Startled, the Shark ducked. Her foot slipped from the snow-slicked perch, and she dropped toward the upturned stone javelins below. She did not cry out, merely grunted when her death plummet was abruptly cut short. A spear wielded by a bugbear had snagged her cloak. Her throat was bruised from the sudden tug, but she was alive.
The Shark hung, dangling, swinging slightly back and forth. Her mind raced, and she cursed herself. She'd prepared no spells for this eventuality-no floating, flying, or transformational magic. Grunting with the effort, she reached up, trying to grab the stone spear that held her suspended. She could not reach it. She then stretched to the right as far as she could in hopes of seizing the ugly, porcine face of an ore beating down a hapless stone hero. She grasped only empty air.
More frightened than she had been in decades, the Shark craned her neck to look upward.
The blooder was an elven silhouette against the star-filled sky as he bent to look at her. Then, slowly, he moved. One arm reached down.
Crying incoherently, the Shark twisted away. Her cloak tore a little, and she dropped four inches. At least the vampire was too far above her to reach her-but, ah gods, he could crawl… 'Give me your hand.'
For a moment, she couldn't comprehend the words, so unexpected were they. Jander stretched his hand farther. 'Give me your hand. I can't quite reach you!'
The cloak ripped again. The Shark stared down at the next tier of battling warriors and their pointed stone weapons. It was at least a twenty-foot drop.
'I'm coming, Shakira. Hold on.' And indeed, the golden vampire began to climb, headfirst, down to reach her.
She suddenly knew, knew with a deep, inner certainty, that Jander Sunstar was not coming to kill her. He was coming to save her life, to pull her back to safety. She, the Shark, the woman who had spent her life perfecting the art of murder, had finally failed to kill. And having failed, she would owe her life to the creature she had sought to destroy. If his forgiving hands closed on her, she would never be able to lift a weapon again. She would cease to be the Shark.
She didn't even have to think. Reaching up, she twined both hands in the cloak. 'The Shark sends you to the Nine Hells,' she said aloud, but this time the words were intended for her own ears.
As the vampire's fingers reached out to her, the Shark smiled like the predator she was, spat at his despairing, beautiful face, and tore the cloak free.
Gallows Day
They did not look like the most dangerous of thieves. Desperate perhaps, as they sat at a wobbly table covered with half-filled tankards that clung to the wood in sticky pools of spilled drink. Drunk, too. It was barely midmorning, but already the four thieves had drained two skins of hosteler Gurin's cheapest ale, and they showed no inclination to stop.
Of course, their crimes didn't shine in their drunken faces. Nobody could look at the little one and know he was the man who'd poisoned all the pets in Lord Brion's kennel just to silence the guard dogs. Slouched over her drink, the woman hardly looked the type to spell-torch a jeweler's shop to cover her escape, nor the old man across from her the kind to settle a turf fight with a quick knife thrust on a rooftop. At Gurin's they looked like any other collection of sorry drunks.
They weren't the only ones in the alehouse. It was crowded enough with other drinkers who shared their desperate looks. The four of them huddled at a poor table near the back. In their dark corner, past the stalls and benches that made the small tavern all the more crowded, they drank and talked, their voices low out of habit. No one paid them any mind-Gurin's alehouse was for serious drinking. With its dirt floor and rickety furniture, there was no other reason to be there.
'Pour me more,' demanded Sprite-Heels, a halfling and the smallest of the four. Leaning back in the big chair, the impish fellow could only waggle his furry feet impatiently above the floor. His childlike face soured with annoyance that his cup was drained.
'Yer cup's all yer caring for,' grumbled the thin old man astraddle the chair beside the halfling. This one was skull-bald and pockmarked, lending the taint of walking death to his already frightening looks. 'It's Therm's last day on earth. Can't you care about 'im more than yer drink?' Nonetheless, the ancient hefted a skin and poured the halfling a drink — and one for himself.
'Better him to the leafless tree than me, Corrick,' the half-ling mocked as he cracked open a walnut and picked out the meat.
'Sprite, you're a horrible creature,' sniffed the woman who sat on the halfling's left. She was no more sober than the rest. She might have been striking once. Now she was just hard-used. Her face was mapped by fine red veins from too many late nights and too much drink, her brown hair a disheveled cascade that tumbled down over her ample bosom. 'My poor Therm, waiting to be hanged — '
'Yer poor Therin!' snorted Corrick, blowing ale-foam from his lips. 'Before 'im it was yer poor Emersar, then it was that barbarian oaf — '
'Xarcas weren't no oaf! He would've been a grand one for the highwayman's law. He could ride and use a sword more than you ever could, you poxy nip,' the woman snapped back. Her fingers wove patterns on the table that the other two did not notice. 'Xarcas would've been a terror to coachmen on the Berdusk Road.'
'If he hadn't boozed himself to death on Gurin's cheap bub,' the halfling slipped in with a snigger. 'You do pick them, Maeve.'
The woman shook with drunken fury. With an over-grand sweep, she raised her arms archly, a pinch of wax and a bit of feather between her fingertips. 'Let's see how you two like being-'
'Stow you, Brown Maeve. There'll be no sorcery here.' The fourth drinker at the table finally broke his peace, his voice iron calm and cold. Dark eyes watched the woman over the lip of a raised mug. They glittered with confidence, knowing she would not defy him. They were dark eyes that mirrored the gray streaking in his curly, black hair. Though he'd been drinking, the man's gaze was as clear as a card-sharper's during the deal.
At a distance he appeared not tall, not short, neither dark nor fair. He was a plain man, and there was always one like him in every crowd. Only his clothes were distinctive-linen, thick velvet, and rare leathers. In another alehouse, onlookers might believe he was a fop about to be gulled by the other three. Here in Gurin's ale shop, as out of place as he might seem, folks knew better. He was Pinch, wild rogue and upright man. He'd come to Gurin's to drink a wake, for it was his man that was due to be hanged today.
'No spells, no trouble, Maeve.' The words carried in them the expectation of obedience.
Maeve pulled short as soon as Pinch spoke. For a moment she drunkenly challenged his gaze-but for only a moment. It might have been the faint frown on his lips that discouraged her, reminding her of the boundless limits of his revenge. Whatever the cause, Maeve reluctantly lowered her arms.
'It ain't right, Pinch,' she slurred as she fumbled selfconsciously with her mug. 'It's gallows day. They got no cause talking like that, not today.' The wizardress peered venomously at the pair who had roused her ire.
'Course not, Maeve,' Pinch agreed smoothly, playing her like a sharper's mark. 'Corrick, Sprite-let her be.' Only after he spoke did the thief turn his gaze to the others. Old Corrick twisted uncomfortably under Pinch's hard gaze while Sprite casually took an interest in the nutshells on the table.
'Just a little sport, that's all-to take our minds off the day's gloom,' the halfling offered as his drink-clouded countenance transformed into one of childlike innocence.
Pinch poured himself another mugful of ale and scowled at the halfling. The little fellow's smile might work well on the conies he cheated, but it didn't soften him one bit. 'No more of it. Maeve's got the sense of things. It's not right to go mocking Therin's hanging.' He drained the draught in a single long pull, all the while keeping his dark eyes on the other two.
'It's not like we haven't seen folks swing, Pinch. Even of our own.' Sprite leaned forward to prop his chin on the edge of the table. With a small dagger that seemed to come from nowhere, he began to play an idle pass at mumblety-peg on the tabletop. 'Besides a hanging's always good for trade. Draws a nice crowd. We should be
