "Die, foul dogs of Mereir!"
The Watchcaptain turned, sword flashing out. "Stand together, Watchguard! Together!"
Two stones came right at him. The patrol commander dashed them aside with a curse, and then there seemed to be no more stones, just a line of dark-armored men charging across the rooftop. Men who'd stealthily come up the same stair the Watchguard patrol had used, and now stood between the Watchswords and any way down from the roof alive.
"Telcanor! For Telcanor!"
"Telcanor!"
"Mereir!" one Watchsword snarled back, in the instant before blades met and men started hacking at each other deafeningly. The Masked pounced on the constable who'd taken most of his weapons from behind, slammed the man's face into the roof so hard a tile cracked under it, then did the same to the next Watchsword, so he could recover his entire arsenal.
Tantaerra stayed where she was, chin-down on the tiles, watching men chopping and slashing each other above her.
Among the Telcanor attackers was someone who moved with far more agility, ducking low and coming fast, avoiding everyone else as he made for the Watchcaptain who commanded the patrol. It was the man from Halidon. Obviously he'd found and led this band of Telcanor warriors right back to the rooftop he'd so recently fled from, to mount this attack. But why? Who was he, and what was he up to?
The Masked had seen the man too, and shot a questioning look Tantaerra's way. She jerked her head at the night behind herself in a "Let's be gone from here!" signal, saw him nod, and started climbing carefully across the roof to join him.
It wasn't an easy traverse. Wounded or dying men and women kept crashing to the tiles and then sliding or rolling down it, taking anyone in their way down to the street with them. As she clawed her way across blood-smeared tiles, more than one body tumbled past to thud wetly on unseen cobbles below.
Halfway there, a particularly furious clash of arms made Tantaerra look up from trying not to kill herself long enough to see that the Watchguard commander was down. Their mysterious pursuer was now fighting his way toward The Masked, yet the patrol seemed to have rallied, and he was having to fight his way through at least five Watchswords to reach his quarry. Five good warriors who were holding their ground.
Heartened, Tantaerra hurried as quickly as she dared, reaching The Masked just as he finished prying up a roof tile to lay bare the lattices beneath.
"That dagger you just ruined," he muttered, reaching out a hand for it.
Tantaerra gave it to him. Without another word he tied it to an end of cord he'd just wound around two lattices as a stop-wedge, hauled her to his breast as if he was a wet nurse and she a hungry baby, and launched himself down the roof.
Tantaerra clung to him grimly through the battering that followed, trying to turn her fingers into talons, digging into The Masked's chest, not caring if she tore out hair by the handful.
Her clawings made him growl in pain as they went over the edge, the cord unrolling from around him in jerks that came faster and faster, tumbling them head-over-bootheels.
"What're you trying to do to me?" Tantaerra shrieked, flinging both arms around his masked head and shouting right into his ear. "I'm going to spew!"
"Spew away, then!" he bellowed. "If our friend up there cuts the line before we get low enough-"
There was a sudden, sickening lack of tension in the cord, and then they were falling, the severed end of cord leaping after them.
They struck hard cobbles, bounced once, slammed down again, and rolled, groaning in mutual pain. Luckily they'd only fallen about the height of a small room, but gods, it hurt.
Gasping for breath, Tantaerra rolled free of The Masked, clutching a lot of hair-and his mask.
She looked back and saw him reaching for her, his eyes ablaze with fury in that melting ruin of a face.
"I didn't mean-" she gasped, as he swept his mask out of her hands, clapped it back into place, then snatched her up and started to stagger along the street.
"Not angry …with you …" he grunted, unsteadily gathering speed. Right behind him, a plummeting Watchguard of Braganza greeted the cobbles with a sprawled and final splat.
A sword followed, all by itself, clanging and ringing like a maltreated bell as it bounced and clattered. Then another man crashed down wetly.
By then, they were more than a cross street away and hurrying, and Tantaerra had her breath back.
"I can run for myself, you know," she told her hireling, who was staggering and breathing heavily.
"Good," he gasped, setting her down with more speed than grace. "Then look back and tell me if you can see our friend anywhere. Following us, for instance."
Tantaerra looked, casting her eyes everywhere, even along rooftops across the street from where the battle was still raging.
"Can't see him," she reported, scurrying to catch up to The Masked, who hadn't stopped hastening down the street, reeling in the severed cord as he went into an untidy bundle. "Which means-"
"Nothing," The Masked put in grimly, saying that last word in unison with her. "He could be anywhere. If the right sort of rooftops happen to be handy, he could even be ahead of us, waiting for us."
"You're not used to such a foe," Tantaerra murmured, looking up at his masked face as they ran. "Not used to being afraid."
The Masked looked at her. "I'm not afraid," he said gruffly. "I'm pissed off. I want a good night's sleep and a decent meal-and a long, hot bath wouldn't come amiss, either. And I doubt I'm going to get any of those very soon. I had the sleep snatched away from me when I thought I'd procured it, and since then, I've been too damned busy fighting and running to be afraid."
"Lanterns ahead," Tantaerra told him, pointing.
"I can see that," he replied testily. "What I can't see is what's behind me-I'm not wearing the mask with the mirrors. Check again-are we being followed?"