Singe and I were on a holiday stroll, giddy because we had shaken free. Singe more so than I because she had a better appreciation of what she had accomplished—and of its cost. Her own olfactory abilities had been dampened hugely.
A sudden whir. The pixie Shakespear materialized above my right shoulder. He told me, “You must hide quickly. They will be here in a minute.”
Another whirr as Shakespear went away. I glimpsed a second pixie, hovering, pointing in the direction of the threat. I heard the wings of several more.
Singe pulled me toward the nearest doorway. It was open. Beyond lay the noisome vats of a small tannery. I wondered how the flies stood the smell. I whispered, “Did you know that the wee folk were with us?”
“You did not know? You missed the sound of their wings?”
“You have better ears than I do. And you’re starting to make me feel old. I should’ve been more aware of what was happening around me.” Maybe my friends are right. Maybe I am getting too tied up inside my own head.
There wasn’t anything in the tannery. There was no tanning going on, thought the place was still in business. It gave the impression that the entire workforce had slipped out just minutes before we arrived. Curious. It wasn’t a major holy day that I knew of, though possibly the place employed only members of some lesser cult.
Still, there ought to be somebody around to keep opportunists from finders-keeping all those squirrel hides.
“Here.”
Singe had located a low opening in the outer wall, placed so air could waft in and rise to roof vents, so the tannery could share its chief wonder with the city. The opening lay behind a heap of pelts from small animals. The majority had come off rodents but some were scaly. The odor off the pile guaranteed that no ratman tracker would find us here.
Singe had both paws clamped to her muzzle.
Gagging, I whispered, “Could you pick me out of this?”
Singe shook her head slightly, took a paw away from her muzzle long enough to tap her ear, reminding me that her people also had exceptional hearing. Then she dropped down so she could watch the street between bars that kept dogs, cats, and other sizable vermin from getting to the delicacies. They would have to stroll all the way down to the unlocked and open door if they wanted to compete with the bugs.
Singe beckoned me. I went for the fresh air.
I got down on the dirt floor, amongst the crud and the hair and the fleas off the pelts, and observed. And learned.
The first few hunters weren’t unusual. They were just thugs. But they were extremely nervous, very alert thugs. They were thugs whose main task was to protect a brace of extremely unhappy ratmen. The trackers kept glancing over their shoulders. I didn’t recognize anybody but wasn’t surprised. I didn’t know many members of the Guard. And Relway was enlisting fellow fanatics like harvesting dragons’ teeth.
Then I saw white boots. With platform soles and cracked, fake jewels. Bic Gonlit was up on top of them. The real Bic Gonlit. And Bic wasn’t alone. Nor was he in charge. His companion wore black as tattered as Bic’s white but was a lot more intimidating. He looked like he was about nine feet tall. He wore a mask. Arcane symbols in gold and silver spattered something like a monk’s hooded robe. An extremely threadbare robe. This particular stormwarden wasn’t enjoying a great deal of prosperity.
That would make him especially dangerous.
Singe was even more careful than I was about not attracting attention by breathing. Her people have nurtured that skill since their creation.
I didn’t recognize anybody but Bic.
My first inclination was to drop everything and head for home. Let Bic and the big boy play the game. Which is exactly what most people do and what all the big boys expect us to do. They count on that, up there on the Hill. They don’t know how to react when ordinary folks refuse to fold and fade.
Usually that’s followed by a lot of sound and fury and people getting hurt. Which explains the prevalent cowardly attitude.
Once they passed by, I whispered, “I’ve got Bic Gonlit figured out, now.” He’d taken Casey’s money. He’d underwritten his taste for high living by collecting books for Casey, but once things got real interesting the little pudgeball had made a fast connection up the Hill.
That being the case, why hadn’t any Hill-type visitors come to the house?
Maybe Brother Bic hadn’t made himself a deal so good that he felt like giving up everything he had, informationwise. Or, more likely, the Dead Man had revised his recollections before letting him leave the house.
You’ve got to keep an eye on the dead guy. He’s sneaky.
Old Bones has been getting slicker every day for a long time. He doesn’t keep me adequately informed, though, I thought. I must have an unrecognized tendency to blab all over town.
Another pack of intense bruno types came along, following Bic and his buddy in black. They were alert. They were all armed, too, though that was against the law.
Once again, neither Singe nor I breathed.
I’d love to see Relway attempt to impose his idealistic, no exceptions, rule of law outlook on the lords of the Hill. Or even on their minions.
The resulting fireworks would make for great popular entertainment.
Bic’s stride faltered. He stopped. He seemed uncertain.
He bent to caress his ragged magic boots. Frowning, he looked straight at me, though without seeing me. He frowned, shook his head, said nothing to the ragged wizard. The stormwarden beckoned two ratman trackers. A conference ensued.