meantime.'
'Then let's at least muffle the ruckus as best we can,' Aeron said as he rose and headed for the window.
'I'll have to light the lamps,' Burgell said with a frown. 'It's a waste of oil.'
'One of the coins I gave you will keep you in fuel until spring.'
'It still doesn't pay to be a spendthrift. But all right.'
The gnome waved his hand, and the various lamps lit themselves. Aeron closed and latched the casement.
After that, the human had nothing to do but return to his seat and watch the mage work. Burgell spent interminable minutes peering at the strongbox through various colored lenses, periodically muttering strings of mystical words at it. To no effect, as far as Aeron could see.
In time, having watched the master cracksman work before, Aeron grew puzzled.
'Aren't you going to use any of your pigments or powders?' he asked.
'If I think it necessary,' Burgell said.
'It's just that I remember when you opened that priest's wardrobe for-'
'Do you want to reminisce about old times, or do you want me to crack the box?'
Aeron shook his head, slumped back on the couch, and tried to dismiss the unpleasant feeling gnawing at his nerves. He couldn't believe it was legitimate. He and Burgell had worked together a score of times, and the gnome had always proved trustworthy. Yet, watching the little wizard stare and mumble just then, comparing his ponderous caution to the energy with which he'd attacked other locks, traps, and spells of warding, Aeron couldn't quite shake the suspicion that something was wrong.
He thought maybe he shouldn't be trying to shake it. An outlaw, after all, survived by heeding his instincts. Perhaps he was only striving to ignore them because he'd just lost Dal, Gavath, and Kerridi, and it pained him to think he might lose Burgell in a different but no less final fashion.
'Burg,' he finally said, 'did someone get to you?'
The gnome blinked and asked, 'What nonsense are you talking now?'
His turquoise eyes, brilliant even in the soft lamplight, glanced down and to the left as he spoke. Aeron was fairly certain it was what gamblers called a 'tell'-a sign Burgell was lying.
'It occurs to me I've never known you to work with the casement open,' said Aeron. 'You usually don't want folk peeking in at your business.'
'We're on the third floor.'
'Someone could spy from one of the upper story apartments in the tower across the way. But let's say you wanted someone to know I'd shown up here. Then the open casement would help you signal.'
'Did you see me wave a flag or write a note and fling it out?'
'No, but you triggered the thunderclap, and that kind of clumsiness isn't like you, unless you did it on purpose. You followed that up with more noise and flashing light, and since then, it looks to me like you've just been stalling, waiting for somebody to burst in through the door you didn't bother to relock.'
Burgell backed away from the work table and snatched a scrap of ram's horn from his pocket. He lifted it above his head and jabbered words of power.
Aeron leaped up from the couch, charged, dived across the low table, and slammed into Burgell, presumably spoiling his conjuration. He hurled the gnome to the floor, dropped on top of him, and poised an Arthyn fang at this throat. Despite the circumstances, and his own anger, the human felt an irrational flicker of shame for manhandling someone so much smaller than himself.
'Get off me,' Burgell panted, 'or I'll turn you into a beetle. I'll boil your blood.'
'Don't talk nonsense. You're no battle mage, and even if you were, you'd need a demon's luck to get off a spell before I cut your throat. Now, who turned you against me?'
'The Red Axes.'
'Well, at least it wasn't the law. Do the Axes have a crew watching the place?' Given that Kesk had all of Oeble to search, and his normal business affairs to manage, that seemed unlikely. 'Or just a beggar or streetwalker who'll carry word to the gang?'
If the latter was the case, Aeron might have an extra minute or two in which to make his escape.
'I don't know,' answered the gnome. 'They didn't tell me.'
Aeron's anger clenched tighter inside him.
'Curse you,' he said, 'why would you do this? I thought we were friends.'
'We are,' the gnome replied. 'That's why I tried to shoo you away from my door, but you wouldn't have it. Once you bulled your way in, I had no choice.'
'That's a load of dung.'
'No, it's not I didn't like betraying you, but I have my own neck to worry about. I can't afford to anger Kesk Turnskull. Please,' the gnome said, his voice breaking, 'anybody would have done the same!'
'And anyone would do what I'm going to do now.'
But just as Aeron was about to drive the dagger in, his rage abruptly twisted into sadness and a kind of weary disgust.
'Or not, apparently,' Aeron said, 'unless you try to get up, call out, or throw another spell.'
He rose. Burgell stared at him as if he feared the human was only feigning mercy, toying with his victim before he made the kill.
He shouldn't have worried, if for no other reason than Aeron plainly didn't have time for such an amusement. He stuffed the strongbox back in the saddlebag, then scurried around the workroom, snatching up a selection of Burgell's tools. When he ran out of room in the pouch, he stuck them in his pockets and inside his shirt.
Next he opened the casement and peered outside. He didn't spot any bravos striding through the little marketplace below with obviously hostile intent. That didn't necessarily mean they weren't there, but it was marginally encouraging even so. Above him, the blue sky was unobstructed, which was to say, it didn't have a Rainspan cutting across it, connecting Burgell's spire to another. The only way to effect a departure above ground level would be to crawl across the slanting roofs and leap from one to the next. It would be slow, dangerous, and sure to attract attention in broad daylight.
All things considered, Aeron thought he'd take his chances in the street. He pulled up his hood. Many folk would go without on such a warm, pleasant autumn day, but even so, a covered head would likely be less eyecatching than his red hair.
As he opened the apartment door, it occurred to him to demand his gold back from Burgell. But even if he hadn't been in a hurry, he wouldn't have bothered, wouldn't have wanted to talk to his false friend any more than necessary, and so he simply ran down the steps. The infant had stopped wailing, but the stairwell still smelled of warm, rising bread.
Aeron hoped to reach the exit before any of the Red Axes appeared to block the way, but when he peered over the second floor landing, he saw that he hadn't been that lucky. The door below him opened, and two figures, Tharag the bugbear and the peevish human who'd lost to the hulking goblin-kin at cards, appeared in the bright, sun-lit rectangle. The Red Axes exclaimed at the sight of their quarry and scrambled up the steps.
Aeron retreated to the far end of the landing, drew his largest Arthyn fang, and settled into a fighting crouch. At first, the Red Axes advanced on him with cudgels in their hands. Then they caught sight of the saddlebag tucked under their intended victim's arm, realized they didn't need to take him alive to discover its whereabouts, and readied their own blades.
Aeron waited until they were nearly in striking range. Then he stuck his knife between his teeth, planted his hand on the railing that bordered the landing, and vaulted over.
At least he didn't have as far to fall as when he'd jumped off the parapet at the Paer. The landing jolted him, but he weathered it, and when he looked up, he discovered that his gamble had paid off. The Red Axes weren't so keen to kill him that they were willing to leap after him and risk breaking their own bones. They were scrambling back the way they'd come, which meant Aeron would have no difficulty reaching the door ahead of them.
Grinning, he charged out into the sunlight, only to trip and fall headlong. Something bashed him across the shoulder blades.
He flopped over onto his back. The paunchy, tattooed Whistler who'd been selling falcons stood over him, swinging one of the perches over his head for another blow. It was a clumsy sort of improvised quarterstaff, but it
