The Black Bouquet

CHAPTER 9

As the crash sounded below, Sefris drew a calming breath. She hadn't feared Miri's bow or sword, but she had felt a twinge of alarm when the balcony unexpectedly gave way. The fear proved she still had a way to go before she achieved a perfect, contemptuous indifference to the well-being of all unworthy created things, herself included.

It was something to work on in her meditations, but not just then. She had to recapture the opportunity that was receding beyond her grasp. The monastic retrieved her fallen chakram, she then sprinted back down the spiral stairs.

As Sefris hurtled downward, she cast off-she wished for all time-the habits of speech and expression she'd adopted to impersonate a Broken One. The warmth and compassion of a servant of Ilmater were entirely alien to her own nature. It had taken a constant effort to counterfeit them, and she knew she hadn't managed perfectly. Still, she'd passed muster right up until the end, and that was what mattered.

When she reached ground level, she raced down the street in the direction the kidnappers and their victim had taken. She kept to the shadows as best she could, but stealth was less important than speed, and her sandals pounded the wheel-rutted earth.

Indeed, she'd nearly passed the narrow cul-de-sac before she registered the stairs at the end of it, like a well lined with steps twisting downward into the ground. When she spotted it, however, she stopped cold.

The part of Oeble that knew rain and sunlight did possess some semblance of law and order, no matter how corrupt or ineffectual, so it seemed unlikely that outlaws dragging a prisoner along would opt to continue in the streets when they could descend to the Underways instead. Sefris bounded down the narrow, unrailed steps, indifferent to the possibility of a fall. Her Dark Moon training had honed her sense of balance to such a degree that the rapid descent was no more difficult than sprinting on level ground.

The real challenge came when the stairs deposited her in a twisting tunnel, the inky darkness relieved only by the smears of phosphorescence on the walls. Peering around, she saw nothing to indicate in which direction the Red Axes had gone.

Accordingly, she listened, hoping that, since they'd returned "below," the toughs would start taunting their victim or gloating over their success. In her experience, such mindless, undisciplined behavior was typical of robbers and goblin-kin the world over.

She thought she heard catcalls and laughter echoing faintly from the right, and she hurried in that direction. She judged she was heading more or less toward the river, though the mazelike warrens were already muddling her sense of direction. She rather wished she could cast a spell of tracking or guidance to keep her on the proper course, but the simple fact was that no sorceress could master every conceivable conjuration and enchantment, and such tricks weren't a part of her repertoire.

As it turned out, she didn't need them. She rushed or skulked past various scenes of the sort the Underways provided in such abundance-a burglar selling a silk wedding dress to a dealer in such stolen commodities, ruffians and apprentices squatting in a circle throwing knucklebones, several orcs closing in on a human who'd managed to draw his dagger but looked too drunk to wield it properly-and the kidnappers came into view. Unfortunately, they still had such a lead on Sefris that she wouldn't have spotted them if that length of tunnel hadn't been unusually straight or if a brothel-keeper hadn't hung a scarlet lantern to lure patrons to the doorway of his establishment.

She loped to close the distance, meanwhile pondering the tactical parameters of her situation, not with trepidation, but simply in order to manage the coming slaughter as efficiently as possible. Her foes were many, and she was only one. They had crossbows, which could shoot their quarrels considerably farther than she could fling a chakram. The non-humans could see considerably better in the dark.

She, however, possessed her own advantages. The enemy didn't know she was trailing them. Even more importantly, the Red Axes were simply ruffians, while Sefris was an elite agent of the Lady of Loss, possessed of all the lethal skills a Dark Sister required. A single spell could thin out the toughs in short order.

Unfortunately, the drawback to that approach was that the prisoner was limping along in the midst of the outlaws, and he looked frail enough that any magic potent enough to incapacitate a half dozen bravos was likely to kill him outright. Sefris was still trying to think her way around that aspect of the problem when the folk ahead turned down a side tunnel.

Afraid of losing them, she quickened her pace yet again, but even so, she was too late. When she peeked around the bend, she found that the way dead-ended in a massive oak door reinforced with iron, more like the sallyport of a castle than any entrance to a common residence. Plainly, her quarry had passed through.

She frowned in annoyance, because though killing a group of Red Axes in the Underways would have posed certain problems, invading their fortress was likely to prove far more difficult. Then an alternative occurred to her.

She proceeded to the door. Someone watched her approach. She couldn't see the peephole or hidden sentry box, but she felt the pressure of his gaze. She knocked on the panel.

After several seconds, a gruff voice sounded through the door, "Password."

"I don't know it," she said. "I'm not one of you, but I have business with your chief."

"He's busy."

"Tell him it's about the strongbox Aeron sar Randal stole from the ranger."

For a while, there was no response to that. Then the door opened. The short passage on the other side likewise reminded Sefris of castle architecture, for it resembled a barbican, with murder holes in the ceiling and another stout door at the far end. Two ruffians, one a black-bearded man whose brawny arms writhed with tattoos, the other a naked, crouching meazel, waved her inside. The latter was another of Oeble's surprises. Sefris would have thought the stunted, green-skinned semi-aquatic brutes with their talons and webbed feet too feral and dull-witted to relate to other humanoids as anything but prey, but plainly the leader of the Red Axes had attracted at least one of the brutes into his employ.

"We're going to search you," said the tattooed man. It was the same voice Sefris had heard before.

"Here," she said, removing her chakrams and cesti from her pockets.

The ruffian frisked her anyway, fondling her in the process. It didn't bother her. During her training, her Dark Father and other teachers had systematically subjected her to ordeals compared to which a bit of lascivious groping was meaningless. The important thing was that the sentry failed to discover the various spell components secreted about her person. The confiscation of those would have diminished her capabilities far more than the surrender of her weapons.

But even though the tattooed man's impudence failed to perturb her, she memorized his face for chastisement later on. Her faith virtually required it, for as much as anything, the Lady of Loss was a goddess of revenge.

The toughs escorted her on through cellars crammed with a hodgepodge of no doubt stolen and smuggled goods, then up a flight of stairs into the living areas of what had once been a lavish mansion. In its essence, it still was, but the dirt, dust, scattered garbage, and smell of mildew marred the splendor. Eventually they reached a spacious solar on the second floor. The north wall was essentially one long window, made of genuine glass, and the expensive panes, cracked, smeared, and grimy though they were, provided a panoramic view of the Scelptar, the bridges spanning it, and the moon, her Tears, and the stars sparkling across the night sky.

The leader of the Red Axes apparently used the chamber as a lord would employ his hall, to grant audiences and issue decrees, for, his battle-axe lying across his thighs, the tanarukk lounged in a high-backed, gilded throne at the far end. A dozen of his followers loitered around in attendance, and the prisoner sprawled on the floor. Someone had pulled the sack off his head, revealing haggard, intelligent features, frightened but defiant, and an old scar around his neck.

"Bring her closer," the tanarukk growled.

The meazel gave Sefris a shove, its filthy, likely disease-bearing talons jabbing her but not quite breaking the skin.

She advanced and said, "Kesk Turnskull."

He grunted a swinish grunt and asked, "And who are you?"

"Sefris Uuthrakt."

"What do you know about the lockbox?"

"I won't bore you with the tale of everything that happened in far Ormath months ago," she said. "Let's just say I know what's in it, and I came to Oeble to acquire it."

Kesk grinned around the long, curved spikes of his tusks.

"Then you're out of luck," he said. "It's already spoken for."

"I figured you already had a buyer. I'll pay more. I can lay my hands on three hundred thousand gold pieces' worth of gems. Rubies, emeralds, diamonds, tomb jade, and ghost stones, all of the finest quality."

The lie reduced the hall to astonished, greedy silence for a moment, and then Kesk said, "I don't know you. Why should I believe in this treasure trove?"

Sefris hoped an admixture of truth would make her deception seem more plausible.

"I serve the Lady of Loss," she said. "like you Red Axes, our temple reaves plenty of wealth from those unable to defend it." She waited a beat. "Would it bother you to deal with us?"

Kesk, leering, said, "Do you know where the race of tanarukks sprang from? I'll trade with anybody, no matter what devil-goddess she worships, so long as I can turn a profit. And I'd guess that the secret strongholds of Shar, wherever they may be, do have plenty of coin. But can you prove you're one of the priestesses, or am I just supposed to take it on faith, like the existence of all these jewels you're going to give us?"

"Have you heard of the Dark Moon?"

Kesk's eyes, red and faintly luminous, like embers, narrowed.

"Of Shar's clergy," he said, "yet not. They're protectors and assassins."

Sefris inclined her head and replied, "Something like that. If you've heard of us, you know we study a certain unarmed fighting style. If I defeat a couple of your men at once, using only my empty hands, will that prove I'm who I claim to be?"

"It might," the tanarukk said, "and if they beat you down instead, well, we were already planning on some torture. We might as well question you and old Nicos at once. He can tell us where his son keeps the coffer, and you can give us the truth about all those gems. Presmer, Sewer Rat-you brought her up here, you deal with her. Orvaega, you help. You can bleed her and break her bones, but try not to kill her."

The tattooed man-Presmer, Sefris assumed-whirled off his short leather cape, dangled it in one hand, and drew his short sword with the other. The meazel-the monastic wondered if Sewer Rat was its actual name, translated into human speech, or just a nickname the other rogues had given it-simply hissed and crouched. Evidently it saw no need for any weapons other than its claws. Orvaega, a female orc, hefted a war club in both hands.

Sefris stood still as her opponents spread out to encircle her. Then, suddenly, she bellowed a battle cry, pivoted, and leaped into the air, kicking at Presmer. Startled, he recoiled, as she'd intended. She touched down, whirled, and Sewer Rat and Orvaega were lunging at her. That, too, was as she desired. She'd turned her back and feinted at Presmer to lure them in. Control what your adversaries did, and when, and you were well on the way to defeating them.

Twisting at the hips, she performed a double-arm block that bounced the war club harmlessly away. She then punched the startled Orvaega in the snout, breaking bone and knocking the orc unconscious, and shoved her into Sewer Rat, which served to knock the runtish meazel backward, spoiling its frenzied attack. Floundering out from under the dead weight of its comrade, the black-eyed creature snarled and spat.

Sefris would have rushed Sewer Rat while the meazel was still off balance and encumbered, except that she knew enough time had passed for Presmer to have returned to the fray. She turned, and he swung his cape at her face, seeking to blind her. And stun her, too, perhaps, it the garment had weights sewn into the hem. She dropped into a squat, letting the cloak fly harmlessly over her head, and she simultaneously hooked his ankle with her foot. Presmer crashed down on his back.

Sefris sensed Sewer Rat pouncing. She turned, grabbed the meazel-immobilizing its raking claws in the process-spun it through the air, and smashed it down on top of Presmer. The impact snapped bones and stunned the both of them, and Sefris's only remaining problem was resisting the impulse to go ahead and make the kills. A long, slow breath served to buttress her self-control. She inclined her head to Kesk.

"There," she said.

He gave a grudging nod. If he had any concern for the welfare of the followers she'd just mauled, she could see no sign of it in his demeanor.

"I guess you probably do belong to the Dark Moon," the tanarukk said. "It still doesn't prove you have a king's ransom in jewels to barter."

"I'll produce them when the time comes. If I don't, simply sell the book to the person who first asked you to steal it."

"The fact of the matter is, he's promised more than coin."

"Do you trust him to keep his pledges," Sefris replied, "once he has the book in hand?"

Kesk spat. The gesture left a strand of saliva, which he didn't bother to wipe away, dangling beside the base of one tusk.

He said, "I don't trust anybody much."

"Rest assured, if it's a guarantee of future help you want, or even a genuine alliance, no one can offer more than the followers of Shar. We often make common cause with others who stand against the witless laws of men."

"I'll think about it," said Kesk. "Tell me how to get in touch with you."

"I'd hoped to stay with you for the time being."

The Red Axe snorted and said, "I still don't know what to make of you, human. Until I do, I don't want you running around my house."

"But you may need me. We may need to work together to take possession of the book."

"I doubt it."

"I take it you're going to try two approaches," Sefris said. "The first will be to hope Aeron's father knows the location of the strongbox and torture the secret out of him."

"Do your worst," the old man rasped. "It won't matter. I don't know where the cursed thing is."

Sefris ignored him to stay focused on Kesk.

"The problem," she continued, "is that, as we can see from all those scars, somebody got to him before you and mangled him severely. He's fragile now, and elderly to boot. If you question him in some crude fashion, his heart is likely to stop. But a child of the Dark Moon understands the human body as a healer understands it. It's part of our secret lore. I can cause a prisoner excruciating pain without doing serious harm."

Kesk shrugged and said, "That could come in handy, I suppose."

"I can make myself just as useful if you need to trade the old man for the book. Because it may not go smoothly. Aeron may decide he'd rather be rich than regain his father. He may try to trick you. Or you may decide to deal falsely with him."

"The wretch broke our deal. I'm no longer obliged to keep any promises I give him."

"I agree, and the point is, I can help you catch him. I have my skills, and he won't know we're working together until it's too late."

The tanarukk, scowling, said, "You're not as special as you think you are, woman. We Red Axes have managed to run Oeble for years now without any help from the likes of you."

"But you haven't managed to catch Aeron sar Randal. He's still running around free with the strongbox, laughing at you."

Kesk glared and trembled. His hands clenched on the haft of his axe. For a second, Sefris wondered if she'd pushed too hard, and would have to defend herself against him and all his henchmen, too. She called the words of a spell to mind.

Then, however, he brought himself under control.

"All right, you can stay for the time being." He waved his hand at Aeron's father and added, "Let me see this light touch of yours."

Sefris smiled without having to feign satisfaction, because she'd accomplished her objective, and her new situation, dangerous though it was, afforded her several advantages. As long as she was working with the Red Axes, she wouldn't have to worry about their somehow laying hands on the book ahead of her. A gang of cutthroats could manage a prisoner more easily than could a lone monastic, and since Oeble was their city, they ought to have less trouble making contact with Aeron. When the time came, it would be challenging to snatch the prize and vanish from their midst, but she was confident of her ability to do so.

She rounded on Nicos, who, his courage notwithstanding, saw something in her manner that made him blanch. She jumped him, found the proper pressure point, and paralyzed him as she had the beggar boy.

When Aeron slipped through the door of the cramped little shop, Daelric Heldeion was at his desk, whittling a chop from a piece of pine. The paunchy scribe was primarily in the business of writing and reading documents, but he'd made a profitable sideline of providing his illiterate clientele with a means of signing their names, or in the case of the budget-minded, their initials, to a piece of parchment.

Daelric looked up, realized who'd come to call on him, and his gray eyes opened wide. In light of recent events, that was all Aeron needed to see. He whipped out a throwing knife, cocked his arm, and Daelric froze.

"Are the Red Axes watching this place?" Aeron asked. "Are you supposed to give a signal?"

"No!" Daelric said. "But Kesk's ruffians have been around hunting you. The Gray Blades, too, though they don't know who they're looking for. Why in the Binder's name are you still in town?"

"I can dodge the folk who wish me ill. I always have before."

"If you say so. I wish you'd put the knife down."

Aeron returned the weapon to its sheath and said, "You'll see it again up close if you try anything foolish."

"What would I try? I'm a scribe, not one of you cutthroats," Daelric replied. He produced a linen handkerchief and blotted the sweat on his round, pink face. "What's that muck on your tunic? I can smell the stink from over here."

"Demon gore."

Aeron advanced to the desk, its surface littered with quills, inkwells, penknives, pine shavings, a stack of parchment, and lancets for those who insisted on contracts and promissory notes signed in blood. He cleared a space, brought the black book out from under his cloak, and set it down. Daelric goggled at it.

"This is the prize everyone wants so badly?" the scribe asked.

"Yes, and I need you to read enough of it to tell me why."

The scribe rubbed his thumb and fingertips together.

Aeron sighed. He set the rest of his coin atop the desk. Daelric regarded the copper and silver pieces without enthusiasm.

"Is that all you have?" said the scribe. "If the Red Axes find out I helped you, it could mean my life."

"I'll give you more-lots more-once I sell the book. Or, if that's not good enough, I'll find somebody else to read it, and not only will you miss out on the coin, you'll never know what all the fuss was about."

Aeron knew from past dealings that the clerk possessed a healthy streak of curiosity.

"Oh, all right." Daelric ran his finger under the embossed words on the cover. "The title is The Black Bouquet..Does that mean anything to you?"

"No."

"Nor to me," Daelric said.

He opened the volume, and sweet fragrances wafted up, combined with the smell of crumbling paper. He started to read. Aeron waited for a couple minutes, until impatience got the better of him.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well," Daelric replied, "it's old."

"I could tell that much."

"The point is, languages, and our way of writing them, change over time."

Aeron frowned and said, "That sounds strange. Why would they?"

"They just do, and as a result, old books are more difficult to read than new ones. I'm having a slow time of it, but I think this one is a formulary."

"A formulary?"

"A recipe book," the scribe explained. "For making perfumes."

"That would explain all the flowery scents clinging to the pages. But… magical perfumes?"

"It doesn't seem like it."

"Then what makes it so cursed special?" Aeron asked.

"I may need to read it cover to cover to determine that."

"How long will that take?"

"A couple days, perhaps."

"Thanks anyway." Maybe Daelric was more trustworthy than Burgell-it would be nice to think so-but Aeron couldn't linger that long, nor was he such a fool as to let the book out of his possession. "I'll figure it out some other way. By the way, you haven't seen me."

"I understand," the scribe said.

"For your own sake, I hope so."

Aeron tucked the formulary back under his cloak, opened the door, checked the street for lurking cutthroats and patrolling Gray Blades, then prowled on his way.

Concerned that someone might spot him moving through the open spaces comprising Laskalar's Square, he swung wide around it and reached his own tower a few minutes later. As he climbed the rickety stairs, he was looking forward to telling his father about his adventures. Maybe Nicos had heard of The Black Bouquet.

One glimpse of the open door at the top of the steps turned eagerness to anxiety. The old man would never have left it that way. Aeron started to run, realized someone might be lying in wait inside the garret, and forced himself to proceed warily instead. It was as hard as anything he'd ever done in his life.

No one was waiting for him, Nicos included. Intruders had plainly ransacked the apartment and smashed it up as well, and scrawled a crimson battle-axe sign on the wall so he'd know who to blame.

Aeron felt stunned. He hadn't anticipated Kesk's finding his home. No enemy had ever sought it out before, even though a few friends and tradesmen knew where it was. Even if he'd expected it, he wouldn't have thought the Red Axes would hurt Nicos. The old man had done nothing to offend them, and he had in his time been a respected member of the outlaw fraternity. In the Dance, the Door, and the Hungry Haunting, the bards still told tales of his most daring thefts.

Aeron realized that up until then, his rogue's life, though perilous, had always seemed to abide by certain rules. His rivals and the law would try to interfere with him, but only up to a point. Maybe it was just luck, and his own folly, that made it feel that way, or maybe, by stealing The Black Bouquet and defying Kesk, he'd spurred his adversaries to new heights of energy and ruthlessness. But either way, he was playing a new game, one where every hand was raised against him, and no tactic was out of bounds.

Everyone was right, he thought. I should have run away when I had the chance.

Unfortunately, it was too late. He couldn't flee and leave Nicos in danger.

He noticed the empty space where the balcony had been. It was hard to imagine that the Red Axes, maliciously destructive as they'd been, had taken the trouble to break the platform loose from its anchors. It had probably fallen on its own, and Nicos had loved to lounge out there and watch the river. What if Kesk's outlaws hadn't kidnapped him after all? What if-Aeron didn't want to finish the thought. He just scrambled to the brink and peered down.

Two stories below, a Rainspan connected the tower to the roof of a small building. The balcony had smashed down on the bridge and shattered. Most of the planks had plummeted to the ground far below, but a few, along with a motionless human figure, littered the elevated pathway.

Aeron raced out of the garret and down the steps. He found the door to the Rainspan and plunged out onto the end. The bridge creaked and shifted under his weight. He couldn't remember a time when it had truly felt secure, but the impact from above had clearly weakened it.

His eyes widened in surprise. The bloody body sprawled on the Rainspan wasn't his father. It was the female ranger from whom he'd stolen the saddlebag. Her broadsword stuck up out of the walkway, so close to her head that it might have sheared a lock of her close-cropped hair. Maybe she'd had it in her hand when the balcony collapsed, and she lost her grip on it. At any rate, he could picture it tumbling on its own and striking the bridge point first a second after her, nearly piercing her face in the process.

He pushed the grisly image out of his head. What mattered was that it wasn't his father lying there. Nicos must really be in Kesk's brutal hands, and Aeron had to find a way to set him free. He started to turn away, but then he hesitated.

He told himself not to be an idiot. The scout deserved whatever misfortune came her way. She'd killed Kerridi, Gavath, and Dal.

Yet she hadn't shot Aeron, and he hadn't knifed her when he'd had the chance. What was the point of sparing her then, only to let her die later? Assuming she wasn't dead already. From where he stood, he couldn't tell.

Maybe she'd watched the Red Axes abduct Nicos. Maybe she could tell Aeron something he needed to know.

His reasons for intervening felt like mere excuses, unconvincing even to himself. Yet, witless though it was, he'd feel base and vile if he simply walked away. He set the book down, and took a cautious step toward her, and the Rainspan squealed and shuddered. He froze.

"Scout," he said, "if you're alive, you have to let me know. Otherwise, I'm not coming out there."

She didn't respond. That was it, then. Maybe she was only unconscious, not dead, but all things considered, it would be stupid to risk his own neck to find out.

Or so he told himself. Then he crept forward anyway.

He moved slowly, setting his feet down as softly as he ever had slinking toward the jewelry box on a lady's vanity with the woman and her husband snoring in bed just a few feet away. Despite his caution, the Rainspan snarled and jerked.

It didn't crumble away beneath him, however, and in time he reached the woman. He stooped, cupped his hand over her nose and mouth, and felt the brush of her exhalation. She was alive.

Aeron guessed that meant he wasn't a complete fool. Maybe three quarters' worth.

"Ranger," he said, "wake up."

He gave her a little shake, then pinched her cheek hard. No matter what he did, she wouldn't stir.

"Wonderful," he said.

He lifted the guide in his arms. The damaged bridge had protested simply at supporting him. The weight of two people concentrated in a single spot made it rasp and buck repeatedly. The jerking grew increasingly violent, and the snapping and grinding, louder.

Aeron's heart hammered. His mouth was dry. He felt an almost ungovernable urge to scramble off the walkway as quickly as he could, but he forced himself to proceed as cautiously as before, until finally he reached the safety of the shelf to which the Rainspan was attached.

He set the archer down, wiped at the sweat on his face, and panted until he caught his breath. Then he searched her.

Her sword was stuck out on the bridge, and her bow presumably lay somewhere in the street below. She still had a dirk, a buckler, and some arrows in her quiver, however, all of which he tossed beyond her reach. She certainly seemed severely injured, but he was no healer. He wanted to make certain she didn't suddenly rouse and stick something sharp in him or brain him with the shield.

Next he went after her coin. Like many folk in Oeble, she carried a few coins in the pigskin purse on her belt, but more in an interior pocket of her leather armor. When he relieved her of her gold and saw just what a tidy sum it was, he grinned. At least he was back in funds again.

He stuffed The Black Bouquet under his tunic. Big as it was, it rode uncomfortably there, but he needed both hands. Though someone had once told him an injured person shouldn't be moved any more than necessary, he couldn't leave the ranger there. He had to take her someplace where she could be helped.

He wrapped her in her cloak in what he recognized was a rather pitiable attempt to disguise the nature of the peculiar burden he proposed to carry through the streets. He tugged his hood as far forward as it would go, to shadow his features, then he picked her up, carried her down the stairs, and out of the tower.

He was fit and she was slender, but the past couple days had been strenuous, and his arms and back soon started to ache. He was pondering the advisability of draping her over his shoulder when someone whistled in the darkness up ahead. A moment later, a similar series of shrill notes warbled from behind. Aeron couldn't understand the signals-as far as he knew, no outsider could-but he recognized the distinctive signature of Whistlers calling to one another. The first one trilled again. It sounded closer. The gang member was evidently heading down the street.

Aeron could have dashed for the mouth of an alleyway, but not quickly enough, not encumbered with the ranger. He considered dumping her, but even if no one molested her, there was no guarantee that anybody would help her, either, and he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. He could also try relying on his cowl to conceal his identity, but he doubted it would do the job, not if the Whistler was actually hunting him and passed close by.

That meant his best option was to hide. He carried the scout into a shadowy doorway and hunkered down. He drew a throwing knife in case he did have to fight, and stayed motionless thereafter.

A pair of bravos, both human, came into view. The cleanshaven one swaggered and sneered as, Aeron assumed, bullies the world over were wont to do. The one with the long, drooping mustache looked bored.

They glanced this way and that, plainly searching for someone or something. The man with the mustache peered straight at Aeron, but then turned indifferently away. The fugitive slumped with relief, and the ranger twitched and groaned.

He frantically tried to clap his hand over her mouth. It took him a second to find it inside the muffling cloak. Meanwhile, he waited to see if the Whistlers had heard her.

No, evidently not, for they wandered on down the street. Once they were gone, and his nerves left off jangling, he checked on the guide. She was still unconscious. She'd moaned in her sleep, if "sleep" was the proper word for her condition.

"You're too much trouble," he told her. "I earned every bit of your stinking gold." He wrapped her up again and carried her onward.

The priests of Ilmater maintained a house of healing on the thoroughfare called the Rolling Shields. Someone had painted the god's emblem, a pair of white hands bound with red rope, on the door, where the lamplight illuminated it. A scarlet bell pull hung beside the sigil, but with his hands full, Aeron found it easier simply to kick the panel until a stocky young acolyte with bloodstained sleeves opened it. The smells of astringent soap, incense, and sickness drifted out from inside.

"I have an injured woman here," Aeron said. "I'll pay for a private room and the best care you can give her."

"Everyone receives the best care we can give, no matter the size of the donation," the novice said stiffly.

Still, he led Aeron past the public wards with their double rows of cots to a chamber with a single bed in it. Aeron set the scout down, and the acolyte disappeared. A senior priest, scrawny, pale, and grizzled, appeared a minute later. He gave Aeron a curt nod, then proceeded to examine his patient. Eventually he rested his fingertips against her head and murmured an incantation. Pale light shone around them both, as if they were celestial beings possessed of halos. Bone clicked inside the guide's body. Aeron assumed it was knitting itself back together, but even so, the noise set his teeth on edge.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She was gravely injured," said the priest, "but she'll mend."

"Quickly, I imagine, since you used a spell on her."

"I'll be using more, but even so, it may be tomorrow or even the next day before she regains consciousness."

"Piss and dung," Aeron muttered.

He couldn't wait that long to set about the task of freeing his father, which meant he was likely going to have to proceed without the benefit of whatever information the ranger could give him. Oh, well, he doubted she actually had anything critical to say. He produced a handful of her gold.

"Take good care of her," Aeron told the priest, "and please, don't tell anyone she's here. There are people who want to hurt her."

That last could well be true, if the Red Axes knew she'd been poking around, and had decided they didn't like it.

"What about you?" he priest asked. "You're bruised and battered. You look like you could use a chirurgeon's attention yourself."

It occurred to Aeron that he ought to conserve his coin, but he decided, to the Abyss with it. He definitely could use some relief for his aches and pains, and a safe-well, as safe as anywhere in Oeble-refuge in which to rest. He scooped out more coins.

"You're right," he said. "In fact, I'd like to stay for a while myself. You can drag a cot or pallet in here, and if you can lay hands on a fresh shirt and tunic, I'd be grateful for those as well."