truth.’
Mor-am had gone very pale. So perhaps he had heard the rumours of the woman.
Sweat ran, in that portion of his face unglazed by scars. The tic had stopped,
for whatever reason.
The wind caught Haught’s cloak as he ran, rain spattered his face and he let it
go, splashing through the puddles as he approached the under-stair door within
the Maze.
He rapped a pattern, heard the stirring within and the bar thrust up. The door
swung inward, on light and warmth and a woman, on Moria, who whisked him inside
and snatched his dripping wrap. He put chilled arms about her,’hugged her tight,
still shivering, still out of breath.
‘They got a Stepson,’ he said. ‘By the bridge. Like before. Mradhon’s coming
another way.’
‘Who?’ Moria gripped his arms in violence. ‘Who did they get?’
‘Not him. Not your brother. I know that.’ His teeth wanted to chatter, not from
the chill. He remembered the scurrying in the alley, the footsteps behind him
for a way. He had lost them. He believed he had. He left Moria’s grasp and went
to the fireside, to stand by the tiny hearthside, the twisted, mislaid bricks.
He looked back at Moria standing by the door, feeling aches in all his scars.
‘They almost got us.’
‘They?’
‘Beggars.’
She wrapped her arms about herself, rolled a glance towards the door as someone
came racing up at speed, splashing through the rain. A knock followed, the right
one, and she whisked the door open a second time, for Mradhon Vis, who came in
drenched and spattered with mud on the left side.
Moria stared half a heartbeat and slammed shut the door, dropping the bar down.