"The medallion."
"What makes it so valuable?" Cholly demanded.
"Don't know. He didn't tell us. He just paid us to get it."
"Who paid you?"
"He didn't give us a name. He was dressed in magician's robes."
"What did he look like?"
"Silver hair-"
The knife just missed Cholly's ear before burying itself in the tall man's eye. Blood and clear liquid gushed out of the wound. The dying man jerked once and went limp. Cholly released his hold. The body slid down the wall, the stubby knife handle still protruding from the eye socket.
The barrel-man was just vanishing into an alley.
"I should've hit him harder," the gluemaker muttered.
He gave a shrill whistle and Enkidu and Eshi backed up. Business was business. He loaded the dead man into his wagon and covered him with canvas. No one thought it unusual for him to be picking up somebody this early. There were accident victims all the time. It was common practice to mind one's own business.
Babbo shifted his weight from foot to foot while wringing his unwashed hands. His gaze never left the floor. The room was cool, but the hireling's stained homespun tunic was damp with sweat.
"What in the Shadowed One's name are you saying? How could he get away? There were two of you! Both armed! Do you mean to tell me two of the best muggers in the Maze were bested by a bald old shopkeeper?" Marype raged.
"He was good," Babbo said defensively. "Dorien was one of the best men I knew in a brawl. When I came to-I never heard him coming before he busted my head-he had poor Dorien pinned against the wall with an axe handle and a knee pushing Dor's balls up to his belly button. Believe me, the man is good. How do you think he got that old? Only way I could shut Dor up was to spike 'im."
"Why didn't you knife the gluemaker instead?"
"Look, I didn't have a lot of time, you know? I wasn't in no shape to tangle with the man. Maybe I just throwed amongst 'em and ran. Besides, you're the magician; why didn't you do something? Turn fatso into something?"
"As long as he has the amulet, magic doesn't work on him. Why else would I hire you two bunglers?"
"Big hotshot magician," Babbo retorted. "You can't do the job with your spells, so you hire us. Then you got the balls to come down on me 'cause I didn't get him neither. Far as I'm concerned you can go diddle yourself. See ya around. Cotton-top," he snorted, his fear replaced by contempt.
It was crowded in the stands Lowan Vigeles had built at his Land's End estate and the stone benches were uncomfortable. The spectators had already swilled down enough Red Gold to be rowdy. Zandulas and Cholly were hooting and hollering with the rest. The early rounds had been condemned criminals pitted against each other. Not much skill there; mostly brute strength. Chollandar preferred the chariot races.
He was picking them well. The fourth race had just ended, and for the third time he was collecting his winnings. Zandulas, who was zero for four, got to his feet with a sour grin.
"I'm getting a brew before the final heat. Want one?"
"No thanks, Zan. Want me to place any bets for you?"
"Neh. Oh all right. If I'm not back in time, just put two coppers on whoever you pick."
Cholly's favorite driver was Borak. Behind his three chestnut geldings Borak's long oily whip moved like a living creature, while he used the bladed wheel hubs better than most men wield a sword.
The other drivers in today's final race were Magyar driving whites, Atticus with dappled grays, and Crispen with a second team of whites. No second-raters there.
Everywhere were shouts of "Six coppers on Atticus," "Two on Magyar," "Four on Atticus," "Eight on Crispen,"
Caught up in the betting, Cholly shouted, "Two silver on Borak!"
"Take 'em all. I'll cover the balance," Zandulas whispered, returning. "I'd have taken Atticus, but then I haven't been right all afternoon and you're on a hot streak. I just hope it holds."
The big money bets were in the box seats, stacks of golden soldats. The difference was that those in the boxes could usually afford to lose. The simple townsfolk in the cheap seats were hard pressed if they lost a handful of coppers.
The tingle was back. Someone was watching him again.
Four teams entered the track, having drawn lots for position. Cholly frowned. Borak was on the outside. Next to Borak came Crispen, then Magyar, and finally Atticus at the advantageous inside spot. The games master dipped the flag and they were off. Horses crowded each other. Sharpened steel zinged each time the wheels whirred close together. Crispen forced Borak into the wall, but the wily veteran kept control. Dust flew as his blades gouged the masonry. To even the score he flicked his whip, welting the closest white racer's hindquarters. The horse broke stride. It took only a moment to get back in sync, but that was enough.
Cholly looked around. Was that a flash of silver hair in the crowd behind him? Maybe it was a woman who had joined in the fad. Maybe not. His left hand rested upon the hilt of the Ilbarsi knife.
A white stallion screamed when it was hit by a blade, chewing his rear leg off at the gaskin. The crowd roared. The animal's fall yanked the singletree to one side, causing the rest of the team to wheel, overturning the chariot. Magyar's hand was caught in the reins and he was dragged along beneath.
The silver hair was out of sight, but not gone. Cholly could feel it.
Zandulas was shouting, "Did you see that?"
By the last lap Borak was ahead of Atticus by half a length. Crispen had gotten tangled in Magyar's wreck and lost too much time to make it up.
"Collect my winnings," he told Zandulas.
"Why? Where're you going?"
"Must be the Red Gold. I'm not feeling so good," Cholly lied.
He could hear the crowd shouting Borak's name as he hurried down the steps. A knife darted at him but was deflected by the iron and leather vest he wore. He was lucky, and knew it.
Once out of the estate, Cholly ran as fast as his thick legs could carry him through the construction gangs working on the walls, through a gap in the emerging wall itself, then darted down twisting alleys and taking random turns. Few others knew the streets as well as this man who traveled them each morning. Soon he would reach the docks. He saw no sign of pursuit, but the feeling remained.
The Winebarrel catered to fishermen. Most of the clientele knew Cholly. They bought glue from him to use on their boats. He, in turn, or his apprentices, bought unsold or inedible fish from them. He was made welcome.
Of all the folk in Sanctuary, only the fishers had truly accepted the Beysib-at least the Setmur clan of Beysib-because the newcomers were hard workers, honest and good sailors. Inside the net-hung walls of the Winebarrel, all seamen were brothers, comrades-in-arms in the endless battle to eke a living from the merciless sea.
It was not surprising then that the one-armed Ilsigi should be sharing his table with a small, quiet fish-eyed man. Cholly walked over and joined them- For a moment the tingle was gone, or else so weak he did not notice it.
Omat, the Ilsigi fisherman, gestured with his glass. "You're getting thinner on top and thicker in the middle. And you look like you could use a drink. Pull up a stool and let me buy you one. You know Monkel Setmur, don't you? Monkel, Cholly here makes the best damned glue you can buy-"
"-Or get in trade. What fisherman doesn't know Cholly?" the small man said, smiling sincerely and extending his hand. "What brings you to the Winebarrel?"
"I'm in a real fix. Somebody's trying to kill me. I found this medallion in the stuff I took in this morning. Ever since then, someone's been on my tail. Two gutter rats tried to waylay me, but I caught 'em off guard. I conked one on the head and put the other up against the wall. That's how I found out the connection with the medallion I'd found, and that they'd been hired by a wizard-type with silver hair. But, I hadn't hit the first one hard enough, and he knifed his partner through the eye before I got any more.