The little man’s bushy eyebrows raised. His sallow face turned ashen. His gnarled hands trembled, dropping the bauble onto the counter as if it had suddenly become hot.
After a moment he said, “Do me a favor, Cholly. Go. Get that thing out of here. Please.”
“Why? Mother Bey’s balls, man, at least tell me what’s wrong.”
“I guess I owe you that much. I can’t read it, but I’ve seen enough relics to recognize it. There is one word here I do know: the name Theba.”
“Isn’t she some sort of death goddess?”
“Yes. Anything connected with her has to mean trouble. If I were you, I’d get rid of it as quickly as I could.”
Cholly thanked him and left.
His unseen stalker was still there. The tingle was so strong it was becoming painful. Hopefully whoever it was would not make his move until after Cholly reached Renn, his banker.
Renn was one of the few men in Sanctuary he completely trusted. Due to the armed men at the door and some less obvious defenses, no one had ever robbed Renn’s bank and lived to reach the door. Thieves had gotten the message and stayed away.
The gluemaker deposited most of his cash and got a receipt, keeping out enough to pay the boys, take Ineedra out to a nice dinner, and enough left over to go to the games at Land’s End and have a few coppers to bet. Compared to what he had been carrying it was spare change. Unfortunately his tracker didn’t seem interested in money.
Upon his return to the Street of Money the feeling intensified. Damn! He wished whoever it was would make his move. This cat-and-mouse ploy was making him angry. Maybe he could shake them up a bit.
He turned Enkidu and Eshi onto Olive Branch, sped down to Saddlers and turned left, leaping off the wagon as soon as he thought his pursuer could not see him for a moment. He stepped through the doorway of a tack shop and waited.
Two thugs came running around the comer. One was of average size; the other was short and round, like a beer keg with legs. They were trotting to keep the wagon in sight.
For a middle-aged fat man in a ring-mailed vest, he moved quietly. And quickly. Any sound made by his soft-soled knee boots was masked by the din of street noises: beggars asking alms, shopkeepers and customers haggling, the clop of horseshoes on cobblestones, children shouting and playing.
The shorter man was lagging a few steps behind his partner, panting. He never heard anything suspicious.
The taller man glanced over his shoulder in time to see the barrel-man topple from the flat of Cholly’s axe. Before he could break away a large hand extending from a wax-boiled vambrace had grabbed a handful of his tunic and slammed him against a brick wall, driving the air from his lungs. His head bounced against the bricks, painfully but not far. He became acutely aware of the axe haft pressed against his throat when he struggled to inhale. A melon-sized knee pressing into his stones also caught his attention-
Cholly’s normally merry hazel eyes were narrow slits of cold green. His voice was calm, even, almost a whisper.
“Why are you following me?”
“I wasn’t. (Cough)”
Cholly towered his knee slightly, then snapped it upward. “Don’t lie to me or you’ll sing soprano. Let’s start again. You were about to tell me why you followed me.”
Tears filled the tall man’s eyes. “I swear I wasn’t following you.”
He would’ve screamed when the knee drove into his crotch if it weren’t for the wooden haft flattening his gullet.
“Let’s try again, shall we? I ask you a question, you answer it. Honestly. For the last time, why were you tailing me?”
“All right,” he whimpered. “We was paid a silver bit apiece to rob you.” Tears rolled down his dirty unshaven cheeks.
“Fool. If it was money you wanted you would have jumped me before I reached my banker. You didn’t make your move, although you’ve been chasing me all afternoon. So what are you after that is worth dying for?”
“The medallion.”
“What makes it so valuable?” Cholly demanded.
“Don’t know. He didn’t tell us. He just paid us to get it.”
“Who paid you?”
“He didn’t give us a name. He was dressed in magician’s robes.”
“What did he look like?”
“Silver hair-”
The knife just missed Cholly’s ear before burying itself in the tall man’s eye. Blood and clear liquid gushed out of the wound. The dying man jerked once and went limp. Cholly released his hold. The body slid down the wall, the stubby knife handle still protruding from the eye socket.
The barrel-man was just vanishing into an alley.
“I should’ve hit him harder,” the gluemaker muttered.
He gave a shrill whistle and Enkidu and Eshi backed up. Business was business. He loaded the dead man into his wagon and covered him with canvas. No one thought it unusual for him to be picking up somebody this early. There were accident victims all the time. It was common practice to mind one’s own business.
Babbo shifted his weight from foot to foot while wringing his unwashed hands. His gaze never left the floor. The room was cool, but the hireling’s stained homespun tunic was damp with sweat.
“What in the Shadowed One’s name are you saying? How could he get away? There were two of you! Both armed! Do you mean to tell me two of the best muggers in the Maze were bested by a bald old shopkeeper?” Marype raged.
“He was good,” Babbo said defensively. “Dorien was one of the best men I knew in a brawl. When I came to-I never heard him coming before he busted my head-he had poor Dorien pinned against the wall with an axe handle and a knee pushing Dor’s balls up to his belly button. Believe me, the man is good. How do you think he got that old? Only way I could shut Dor up was to spike ‘im.”
“Why didn’t you knife the gluemaker instead?”
“Look, I didn’t have a lot of time, you know? I wasn’t in no shape to tangle with the man. Maybe I just throwed amongst ’em and ran. Besides, you’re the magician; why didn’t you do something? Turn fatso into something?”
“As long as he has the amulet, magic doesn’t work on him. Why else would I hire you two bunglers?”
“Big hotshot magician,” Babbo retorted. “You can’t do the job with your spells, so you hire us. Then you got the balls to come down on me ’cause I didn’t get him neither. Far as I’m concerned you can go diddle yourself. See ya around. Cotton-top,” he snorted, his fear replaced by contempt.
It was crowded in the stands Lowan Vigeles had built at his Land’s End estate and the stone benches were uncomfortable. The spectators had already swilled down enough Red Gold to be rowdy. Zandulas and Cholly were hooting and hollering with the rest. The early rounds had been condemned criminals pitted against each other. Not much skill there; mostly brute strength. Chollandar preferred the chariot races.
He was picking them well. The fourth race had just ended, and for the third time he was collecting his winnings. Zandulas, who was zero for four, got to his feet with a sour grin.
“I’m getting a brew before the final heat. Want one?”
“No thanks, Zan. Want me to place any bets for you?”
“Neh. Oh all right. If I’m not back in time, just put two coppers on whoever you pick.”
Cholly’s favorite driver was Borak. Behind his three chestnut geldings Borak’s long oily whip moved like a living creature, while he used the bladed wheel hubs better than most men wield a sword.
The other drivers in today’s final race were Magyar driving whites, Atticus with dappled grays, and Crispen with a second team of whites. No second-raters there.
Everywhere were shouts of “Six coppers on Atticus,” “Two on Magyar,” “Four on Atticus,” “Eight on Crispen,”
Caught up in the betting, Cholly shouted, “Two silver on Borak!”
“Take ’em all. I’ll cover the balance,” Zandulas whispered, returning. “I’d have taken Atticus, but then I haven’t been right all afternoon and you’re on a hot streak. I just hope it holds.”
The big money bets were in the box seats, stacks of golden soldats. The difference was that those in the boxes could usually afford to lose. The simple townsfolk in the cheap seats were hard pressed if they lost a handful of coppers.
The tingle was back. Someone was watching him again.
Four teams entered the track, having drawn lots for position. Cholly frowned. Borak was on the outside. Next to Borak came Crispen, then Magyar, and finally Atticus at the advantageous inside spot. The games master dipped the flag and they were off. Horses crowded each other. Sharpened steel zinged each time the wheels whirred close together. Crispen forced Borak into the wall, but the wily veteran kept control. Dust flew as his blades gouged the masonry. To even the score he flicked his whip, welting the closest white racer’s hindquarters. The horse broke stride. It took only a moment to get back in sync, but that was enough.