they could safely hurl a brick from the darkness.
We made a couple more stops after that. The house in Torrent was mentioned again, as was Stricken’s fondness for long knives. As we emerged from the grimy shadows of our last stop, a smoke-filled gambling house whose doorway sported a blood-drained corpse lying so close we had to step over it, the first dim light of dawn was creeping up from the east.
“Sounds like this Stricken is a bad lot.” In a fit of civic-mindedness, Mills grabbed the dead man by his shoes and dragged him away from the door, leaving a trail of dark blood behind.
Another pair of steps, and the dead man would have lived. I suppose that sums up life in Rannit.
“If I’m right, he’s working for people far worse.” Mills was kneeling over the dead man, rifling through his pockets. He saw me give him a look and returned a shrug.
“It’s not like he needs anything any more. Look at this.” He produced a handful of coins, not all of them copper.
“Guess it’s my lucky day.”
There came a whisper of sound. Mills' expression changed from that of sudden satisfaction to mild confusion.
And then he fell down beside the dead man, the only sound the tinkling of the coins that fell from his open hand.
I dove. Something struck the wall behind me and skittered off the brick. I rolled over and over and saw sparks where another arrow hit the pavement, broke and skipped away.
An open alley loomed. I heaved myself into it, rolled to my feet, ran. Blind in the dark, I careened off stacks of trash and collided at least once with a drunk and fell again when my feet got caught up in a loose pile of rotten timbers.
But I lived. Another arrow came darting into the alley, coming to rest at my feet. I snatched it up, broke it in half and shoved the pieces in a pocket.
The drunk I’d collided with earlier grunted and cussed.
The alley opened into a dark narrow street. I hid in the shadows and listened.
Nothing. No footfalls pursued me. No shouts called out my whereabouts. Was the bowman waiting at the end of the alley into which I’d fled, or was he already rushing to cover the street before me, sure I’d head that way, hoping to lose him in the windings and the shadows of dawn?
I couldn’t know. So I waited there until I could breathe without panting.
Then I made my way carefully back the way I’d come.
The drunk I’d disturbed bumbled ahead of me. He emerged into the street screaming about vampires. He didn’t sprout any arrows, so I just watched him go.
The street remained quiet. After a time, the door to the gambling den opened, and a small hushed crowd emerged. They surrounded Mills and the dead man, and I strained to hear them speak.
“Both dead,” I heard. My heart sank. “One’s got an arrow in his neck.”
And then they fell to fighting among themselves as they discovered the loot Mills had dropped.
The crowd got suddenly larger, as did the noise. After a moment, I slipped out of my hiding place and joined them, milling around with the mob until Watch whistles began to blow. And then I scurried away, hat held down, back bent, just like all the rest.
I found my carriage still waiting three blocks away. The driver didn’t ask. I didn’t tell.
We just got the Hell out of there while the lazy sun awoke.
I didn’t go back to Cambrit.
Crossbows are the preferred weapons of Rannit’s better criminal element. Bows are too large, too obviously the tool of the murderer and the bandit. You can’t hide a longbow in a suitcase, and the weapon that had launched the arrow I held was indeed a powerful old longbow.
The head was razor-sharp steel. The shaft was black ash. The fletching was pure black raven-feather.
The vile thing screamed professional assassin. Not of the local vintage.
Which meant someone, perhaps Stricken, had decided certain finders had officially become a nuisance.
If Mama had been handy, I’d have asked her to check the arrow for hexes.
But since Mama was off beheading ex-army wand-wavers in Pot Lockney, I didn’t have that option. Even Gertriss was gone, presumably lounging on the foredeck of a new-fangled sailing machine while Buttercup played atop a heap of explosives, and Evis laughed and smoked cigars.
So I bade the driver head up to Elfways, and I hoped Granny Knot was an early riser.
I watched the streets while we drove. I didn’t spot anyone following us. I hadn’t spotted any bowmen last night. And Mills was dead because of it.
An arrow in the throat. One that was probably meant for me. Two men in coats and hats, same height, same general build-I realized I’d been a finger’s breadth from dying last night, and the thought chilled me to the bone.
I yelled for a halt at the cemetery next to Granny’s shack. From there, I could see the street, scan the warped and leaning rooftops, make out anyone idling or standing or crouching in the morning sun.
Aside from a few old women emptying chamberpots it seemed safe enough.
I clambered out of the cab. My driver kept keen eyes moving along the likely places a bowman might hide.
A dog barked. Someone cussed. No arrows flew hissing through the chilly air.
Granny Knot herself flung open her door.
“Sing a song of sorrows, if it ain’t the King of the East,” she shrieked with a wink. “Bring your heels inside, Your Majesty. But leave them Queens outside. I don’t harken to no dancin’, you hears me?”
I leaped up on her porch. “As you wish, my Lady,” I said with a bow.
“Cheeky young bastard,” she whispered. I passed through her weather-worn door and relaxed when she shut it and bolted it.
“Oh my.” Granny wasn’t looking at me, but to my right. “And who might you be?”
I looked around Granny’s tiny home. We were alone.
“I’ll play along if you want, but I thought you dropped the crazy act when you’re not in public.”
“Hush.” She spoke that to me. “This isn’t part of my act, as you call it. You’re not alone.”
Icy fingers caressed my spine.
“You’re kidding.”
“I am most certainly not. You are in the company of a spirit. A new one. He seems quite confused.”
Granny motioned me to a chair. I followed and sat while she stared at things I couldn’t see.
“I was about to send a lad for you anyway,” she said, not looking at me. “Three pigeons arrived just after dawn.”
“Three? Mama must have written quite a letter.”
“She did indeed. Here.” She handed me a trio of tightly wrapped cylinders of paper. Each was so large I wondered how a bird could have borne it without resorting to an awkward two-legged hop.
“Read. And pray be silent until I speak to you again. I have work to do.”
Granny set about rummaging through cabinets and drawers, gathering candles and bags and bundles of oddly fragrant sticks.
I unrolled the first paper cylinder. Mama had helpfully started her letter with
