creature you are now, as your grand-niece never would have done.'
She shrugged. 'I suppose I felt that if I couldn't be the rogue anymore, I might as well be the most dignified noblewoman Selgaunt has ever seen. It certainly kept me from slipping up and revealing any hint of the old Shamur.'
'To my mind, it's almost as if you were punishing yourself for abandoning the life you cherished by making sure you'd be as lonely and divorced from your true nature as possible.'
She frowned, not liking his conjecture but unable to dismiss it out of hand. She was still mulling it over when he grabbed her by the shoulder. 'Look!' he said, pointing.
She peered ahead and saw two figures talking on the deck of a gaily painted galley, the kind that pleasure seekers chartered for an outing on the bay. Beneath the mast, illuminated by the glow of a yellow lantern, huddled a tattooed boy and the man she and Thamalon were seeking. She surmised that one of the watermen to whom they'd spoken had indeed been acquainted with the bravo, and had dispatched the youth to warn him.
'Let's go,' she murmured, and at that moment, the bully peered out across the expanse of gently bobbing decks that separated them, spotted them, and bolted, vanishing over the opposite side of the galley.
Shamur's eyes took in the lay of the land, or whatever you called it when you were out on an aggregation of boats. 'Circle that way,' she said, pointing. 'Cut him off if he makes for the docks.' Should the rogue succeed in reaching the shore, he could lose himself in the teeming streets beyond.
Evidently Thamalon understood her concern, for he set off as she'd bade him without question, leaving her with her longer legs to pursue their prey directly. Springing into motion, her cape streaming out behind her and her scabbard bumping at her hip, she began the chase.
She discovered at once how tricky it was to scramble or leap headlong from one deck to the next, particularly when the two surfaces were at different heights above the water, just as she realized that, although she knew how to swim, a slip and a fall into the frigid bay could easily kill her. She knew she mustn't slow down, else the man with the ring in his lip would elude her.
She leaped over a six-foot expanse of open water, caught hold of the pleasure galley's rail, and started to scramble aboard. Her own momentum nearly carried her onto the point of the boat hook that the lad whom she'd spotted moments before was tentatively poking at her face.
She clung to her perch with one hand and grabbed the tool with the other, ripped it from her assailant's grasp, and tossed it into the water.
'Scat!' she roared, and the boy flinched back, giving her room to vault onto the deck and race to the other side. To her relief, the bully was still visible in full flight several boats away. Leaping to the next vessel in line, she continued the pursuit.
It soon became apparent that the lad with the boat hook wasn't the only waterman who wanted to hinder her. When she bounded onto an old hulk that some entrepreneur had converted into a floating tavern, where fish filets were grilling on wrought-iron braziers, several of the patrons surged forward to attack her. She snatched out her broadsword, dropped the man in the lead with a cut to the thigh, sent another reeling with a gashed arm, and the rest faltered. She ran at them, slashing wildly, and they gave way, though that wasn't the end of the harassment. Topers who hadn't been bold enough to attempt to lay hands on her pelted her with crockery, tankards, and even hunks of bread.
Thereafter, she ran with her sword in hand, and no one attacked her face to face. Some of the watermen tried their best to hinder her in other ways.
As she dashed from the bow to the stern of a skipjack, silently cursing the clutter on the deck, the boom suddenly spun around. It would have swept her into the water had she not instantly dropped flat.
Onboard another barge, she heard a creak, looked around, and spotted the arm of a crane pivoting to drop a net full of crates on her head. She put on a burst of speed, and the boxes crashed down behind her. The crane operator cursed.
Frequently she suffered a stinging bombardment of belaying pins, fishing tackle, and any other missiles the watermen found ready to hand.
Shamur wondered whether they'd be so keen to protect her quarry if they realized he was a hired killer. She supposed she'd never know, for she couldn't spare the time or the breath to tell them.
Perhaps she wouldn't even if she could, for as she ran, leaped, and dodged, testing her instincts and agility, risking calamity with every stride, she felt the old exhilaration. Perhaps she was mad, but this was the kind of perilous sport she needed to be happy. Delighting in the play of her muscles, at each obstacle overcome, at the kiss of the icy air on her face, she grinned fiercely.
She bounded onto a ketch amidships. The only person on deck was a small, bald, wizened man wrapped in a voluminous black robe. He was perched in the stern, well away from her and not blocking the direction she needed to go, and she assumed that he at least had no intention of interfering with her. Then, from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed him sweeping his hands and mystic passes as he chanted rhyming words of power.
The spellcaster tossed sparkling powder into the air, and beams of multi-colored light sizzled from his fingers in a fan-shaped burst. Shamur wrenched herself behind the cover of the mainmast, but a shaft of scarlet radiance grazed her shoulder even so. She felt dizzy and weak for a moment, and then the sensation passed.
She darted from her place of concealment, intent on distancing herself from the warlock as rapidly as possible, but he was already jabbering and twirling his arms again. Magic moaned and crackled through the air.
Suddenly, she had no idea why she'd been in such a rush to get away. The wizard seemed such a nice fellow, she ought to stay and make friends, see if she could oblige him in some way-
'No!' she shouted, and the enchantment lost its grip on her mind.
Shamur decided she couldn't just run and give him the chance to hurl yet another spell at her retreating form. She noticed a bucket-a bait bucket, judging from the fishy smell- sitting near the foot of the mainmast, snatched it up, and threw it.
The missile bashed the bald man on the temple, and, dazed, he collapsed to his knees. Grinning, she headed for the other side of the ketch, and then something struck her calf, stuck there, and yanked her off her feet.
As she slammed down on the deck, she saw that it was a long, sticky tongue that had caught her, and at the other end was a goggle-eyed frog as big as a man. The spell-caster's pet or familiar, she supposed. Despite its size, with its natural ability to change color to match its surroundings, she hadn't noticed it crouching in the gloom, and now its tongue dragged her closer, its huge mouth gaping to swallow her whole.
She wrenched herself around into position to cut at the creature's tongue. One swing gashed it deeply and a second hacked it in two to lash about, showering blood.
The frog croaked, hopped into distance, and tried to bite her. Gripping her sword with both hands, she thrust at the creature's throat. The blade plunged in almost to the hilt, and the amphibian collapsed.
Shamur scrambled to her feet, took hold of the weapon, and tried to pull it from the carcass. But even when she tugged with all her might, the broadsword wouldn't slide free.
She knew she had no more time to fool with it, not with the bravo racing farther away every second. Grimacing, she abandoned the weapon, drew her dagger, and ran on.
She finally caught up with the tattooed man at the very edge of the floating city, where the clustered vessels gave way to open water. Naturally, the crafts farther in were unable to move until their assembly dissolved at dawn, but those here at the verge could depart at will, and, standing aboard a small sloop, using a boat hook to push off from the vessel next to it, the bravo was endeavoring to do so.
Another waterman, the rightful master of the vessel, presumably, lay motionless on the deck. Shamur assumed that he at least hadn't been interested in helping her quarry escape, and so the bravo had found it necessary to subdue him in order to commandeer the sloop. And thank Mask for that, because if something hadn't delayed the wretch, she never would have caught up with him in time.
One final leap across the black water landed her on the sloop, which rocked as it took her weight. The tattooed man pivoted to face her, his neck bruised where she'd struck him the night before. His eyes widened in surprise, and he smiled.
'Where's your friend?' he rasped. Apparently the blow to the throat had roughened his voice as well.
'On his way.'
'But too late to help you,' he said, and Shamur realized he was right. The sloop was still drifting away from its neighbor, and the gap was now too wide for Thamalon to jump. 'And you, baggage, have lost your sword.'
