he saw the dull gleam. ‘Where has he gotten to?’
‘Back to the street,’ Haught guessed, between breaths, and they laboured along,
dragging the dead weight, back the way they had come. No sign of Mor-am.
Nothing.
‘Bridge,’ Mradhon gasped, working with Haught to run with their burden as best
they could. ‘Stepsons want this bastard, they get themselves out there and hold
that Ils-forsaken bridge.’
It was a long way through the streets, a long, long course, the noise of their
footsteps, of their ragged breathing like the movement of an army. Moria ran
ahead of them, checked comers.
Then one moment she failed to bob into sight again. Haught began to pull
forward, doubling his pace. Mradhon resisted.
Then Moria reappeared, dodging round the comer, flat shadow, her hand up as if
the knife was in it, and another shadow came shambling round wide of her,
standing in the way – Mor-am was back.
‘B-b-boat,’ he said. His breath came raw and hoarse. ‘Sh-she says – this p
place. 0 g-g-gods, c-come on.’
‘The river’s up,’ Mradhon hissed, the limp weight sagging against his shoulder,
the feel of chase behind. ‘The river’s up to the bridge bottom, hear? No boat
can handle that current.’
‘Sh-she says. C-come.’
Mor-am lurched off, dragging one foot. Moria stood where she was, plastered to
the wall. Wrong, a small faint voice was saying inside Mradhon Vis, a prickling
of his nerves where Moria’s twin was concerned. And another voice said she. The
river. Ischade.
‘Come on,’ he said, deciding, and Haught shouldered up his side as they headed