lucky they paid the asking price. But if they'd offered only a pittance, or nothing at all, what could we have done about it?'
Bareris stepped away from the watchman and tossed him another gold piece. 'I'll let myself out. Don't tell anyone I was here, or that you told me what you have, and you'll be all right.' He started to slide his sword back into its worn leather scabbard then realized there was one more question he should ask. 'To which order did the wizards belong?'
'Necromancy, I think. They had black trim on their robes and jewelry in the shapes of skulls and things.'
Red Wizards of Necromancy! Bareris pondered the matter as he prowled onward through the dark, for Milil knew, he couldn't make any sense of it.
It was the most ordinary thing in the world for wealthy folk to buy slaves, but why in the middle of the night? Why the secrecy?
It suggested there was something illicit about the transaction or the purchasers' intent, but how could there be? By law, slaves were property, with no rights whatsoever. Even commoners could buy, sell, exploit, and abuse them however they chose, and Red Wizards were Thay's ruling elite, answerable to no one but their superiors.
Bareris sighed. Maybe the watchman was right; maybe it was something ordinary folk were better off not understanding. After all, his objective hadn't changed. He simply wanted to find Tammith.
Evidently hoping to avoid notice, the necromancers had marched her and the other slaves away under cover of darkness, but someone had seen where they went. A whore. A drunk. A beggar. A cutpurse. One of the night people who dwell in every city.
Exhausted as he was, eyes burning, an acid taste searing his mouth, Bareris cringed at the prospect of commencing yet another search, this one through squalid stews and taverns, yet he could no more have slept than he could have sung Selыne down from the sky. He arranged his features into a smile and headed for a painted, half-clad woman lounging in a doorway.
The fighter was beaten but too stubborn to admit it, as he demonstrated by struggling back onto his feet.
Calmevik grinned. If the smaller pugilist wanted more punishment, he was happy to oblige. He lowered his guard and stepped in, inviting his opponent to swing. Dazed, the other fighter responded with slow, clumsy haymakers, easily dodged. The spectators laughed when Calmevik ducked and twisted out of the way.
It was amusing to make his adversary reel and stumble uselessly around, but Calmevik couldn't continue the game for long. The urge to beat and break the other man was too powerful. He froze him with a punch to the solar plexus, shifted in, and drove an elbow strike into his jaw. Bone crunched. Calmevik then hooked his opponent's leg with his own, grabbed the back of his head, and smashed him face first to the plank floor where he lay inert, blood seeping out from around his head like the petals of a flower.
The onlookers cheered. Calmevik laughed and raised his fists, acknowledging their acclaim, feeling strong, dauntless, invincible-
Then he spotted the child, if that was the right word for it, peeking in the tavern doorway, one puffy, pasty hand pushing the bead curtain aside, the hood of its shabby cloak shadowing its features. The creature had the frame of a little girl and he was the biggest man in the tavern, indeed, one of the biggest in all Tyraturos, and he had no reason to believe the newcomer meant him any harm. Still, when it crooked its finger, his elation gave way to a pang of trepidation.
Had he known what it would involve, he never would have taken the job, no matter how good the pay, but he hadn't, and now he was stuck taking orders from the ghastly representative his client had left behind. There was nothing to do but finish the chore, pocket the coin, and hope that in time he'd stop dreaming about the child's face.
Striving to make sure no one could tell he was rattled, he made his excuses to his sycophants, pulled on his tunic, belted on his broadsword and dirks, and departed the tavern. Presumably because it was the way in which an adult and little girl might be expected to walk the benighted streets, the child intertwined its soft, clammy fingers with his. He had to fight to keep himself from wrenching his hand away.
'He's here,' she said in a high, lisping voice.
Calmevik wondered who 'he' was and what he'd done to deserve the fate that was about to overtake him, but no one had volunteered the information, and he suspected he was safer not knowing. 'Just one man?'
'Yes.'
'I won't need help, then.' Which meant he wouldn't have to share the gold.
'Are you sure? My master doesn't want any mistakes.'
She might be a horror loathsome enough to turn his bowels to water, but even so, professional pride demanded that he respond to her doubts with the hauteur they deserved. 'Of course I'm sure! Aren't I the deadliest assassin in the city?'
She giggled. 'You say so, and I am what I am, so I suppose we can kill one bard by ourselves.'
Tired as he was, for a moment Bareris wasn't certain he was actually hearing the crying or only imagining it. But it was real. Somewhere down the crooked alleyway, someone-a little girl, perhaps, by the sound of it-was sobbing.
He thought of simply walking on. After all, it was none of his affair. He had his own problems, but he'd feel callous and mean if he ignored a child's distress.
Besides, if he helped someone else in need, maybe help would come to him in turn. He realized it was scarcely a Thayan way to think. His countrymen believed the gods sent luck to the strong and resolute, not the gentle and compassionate, but some of the friends he'd found on his travels believed such superstitions.
He started down the alley. By the harp, it was dark, without a trace of candlelight leaking through doors or windows, and the high, peaked rooftops blocking all but a few of the stars. He sang a floating orb of silvery glow into being to light his way.
Even then, it was difficult to make out the little girl. Slumped in her dark cloak at the end of the cul-de-sac, she was just one small shadow amid the gloom. Her shoulders shook as she wept.
'Little girl,' Bareris said, 'are you lost? Whatever's wrong, I'll help you.'
The child didn't respond, just kept on crying.
She must be utterly distraught. He walked to her, dropped to one knee, and laid a hand on one of her heaving shoulders.
Even through the wool of her cloak, her body felt cold, and more than that, wrong in some indefinable but noisome way. Moreover, a stink hung in the air around her.
Surprise made him falter, and in that instant, she-or rather, it-whirled to face him. Its puffy face was ashen, its eyes, black and sunken. Pus and foam oozed around the stained, crooked teeth in their rotting gums.
Its grip tight as a full-grown man's, the creature grabbed hold of Bareris's extended arm, snapped its teeth shut on his wrist, and then, when the leather sleeve of his brigandine failed to yield immediately, began to gnaw, snarling like a hound.
Bareris flailed his arm and succeeded in shaking the child-thing loose. It hissed and rushed in again, and he whipped out a dagger and poised it to rip the creature's belly.
At that moment, he would have vowed that every iota of his attention was on the implike thing in front of him, but during his time as a mercenary, fighting dragon worshipers, hobgoblins, and reavers of every stripe, he'd learned to register any flicker of motion in his field of vision. For as often as not, it wasn't the foe you were actually trying to fight who killed you. It was his comrade, slipping in a strike from the flank or rear.
Thus, he noticed a shift in the shadows cast by his floating light. It seemed impossible-the alley had been empty except for the child-thing, hadn't it? — but somehow, someone or something had crept up behind him while the creature kept his attention riveted on it.
Still on one knee, Bareris jerked himself around, to confront the new threat. The lower half of his face masked by a scarf, a huge man in dark clothing stood poised to cut down at him with a broadsword. The weapon had a slimy look, as if its owner had smeared it with something other than the usual rust-resisting oil. Poison, like as not.
With only a knife in his hand, and his new assailant manifestly a man of exceptional strength, Bareris very much doubted his ability to parry the heavier blade. The stroke flashed at him, and he twisted aside, simultaneously
