“Somebody ought to,” Scrib pursued. “Highbulp say Bron go. Right?”
“Right, Bron go look at Talls.”
“Already saw Talls,” Bron reminded them. “See ’em alla time on bridge.”
“But where Talls goin’?” Scrib pressed, becoming red in the face.
“Dunno,” Bron answered. “Wan’ me go see?”
Glitch had had enough. “Go see where Talls go!” he commanded.
“Okay,” Bron said.
“Okay,” several others nearby echoed.
Bron headed for the cistern wall, followed by dozens of other gully dwarves. Those who made it to the top on the first try trekked off toward the far side of the canyon and points beyond. The things they carried with them were whatever they’d had in hand when the order came to leave-a bag of mushrooms, a gourd, some rocks, a dead lizard, an extra shoe, and various other prizes.
Those who didn’t make it up the wall simply forgot about it and found other things to do.
At the creek below This Place, Bron and his followers passed a gaggle of females more or less washing things. The wash included various utensils, implements, babies and garments, and the Grand Notioner, who protested loudly as several females scrubbed him down, immersing him repeatedly in the process. Gandy was very old and very wise, but some of the ladies had taken it upon themselves to see that he was bathed now and then, whether he needed it or not.
Pert was among the crowd washing clothes. At the sight of Bron she dropped the bit of fabric she was scrubbing, and stood. The garment, forgotten, floated away downstream. “Where Bron goin’?” she asked.
“Gotta look at Talls,” Bron pointed eastward. “Highbulp say see where they go.”
“Why?”
“Dunno,” he said, shrugging. “Highbulp not real clear ’bout that.”
“Highbulp not real clear ’bout anything,” she observed.
“Right,” he said. “Have nice day.” With that he waded into the creek, heading for the other side. The creek was fairly deep midstream, and a number of Bron’s sturdy troop went bobbing away downstream, scrambling for someplace to land. But he still had quite a few with him when he waded up the far bank, climbed the canyon wall there and set off cross-country in the direction the bridge road followed. In the distance ahead were low peaks, with a higher ridge beyond.
Most of them had no idea where they were going, and none of them knew why, but they were all true gully dwarves. Once set on a course, they would follow that course until either someone told them to stop or something more interesting came along. The strongest driving force of any Aghar was simple inertia.
That night, they rested in a shallow cave, making a meal of one scrawny lizard and various roots and berries gathered along the way.
“We a pretty good scout bunch, Bron. Lot of us here,” said the one named Tag.
“Yep,” Bron agreed. “Two.”
“Where we goin’?” Tag wondered.
“Gotta look at Talls,” Bron explained. “Anybody see any Talls?”
“Not lately,” several of them said.
“Well, we keep lookin’.” Chewing a root, Bron frowned. “Oughtta get rats,” he mused. “Could make stew with rats.”
“Saw a rat,” one of them said. “Couldn’ catch it, though. Need a bashin’ tool.”
“Maybe find a bashin’ tool someplace,” Bron decided. With that resolved, he lay back, curled himself comfortably and went to sleep.
Chapter 12
Dartimien the Cat raised his head an inch as birds erupted from a treetop a quarter mile up the trail. Concealed in high brush, as nearly invisible as any human could be without the use of magic, he studied the slopes above, only his dark eyes moving. A red fox, its big ears twitching with caution, crept from the shelter of a deadfall log and froze in place, its eyes and nose testing the surroundings. Then, satisfied that it was alone, it scurried past within arm’s reach of the hidden man, unaware that he was there.
Dartimien saw it pass. He saw everything, from the slightest tremor of pine needles to the wheeling of a hawk in the distant sky. But he wasn’t interested in foxes, hawks or pines. He was looking for people, and the birds up-trail had told him where those people were.
With a slight movement of his hand he signaled the four Gelnian assassins in cover behind him to be alert, and be silent. Their prey was near.
Dartimien the Cat was good at his work. A product of the teeming, squalid back streets of South Daltigoth, he had earned his nickname before he was eight years old. Like a hungry cat, he knew every back alley and crawlway, every sewer and garbage heap, and every loose shutter or broken lock within a mile. Fleet of foot, quick and lithe despite the hunger that was his constant companion as a child, he was as crafty and elusive as a stray cat, and so they had called him.
His skills had been expanded by a time of servitude to Ergothian fur hunters in the wilds of Bal-Maire, and by the time of the Great Turmoil he was a prime candidate for service as a nightraider in the Caergoth Legion.
Now, like countless others-almost a brotherhood of mercenaries-he did what he did best, in order to live. He was Dartimien the Cat-a hunter. He hunted.
From what he deduced, the Tarmites-those in the citadel out there in the valley-had found something to help them against the forces of Gelnia. An artifact of great magic, the rumors held. Whatever it was, they were waiting for its arrival. But to arrive, it first had to be smuggled through the Gelnian blockade. The purpose of the assassins was to find the smuggler and stop him. And Dartimien’s job was to help them do that.
How many ways were there into the Vale of Sunder? Seven or eight, he guessed. Therefore, there must be ambush squads on that many separate trails, and there must be someone like him with each squad, to be its eyes and ears. But none of that mattered to him. This trail was his, and the birds told him that he was in the right place. Within minutes, he should see movement at the bend directly above, and then he would know how many there were for the ambushers to deal with, He would know, too, whether they had pack animals and, knowing that, he would know exactly where they would pass, and when.
He waited, counting heartbeats, and then there was movement above-exactly where he had known it would be. It was gone in an instant, but Dartimien the Cat had seen what he needed to see. He eased back through the brush, and turned.
“Two men,” he said. “Both afoot. No escort, no animals. Follow me,
“Where will you be?” a scar-faced veteran demanded. Like the others, like most of Chatara Kral’s forces, the man looked out of place in the Gelnian colors he wore. “Can we count on those daggers of yours to-”
“Count on nothing,” Dartimien snapped. “I hired on to lead you to a smuggler. That’s all. What you do with him is no concern of mine. Now pay me.”
“We haven’t caught him yet,” the Gelnian said. “You get paid when the job is done.”
“I get paid now,” the Cat purred. “If you don’t trust me, you shouldn’t have hired me.”
“Then you can blasted well trust us, too!”
“No, I can’t,” Dartimien said, smiling. “And you know it.”
With a muttered oath, the Gelnian slapped a handful of arrowheads down in front of him. They were fine, dwarven-crafted points, made of tempered nickel-iron steel-a better currency in trade than the coin of any realm. Dartimien picked them up, counted them, and put them away.
