Snitch liked spying in the Crossed Daggers. The tavern was no warmer or more comfortable than a number of other filthy little taverns scattered through the Scab, nor was the conversation of the inebriated louts who drank there any more diverting. But the host, prompted by what Snitch regarded as preposterous optimism, kept a bottle of good brandy under the bar, just in case a discerning and prosperous customer ever wandered in by mistake. A gall-trit like Snitch, a gray, bat-winged gremlin the size of a human hand, had no trouble sneaking up and raiding the supply, then slipping back to his hidey-hole undetected. Licking his chops with his long tongue, relishing the aftertaste of the liquor, he was just about to resume his post, a shadowy depression in the dilapidated wall, when the man in brown and the woman in black and gray walked in.
At first glance, they looked like just another pair of bravos, cleaner and less brutish than some, perhaps, but nothing out of the ordinary save for the fact that Snitch had never seen them before. Still, Avos the Fisher had captured and trained him to be his watchdog when he was only a pup. He'd been spying long enough to develop an instinct for it, and that sensibility told him to observe the newcomers closely. His crimson eyes narrowed, and his big, pointed ears perked up.
For a few minutes, the strangers sipped their ale quietly, seemingly keeping to themselves, but Snitch, a professional eavesdropper himself, sensed that they were attending to the conversations of the other patrons. As time passed, he judged from the subtle way they shifted closer that they were particularly interested in the remarks of a scrofulous tough with symbols of strength and good fortune tattooed on his cheeks and brow. The drunk was boring the taverner with a slurred account of his various exploits as a hired sword.
The willowy woman sauntered up beside him, rested her hand lightly on his, and, when he lurched around to face her, gave him a smile.
'Moon above,' she purred, 'I've been through a scrape or two in my time, but nothing as dicey as you describe. You just might be the toughest warrior I've ever met, and I insist that you do me the honor of letting me buy you a drink.'
Snitch noticed the woman's companion looking on with a hint of ironic amusement in his green eyes, but the drunk took her flattery at face value. 'Sure, darling,' he said, leering, 'you bet.'
He tried to throw his arm around her and yank her close, but she evaded the fumbling attempt so deftly that, inebriated as he was, he might not realize she'd even moved, let alone avoided the embrace on purpose.
'I imagine you get hired for all the serious fighting that goes on around here,' the woman said. 'Did the Quippers use you on that crew they put together a day or two ago?'
Snitch bared his needlelike fangs. Since no one outside the gang was supposed to know about that particular job, his master would be more than interested to know that strangers were asking questions about it. The galltrit waited until none of the humans was looking in his direction, then spread his membranous wings, sprang from his perch, and flew out the door.
Shamur and Thamalon trudged down yet another twisted alley in search of the next tavern. The cold wind whistled down the narrow passage. The snow began to fall a little harder.
'Another miss,' Thamalon grumbled, 'and I daresay the oaf with the tattoos would have confided in you if he'd known anything. Your imitation of a lickerish trollop was quite convincing.'
'You'd know, wouldn't you?' she snapped.
'Ah,' he said, 'I see we're back to decrying my venery.'
She felt a pang of guilt. 'I'm sorry. I don't know why I do that, either. Plainly, you don't deserve it. Everyone in our circle takes lovers, and no one regards it as shameful, or indeed, anything but natural. Even the cuckolds and forsaken wives don't care. Why should they, when they're dallying with paramours of their own?'
'You never did,' he said, 'at least as far as I know.'
'No.'
'Another way of spiting yourself, belike.' 'I don't know,' she said. 'Perhaps I simply realized that if my masquerade made it awkward to be intimate with you, I'd likely have the same problem with any other man.'
'I'll tell you a secret,' he said. 'When we first married, I didn't want the same kind of half-hearted union as our peers. I intended to forsake all other women and devote myself to you alone. But later, when you rebuffed me…'
He shrugged.
'Of course,' she said glumly. 'Why shouldn't you seek the beds of other women, when I appeared so averse to having you in my own?' She sighed. 'Tazi asked me that very question once. Of course, I refused to discuss the matter like a human being. I went all cold and haughty, the way I usually do with her.'
He grunted. 'I can't say I'm sorry. I see no reason to burden the children with every sad detail of our travesty of a marriage, although I suppose they must realize-' He stopped abruptly to stare down the alleyway.
Shamur did the same. Bullies armed with slings, cudgels, and blades were slinking out of doorways and up cellar steps.
'Well,' she said, 'it would appear that once again, some busybody has seen fit to alert someone else that two outsiders are poking then- noses in where they don't belong.'
'I'd rather not fight if we can avoid it,' Thamalon said. 'They have us outnumbered, and with those slings, they could bring us down before we ever came into sword range.'
'I agree,' she said. 'Let's try to get out of here.' They turned and strolled back in the direction from which they'd come, resisting the urge to look behind them or run headlong, lest they provoke the bravos into charging. Meanwhile, Shamur listened intently, trying to judge whether the toughs were quickening their pace to close the distance.
Suddenly she heard a thrumming, and a split second later, a sling bullet whizzed past her ear. She and Thamalon broke into a sprint, zigzagging to throw off the aim of the slingers, and the bullies shouted and pounded after them.
A lead pellet cracked down into the frozen earth behind her. Her foot skidded on a patch of ice, but, her arms flailing, she managed to stay on her feet. Then another contingent of sneering bravos stepped into view ahead of her and Thamalon.
Now trapped between two groups of enemies, the Uskevren peered wildly about. Finally Shamur spotted a gap between two tenements. The crumbling brownstones had slumped toward one another, bringing their upper stories into contact, but a space remained at ground level.
'This way!' she shouted, and she and Thamalon scrambled toward the murky tunnel. Sling bullets hurtled all around them, but miraculously, none found its mark. She darted into the gap, and he followed. The corridor was so cramped it would have been impossible to run side by side.
It would take a good marksman to sling a missile down such a passage, but it could be done. Shamur feared she and Thamalon had a few seconds at most to find an exit before another barrage of pellets hurtled at their backs. She had all but given up hope of doing so when a gap in the wall to the right swam out of the gloom.
She plunged around the corner and found herself at the terminus of another alley. As she and Thamalon ran down it, the thudding footsteps of their pursuers echoing behind them, Shamur realized she had no idea where the passage was taking them, for both she and her husband were strangers to the Scab. They would have to flee blindly, uncertain which of the labyrinthine paths led out of the rookery and which looped back around to their points of origin. Whereas the enemy doubtless knew the slum intimately, down to every shortcut, twist, and turn. She suspected the bullies might not have much trouble keeping track of their quarry, getting ahead of them, or herding them wherever they wanted them to go.
Sure enough, the nobles sprinted around a bend and found several ruffians waiting. Instantly, the enemy whirled their slings. Shamur and Thamalon wheeled and retreated. They heard other foes rushing up from that direction, and scrambled down another branching passage.
It went on like that for a long, wearisome time, until both nobles were panting and drenched in perspiration. Whenever Shamur thought she'd spotted a route to safety, toughs would appear to cut them off, and they had to flee back deeper into the Scab. She was grateful that at least the ordinary inhabitants of the rookery didn't seem interested in aiding the Quippers, but they were evidently too leery of the gang to try to help their intended victims, either. Whenever the hunted or hunters approached, the poor darted into their homes, slammed and barred the
