show up without that rod …’
Bourne did that, and the shadows seemed to cough up a man, young and lean and
darkly dressed. The crescent moon was behind him so that Bourne could not see
his face. The fellow pounced lithely atop a stone, and held high the stolen
Savankh.
‘I see it.’
‘Good. Walk back to your horse, then. I will put this down when I pick up the
bags.’
Bourne hesitated, shrugged, and began ambling towards his horse. Hanse, thinking
that he was very clever indeed and wanting all that money in his hands, dropped
from his granite dais and hurried to the bags. Sliding his right arm through the
connecting strap, he laid down the rod he carried in his left. That was when
Bourne turned around and charged. While he demonstrated how fast a big burly man
in mail-coat could move, he also showed what a dishonest rascal he was. Down his
back, inside his mail-shirt, on a thong attached to the camel-hair torque he
wore, was a sheath. As he charged, he drew a dagger long as his forearm.
His quarry saw that the weight of the silver combined with Bourne’s momentum
made trying to run not only stupid, but suicidal. Still, he was young, and a
thief: supple, clever, and fast. Bourne showed teeth, thinking this boy was
frozen with shock and fear. Until Hanse moved, fast as the lizards scuttling
among these great stones. The saddlebags slam-jingled into Bourne’s right arm,
and the knife flew away while he was knocked half around. Hanse managed to hang
on to his own balance; he bashed the Hell Hound in the back with his ransom.