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Chapter 29. Laughing Dog |
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og did not sleep well at the Laughing Dog. The choice of inn had been Keisha’s idea and he was beginning to wonder about her apparent lack of taste. For one thing, the floor he had slept upon had smelled of urine and his bedroll was now full of soggy splinters. Second, it did not appear that the proprietor kept normal hours. The loud drunken singing in the common room below had gone on until well into the wee hours of the morning. Third, the rooms on either side of their shabby den resounded with the grunts and groans of negotiated pleasures. His poor mind was reeling from the sleazy morass of emotions that he had fought to keep at bay until dawn. It was all he could do not to snap at the assassin when she nudged him awake after only an hour of sound sleep. “We must get to the docks,” she whispered apologetically. He moaned involuntarily as he rolled onto his aching back. A shriek and a burst of blankets arose where Lemony was attempting to sleep. A rat scuttled sheepishly away from her and vanished into a large gape in the floor’s moldering planks. “Tonight, I choose where we’re stayin,” Mog said angrily, Lemony’s fear and disgust jarring to his unprotected mind. He angrily muttered a mantra to center himself, kneeling for a moment amid his bedding to concentrate. “I apologize,” Keisha said calmly, “but if anyone is looking for me, I would prefer not to be in a place frequented by my enemies. The imperial guards do not come to this part of the city.” “I can’t imagine why,” Mog growled, “How can anyone live in this cesspit? I’d sooner take me chances in the wilderness.” “Now Mog, don’t bark at Keisha, she’s only trying to help us,” Lemony soothed. He put on fresh stockings and shoved his feet into his boots, afraid to place them upon the floor while unshod. He absolutely refused to use the bedding provided by the inn. The straw palette was far too alive for his tastes. Because of that he now wanted to throw out his bedding rather than roll it up and carry it with him. It reeked. Then again, there was no telling what new horror awaited him tonight when Keisha chose their next inn. Mog fervently hoped they would have a chance to visit a public bath. It would take hours to scrub the filth of that place from him both physically and mentally. Lemony stood beside him for a moment, squeezing his hand fondly, her purity washing over his psyche like spring water. He rose and clutched her against him fondly. Her calmness helped him to stabilize his mind and his crankiness faded away like mist before the morning sun. They finished dressing and gathering their possessions, then departed in haste. Keisha led them out on to the dirty cobbles, the tenements looming over them and casting the street into perpetual shadow. He strode gingerly over the filth, not wanting to examine it too closely even though its stench gave him more information about it than he cared to know. They rounded a corner and he sighed with relief as a cool salty breeze rose up off the harbor and he imbibed its freshness. They gazed down on a forest of masts and rigging, small boats and mighty ships swaying in the turbulence of the incoming tide. The piers were busy as new arrivals struck their sails and allowed the current to carry them to their berth. The prior evening the three of them had surreptitiously studied the boat traffic and ascertained where the more shady happenings took place, narrowing it down to the southern docks. It seemed here there were far fewer officials and imperial guards were conveniently absent when certain boats were loading or unloading their cargo. It was a boring job, requiring the three of them to take turns watching the comings and goings without being too obtrusive. It was also difficult to watch as some of the ships were clearly trafficking in human cargo. Mog bridled at the injustice of it. Still, they saw no sign of Pendaran as the days passed. And still no word from Keisha’s contacts at the ministry indicating that the reward money had been paid out for Pendaran’s delivery. Because of his height and decidedly Tyrian appearance, Keisha insisted that Mog stay away from the docks and watch from a distance with a spyglass. He was their guardian as Lemony and the lithe assassin infiltrated the crowds at the dock and investigated the new ships that had arrived. Mostly he felt useless. He lurked out of the way, watchful and bored, peering occasionally through the glass to watch the activity on their pier. He wore a weathered gray traveling cloak over his Krytan finery, sometimes with the hood drawn up to shield his head from the chill morning wind off the sea. To observers he hoped he appeared little more than a foreign traveler awaiting the arrival of friends from across the sea. If he drew too much attention he casually moved to a new location and resumed his nonchalant surveillance. “Excuse me,” said a silken voice. Mog’s stomach clenched and a warning flare of red limned his vision for a moment as deception followed by annoyance caused him to turn and see that someone had crept up behind him. As a mesmer, he took pride in the fact that he was difficult to surprise and was unnerved when it happened. Her dark searching gaze and focused calm told him all he needed to know. The fine cut of her suggestive attire emphasized the swell of her breasts that peered above the tightly laced boning of her black taffeta bodice. Embarassed when his eyes lingered over long upon her bosom, he lowered his gaze and saw the alluring swell of her hips. She clutched a red fan in one gloved hand while the other rested upon the bejeweled head of a cane. Rose attar wafted from her fine long neck and thick black hair. Dusky skin and wine red lips added to her mystery. “Yes?” he coughed, uncertain how to proceed and very certain there was no way to look upon her without indecent thoughts. He raised his face now, meeting her gaze and studiously avoiding everything from the neck down. Others of his kind put him on edge for he knew their reputation for trickery was not unearned. He also knew her choice of clothing and stance were meant to distract and beguile. “Marga Charu,” she said breathlessly, blatantly revealing a glimpse of fishnet clad thigh through the slit of her skirt as she stepped closer. Now he was angry. She must have thought him a fool. “What yeh want?” he asked gruffly, keeping his voice even. “I know where Bei Zhou An might be found,” she replied, flashing a smile. A chill curled down his spine and he backed instinctively away from her, “Are you here to find him?” “I’ve no idea what yer about,” he lied, shielding his mind. “Oh, I think you do,” Marga murmured seductively, “Otherwise, why are you here with Keisha Lhan? Poor girl must be feeling guilty and I did warn her an assassin could ill afford a conscience.” “I don’t know yeh, but I warn yeh to stay away from me,” he said as a slim sword snarled from its scabbard and flashed in his hand. “Fool,” she purred, her eyes flicking toward the sword but otherwise remaining unmoved, “You’re alone in a foreign land and you have no clue how dangerous it is for you to be here. Put away your silly weapon and come with me.” “I reckon ‘m happy stayin’ where I am,” he replied, “Leave me be.” She made a subtle movement of her fingers and he tensed, preparing to silence any spell that might issue from her lips. Instead he heard the clap of boot heels on the cobbles behind him. Mog pressed his back to the grimy bricks of a building’s wall as three figures blocked his escape to the docks. Marga alone stood between him and the shadowy maze of the city’s depths. “Put away your weapon and come quietly,” she said calmly, “and we will be kind to you.” “One of yeh ‘ll die,” Mog snarled, “I guarantee that.” Of course, he could not really guarantee it, but mesmers were feared for good reason and he might as well play upon that. One of them quailed and he lashed out with a hastily uttered hex, the man falling back with a scream as a nightmare descended upon his mind. Unnerved, the other two hesitated long enough for Mog to barrel past them. His gambit worked and he burst from the darkness of the alley into the sunlight of the square. An arrow splintered noisily on the cobbles behind him and he dashed into the lee of a passing oxcart, gasping in pain as a spell burned through his senses. He was prepared for thugs but not for a fellow mesmer. Most of his illusions would only work upon her if she struck at him with a weapon and she had already removed the hex on her toady. Only distance could preserve him from her spells and he swore under his breath as the wastrel hex coiled around his psyche. Damn her! He staggered as the fading spell pounded him, then regained his stride and careered through the open square toward the docks. More of her dark-clad retinue appeared to cut him off and he veered back toward the city center, nimble despite his lanky frame. With seven on his trail, leading them to his friends was no longer an option. He just needed to get away and find a teahouse or inn that he could duck inside and pray they left him alone. Gasping for air, he bounded through the open air market that crowded the street, drawing squawks of protest from the buyers and sellers as he pounded past. Mog dared a glance back and slowed to a halt when he realized they were no longer following him. A dozen Canthans stared at him as he caught his breath, a couple of them looking pointedly at his drawn sword. He sheathed it apologetically and waved to indicate he was friendly, but it was clear he had made a bad impression. Now the brassy glint of imperial guards marched toward him. Two of them and he dared not strike them. “Gods,” he muttered, uncertain what he should do. He was a foreign giant towering over a hostile crowd. “I were jus’ runnin’ from thugs,” he said quickly and blushed when he realized they had no clue what he had just said. His choices now were run again or yield and hope they had nothing more brutal in mind than tossing him behind bars for an hour or two for being a nuisance. A movement from the corner of his eye revealed his seven black-clad friends were closing behind him in a semi-circle, infiltrating the crowd while the imperial guards were focused upon him. Keisha wanted to avoid the guards; that probably meant he should as well. Mog dived under one of the crude tables of goods that dominated the center of the street. Startled shouts from the vender and the gathering spectators punctuated the silence and now the tramp of feet drew closer. Frantic, he half crawled toward the docks, obscured from view by the milling crowd and the faded cloth draped over the tables. Someone snatched his trailing cloak and he hastily drew the pin from the brooch, allowing them to pull it away empty handed. He burst into the open as the long row of tables ended, upending it and sending over-ripe mangos and oranges flying. Shouting people and squashing fruit greeted his fleeing back and he heard what only could have been cursing as the slick mess caused a couple of his pursuers to slip. Lyssa’s Lies, he knew next to nothing about the city, only where the sea was and that he did not fancy its dark stinking interior. If only he knew how to find the nearest teahouse or temple. Surely then he would be safe. Once he was away from the crowded marketplace, he was back amid the seedy allies and unfamiliar territory. At some point he had turned to lose his pursuit and now the sea was lost to his sight. He was fairly certain it was to his left, but the cobbled track curled and wove past dilapidated buildings, upward until his only choice was to backtrack or climb and take to the rooftops. Pausing to catch his breath, he dared to glance back and thought he saw shadows flitting over the cobbles below. Cursing, he grasped the timbers of an eave and hauled himself upward, his boots kicking loose blue tiles as he surged toward the lee of the roofline to conceal his profile from afar. For a moment he lay on his belly gasping for breath, his heart hammering in his chest as he listened and heard approaching of footfalls. The roof shuddered as the weight of a man thumped against it, indicating one of them had climbed up after him. His feet clattered over the smooth rounded tiles as he started toward the low peak of the roof. Mog rose quickly, doubling his fists and swinging as hard as he could. Unable to keep his balance, the man tried to duck away from the blow only to slide backwards into one of his compatriots and the two of them disappeared over the side of the roof followed by a pair of loud thuds and shouts of dismay. “Two down,” Mog muttered, swiftly seeking one of their minds and planting a nightmare there before turning to flee. So easy to find another human being when they were in pain or terrified. Part of him felt guilty taking advantage of the injured man’s vulnerability. Nausea swept through Mog when he felt his horrified victim die under the strain of the illusion. The cold emptiness followed him as he scrambled over the tiles and sought his next path. The instincts that had carried him through the worst days of the Searing came back to him and he leaped onto a higher rooftop, his vantage allowing him to see the knot of stricken men. And to his relief, he saw the harbor far below with its swaying masts and long crowded piers. Only three had followed him down the maze of narrow alleys during his blind flight. He rested on his new perch, catching his breath and trying to calm himself. He was at least six floors above the filthy streets and there was no telling where the other four had gone. He sensed one was in pain and both were frightened and had lost their desire to seek him. Mog watched as the injured man leaned on the other and the two staggered away, leaving the dead one behind. They glanced back anxiously, frightened he might take them while they were vulnerable. Mog grinned bitterly. Luckily for them, he was much less vengeful than his friend Armand. His boots scrabbled over the tiles and he gingerly slid over the side of the building, dangling from the eaves for a moment before dropping and rolling to another roof several paces below. Recovering his feet, he walked warily over the low pitch of the roof and sought a way down. Soon it became clear he would have to break in through one of the neighboring building’s windows and find stairs down. Fortunately, the rundown tenement did not have the luxury of glazed windows and it was simply a matter of grasping a dirty window ledge and pulling himself over the sill as if he were mounting a rather tall and awkward steed. To his surprise he found four skinny children of varying ages and heights staring at him while pressed against the far wall of their dingy little room. Their mother stood in front of them with a large iron pot clutched in a trembling hand. Mog dropped heavily to the creaking planks of the floor and edged around her, his palms raised to indicate he meant no harm. He opened the rickety door to the hall and shut it quickly behind him a moment before the pot clanged ominously as the woman hurled it at his back. He moved toward the gallery of stairs that curled around the core of the building’s interior and rested on one of the middle landings. For a long time he merely rested and listened, hoping his pursuers would grow bored and give up the chase. |
