Up ahead was a wider intersection from which came the smells of overripe fruit and goat dung. In it, street merchants were setting up their wares. Women shook out dusty blankets and laid them on the cobblestones, claiming their selling space for the day. Heavily laden goats stood with heads lowered, picking at the scraps of rind and peel left behind from the previous day, while older children unloaded produce from bulging sacks on the goats’ backs, setting it out in neat piles on the blankets their mothers had spread.
All of this Arvin took in at a glance as he pounded toward the Y-shaped intersection. He also noted the buildings that framed the intersection: a sprawling pottery factory with smoking chimneys jutting out of its roof, a slaughterhouse with freshly skinned rabbits hanging from its eaves, a tinsmith’s factory from which came the din of hammers pounding on metal, and a narrow two-story tower housing a business Arvin recognized-a spice shop.
Its owner was Guild-a man who, like Arvin, sold products other than those on display. Viro had olive skin and dark, thinning hair with traces of yellow powder in it. He was just unlocking the curved wooden shutters that fronted the spice shop when he heard Arvin running toward him and glanced back over his shoulder.
Arvin’s fingers flicked quick signs in the Guild’s silent language. Need to hide. Distract?
Pretend back door, Viro signed back. Stay inside. Loft.
Arvin panted his thanks and ran into the shop.
The interior was only dimly lit; Viro had yet to open its shutters to let in the dawn’s light. The smell of freshly extinguished candles drifted through the dusty air, together with the sweet scent of cinnamon and the sharp tang of ground coriander. The spices were held in enormous, open-mouthed clay pots that had scoop handles sticking out the tops; Arvin deliberately snagged one of these as he ran by, sending it clattering to the floor amidst a scatter of black pepper. He hoped the pepper wasn’t too exotic or expensive; he’d have to pay Viro for it later.
He ran to the back door and flung it open. Then he doubled back and clambered up a rope ladder that led to a wooden platform-the loft where sacks of un-ground spices were stored.
Outside the shop, he could hear Viro shouting protests at the militia. “No! There’s valuable merchandise in there. You can’t run through there! Stop!”
The militia, urged on by a babble of voices as street merchants pointed out which doorway Arvin had run into, ignored Viro. A heartbeat after Arvin had pulled the last rung of the ladder up into the loft and flung himself down, out of sight, they burst into the shop.
“The back door!” one shouted. “He must have gone that way.”
Peering down through a knothole, thankful that blood was no longer dribbling from his injured nose, Arvin watched as two militiamen ran out the back door. The third man-their sergeant-held back, eyeing the thigh-high jars of spice as if trying to decide whether they were big enough to hold a man. Spotting the scoop that had fallen, he drew his sword and thrust it into the pepper inside the jar, stirring up the black powder. Suddenly he began blinking rapidly, and gave an enormous sneeze. He yanked his sword out and kicked the jar instead, knocking it over. Pepper cascaded onto the floor.
Arvin silently groaned; the cost of his freedom had just gone up significantly. But at the same time he smiled at the man’s discomfort; the sergeant was sneezing violently. Arvin knew just how that felt. One of the times he’d run away from the orphanage he’d hidden inside a bakery and accidentally wound up pulling an entire sack of flour down from a shelf he’d tried to climb. The rupture of the sack over his head had set off a sneezing attack. As a result, the bakers had discovered Arvin, but the spilled flour had been a blessing in disguise. It had coated him from hair to heel, hiding the ink on his wrists that identified him as belonging to the orphanage. Unfortunately, he’d been recognized for what he was when he stepped outside into the rain and the flour washed off.
Below Arvin, the sergeant turned as someone walked in through the front door. Arvin’s heart sank as he saw it was the gray-haired man. Behind him came Viro, wringing his hands.
“That’s pepper!” Viro wailed, staring at the toppled jar. “Ten silver pieces an ounce!” The protest sounded genuine-and probably was. Viro glared at the back door of his shop, as if trying to spot Arvin. “When you catch that rogue, drag him back here. He’s got to pay for what he’s spilled.”
The sergeant ignored him. “Where did he go, Tanju?”
The gray-haired man-Tanju, his name must be, though the word sounded foreign-closed his eyes and raised the wire-bound crystals to his ear as if listening to them. A faint sound, like that of chimes tinkling together in the wind, filled the air. Arvin wondered just who in the Nine Hells he’d been mistaken for. Whoever it was, the men below certainly wanted to find him. Arvin glanced frantically around the loft, looking for an escape route. Morning sunlight slanted in through the shutters of a small window a few paces away. Rising to his hands and knees, he began a slow, silent crawl across the spice sacks toward it.
In the room below, the purple glow of the crystals intensified. Then, just as Arvin reached the window and began turning its latch-praying all the while it wouldn’t squeak-the purple glow dimmed.
Arvin heard Tanju’s voice drop to a low whisper. Viro immediately began a loud protest. “Where are you going? He’s not up-”
Viro’s protest ended in a sharp grunt. Arvin winced, realizing the fellow had probably just been punched in the gut. An instant later, the creak of boards and the slight clink of chain mail completed the warning Viro had begun. The sergeant was climbing toward Arvin’s hiding place. Someone else-probably Tanju-was striding toward the back door, presumably to call back the other militiamen.
The time for stealth was long gone. Leaping to his feet, Arvin booted the shutter open and dived headlong through the window. He landed in a controlled tumble on the flat, soot-encrusted rooftop of the pottery factory and sprang once more to his feet, this time smudged with black. He glanced behind him-just in time to see the sergeant lean out the window with a crossbow-and threw himself behind a chimney a heartbeat before a crossbow bolt shattered the roof tiles where he had been standing. The sergeant wasn’t carrying one of the immobilizing crossbows. He was shooting to kill.
Arvin touched the bead that hung around his neck for reassurance and glanced across the rooftop, estimating how far he’d have to run. The militia had obviously given up on merely capturing him. They meant to kill him instead. “Nine lives,” he whispered, dropping his hand, but it was more of a question, this time. Had his luck finally run out? He heard the creak of sinews tightening and the winding of a crank. The sergeant was reloading his crossbow.
Breaking from cover, Arvin sprinted across the roof. There were chimneys every few paces, emitting thin, hot smoke laden with glowing sparks that settled on his hair and skin. Ignoring these pinpricks of pain, he zigzagged from one chimney to another, all the while making for the center of the building, which was open to the sky. The open area was a circular courtyard filled with stacks of newly made pots and firewood for the kilns. No one was in it at the moment.
This courtyard looked like a dead end-but Arvin knew it must have doors leading out of it. He could always double back through the factory and escape onto the street again.