Targ opened the trapdoor to the roof, climbing up the ladder with silent agility. His sensitive nose welcomed the fresh air. The roof was flat, and a thin three-foot wall surrounded it. Targ moved to the wall, peering over at the house next door. The two-story building was cloaked in shad- ows; no light showed from behind the thickly shuttered windows. Targ stared at the dark shape for a long time, trying to spot any figures that might be concealed in the shadows, but he could detect nothing.
His thick hands fondled the pommel of his sword. His eyes burned red in the night. Even if Cade was hidden somewhere in those shadows, Targ knew from long experience that he would be invisible. Cade. He swore under his breath. Cade.
He knew Cade was uncomfortable with this job; it wasn’t their usual sort of job. This wasn’t for money, or for the great war he always spoke about; this was for Cade. Targ looked over the roofs of the town; some- where out there a murderer, a torturer was hiding, but it wouldn’t do any good: Cade would find him and Targ refused to even try to imagine what that madman’s vengeance would be …
No, this wasn’t their usual sort of job at all.
Targ shifted nervously, sniffing at the wind. The air carried its own messages, its own secrets, and the scents spoke to Targ, as they never could to an ordinary man-
Sometimes Targ wondered if Cade was a man. What really went on in his mind? Who could say? Only Cade, and he wasn’t talking.
But together the two had shared much. If killing and blood could be considered sharing. How many had the two killed? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? Targ had quit counting long ago.