The Shadowed Path (20 page)

Jonmarc had lost sight of Chessis for a few moments as the crowd surged. Chessis was short, making it easy for him to disappear in the press of bodies. But Jonmarc was tall, and his height gave him the advantage, enabling him to catch another glimpse of the bounty hunter’s greasy yellow hair.

Unwilling to lose his quarry, Jonmarc jostled and pushed his way clear of the crowd, paying no attention to the annoyed comments and curses that greeted his progress.

Chessis had reached the far end of the market square. On one side of the courtyard, a trio of minstrels played for the crowd with a hat set out to collect a coin or two from grateful listeners. On the other side, a man had set up a cook fire in a large iron cauldron mounted on a metal wagon and was simmering a kettle of soup over the coals. Patrons were lined up, cups at the ready. The soup smelled of cabbage and pork, with an undertone of something that reminded Jonmarc of the odor of wash water.

Just as Chessis dodged around a corner into a narrow lane between buildings, Jonmarc caught a glimpse of him. He sprinted through an open space to get closer, but not so close that the bounty hunter might realize that for once, he was the pursued instead of the pursuer.

Jonmarc cast a backward glance toward the bustle of the marketplace. Here in the crowd, he was relatively safe. He might lose his wallet to a cutpurse, but it was unlikely that Chessis would murder him in front of so many people. Jonmarc had lost track of which lord ruled the area in which he found himself, but few if any of the lords of Margolan permitted murder to go unpunished—at least, when committed with a crowd of witnesses.

In the winding streets of Kerrton, however, the rules were likely to be different. Jonmarc moved forward into the alley, making sure to stay far enough behind Chessis that the bounty hunter would not hear his steps and turn around.

Even the alleys thronged with people. Jonmarc smiled grimly. It was in his favor that the market crowds hustled through the narrow alleys. Most were laden with packages, either taking their purchases back home or bringing wares to sell. Here and there, food vendors hawked their offerings from small tables that further constricted the passageway. Men and women stood in the shallow recesses of doorways, offering jewelry, perfumes, and in some cases, more ‘personal’ services for sale.

Jonmarc bustled past the vendors, paying no heed to their offers. He sidestepped puddles and tried not to gag on the smell from the press of unwashed bodies, or the gutter that stank of emptied chamber pots. Chessis seemed to know where he was going, but Jonmarc made mental note of the names of the streets and the turns he took so he could find his way back to the marketplace. The bounty hunter was likely to lead him to an unsavory part of town, and Jonmarc wanted to be able to make a quick escape.

The sheath that held his long knife slapped comfortingly against his leg as he moved through the crowd. It might have drawn attention to wear a sword, and neither Jonmarc nor the other men had any desire to raise suspicion among the town guards. But most freemen carried knives, and while Jonmarc’s was well-forged, nothing about the sheath or the grip looked remarkable. A small dirk in his boot was strapped to his calf. Now, on the track of a killer, having the knives close at hand gave Jonmarc a measure of reassurance.

Chessis stopped to speak to a man on the corner at the next plaza. Jonmarc was too far away to hear what was said. From what he could see, it was difficult to tell whether Chessis asked a question of a stranger or checked with a lookout for information. Chessis was on his way after a short exchange of words, and Jonmarc made sure as he passed the stranger to keep his head turned so that he would not be recognizable.

As Jonmarc suspected, their path led them away from the nicer streets. Kerrton’s better blocks had glittering marble shrines to the goddess in her aspect of Mother and Childe. The plazas in those parts of town had elaborate public fountains and wells, and were ringed by nicely-maintained homes.

Now he crossed over into areas that looked hard used and questionable in character. Pawnbrokers set up their rickety tables in the run-down plazas, calling out to anyone who passed by to shop their wares. Next to a dirty and defaced alcove that was a shrine to Athira, the Whore, one of the Aspects of the Sacred Lady, four men hunched over a game of chance. Jonmarc had seen enough from the caravan vendors to know that the man running the game always won.

Chessis did not seem to suspect he was being followed, but he did stop now and again to glance over his shoulder. Jonmarc dodged behind any cover that was handy, or ducked his head to be unrecognizable in the crowd. It was difficult to tell whether Chessis was really checking for a tail or whether he was looking for someone he expected to meet and so far, no sign of his partners Vakkis or Tarren.

It had only been about ten minutes since they left the market, but this part of Kerrton did not seem to share in the market vendors’ bounty. Dirty children and mangy curs clustered in the shadows of side streets. Ragged old women begged for coins, while provocatively clad young girls made explicit suggestions of what they were willing to do for pay. Scrawny, worn-looking mothers hung washing out to dry from the balconies and window sills of upper floor tenements, while haggard men sat on the steps of a burned out building, smoking their pipes and watching the street. Over to one side, a hunched woman wrapped in a black shawl called out, offering to read the future and tell the fortune of any who cared to part with a few skrivven.

“Looking for company?” one of the strumpets asked as Jonmarc dodged around the body of a drunk that lay in the middle of the narrow street. Jonmarc glanced up. The girl looked a few years younger than he was, too young even for an arranged marriage, but her leer suggested she was not new at her trade. Her torn shirt and shredded skirt left little to the imagination. She was pretty in a worn way, although her skin was dirty and her hair was matted. From the bleary look in her eyes and her unsteady gait, Jonmarc bet that she dulled her senses with dreamweed or raw whiskey; maybe both.

“Not tonight,” he replied brusquely, shaking off her hand as she reached to touch his sleeve. He heard her muttered curses as he walked away. If the area was this unsavory while it was still early in the morning, Jonmarc had no desire to see what it became after dark.

Some of the shops in this area looked permanently closed, with boarded-up windows scrawled with crude markings scratched with coal or rocks. Several more appeared to be in business but closed at the moment, and Jonmarc wondered if their proprietors expected patrons to come out at night. Two pubs faced each other across the square, and to Jonmarc’s eye, they were equally decrepit.

The Baited Bear, on his right, had a broken sign that might once have depicted a bear fight but now was barely legible and hung by its rusted chain on only one side. The smell of burnt toast, roasting meat, and pipe smoke covered up, for a moment, the scent of decay that clung to the back streets.

The Hind and Hound’s sign was faded with age, depicting a deer and a hunting dog, and Jonmarc wondered if the place had been respectable at some time in its past. If so, its social status had fallen badly. The front window was cracked and dirty enough that it was difficult to see inside. Whether that was by design or accident, Jonmarc wasn’t sure.

Enough foot traffic bustled through the streets that Jonmarc hoped he was not immediately noticed as an outsider by the locals. Chessis paused in the street outside the Hind and Hound and once again looked both ways, but this time Jonmarc was close enough to see the look of confusion on the bounty hunter’s face, as if he had expected to meet someone and was concerned about their whereabouts.

From the concealment of a shadowed alcove, Jonmarc eyed Chessis, trying to determine how well-armed he was. Few men besides nobles and guards could carry a sword within the boundaries of most towns without being challenged by the constabulary as potential brigands. Jonmarc saw a sheath for a long knife, and bet that Chessis had several more such blades secreted within the loose folds of his clothing, and a shiv or two in his high boots as well.

I don’t plan to fight him. Odds are, what he’s doing is none of my business,
Jonmarc told himself.
I just want to make sure whatever he’s doing doesn’t concern us or the caravan. Then I’ll be on my way.

Chessis entered the Hind and Hound and several patrons seemed in a hurry to get out of his way. Jonmarc sidled up to the cracked window, straining for a look inside. Too many bodies blocked the view, and he stared at the open doorway, debating what to do.

Three men shouldered past Jonmarc and pushed into the pub’s doorway. The opportunity gave Jonmarc cover, and he trailed along behind them, staying to the back of the crowd. He found a place in the furthest corner and paid the bar maid a copper for a questionable looking tankard of ale that he did not intend to drink. He was just about to turn away and head back to the market when a familiar voice carried over the noise.

“You’re wasting my time.” Maynard Linton stood up from a table near the bar. From where Jonmarc was standing, he could not see Linton’s companion. Obviously, the other person said something Jonmarc could not hear, because Linton did not stride away, although his expression made his displeasure clear.

After a moment, Linton sat back down. Someone must have signaled the bar maid, because she brought two more drinks over to the table. Linton had angled his chair so that his back was to the wall, and he sat so that he had a view of the door. Jonmarc hoped the shadows and the crowd concealed him. He did not want to explain what he was doing at the Hind and Hound when he was supposed to be helping to load the wagon.

Linton can certainly handle himself, and he looks at home here, which is more than I can say for myself,
Jonmarc thought.
But does he know Chessis is in town? And is it really just an accident that Chessis shows up at a pub when Linton is here?

Jonmarc strained to catch a glimpse of Chessis among the crowded pub patrons, and he thought he saw the top of his greasy head at the far end of the bar. From that vantage point, there was no way Chessis wouldn’t notice Linton, or recognize his voice. But Jonmarc could also see that Chessis had positioned himself to be difficult for Linton to spot. It seemed hard to believe that the bounty hunter’s choice of location was coincidental.

There’s no way to warn Linton without tipping my hand to Chessis,
Jonmarc thought, sizing up the room and considering his options.
Chessis may know Linton’s here, but he doesn’t seem to have spotted me. That’s an advantage. Maybe I can be some use.

Jonmarc did not recognize the man seated at Linton’s table, but if he had to guess, he would have said the stranger was a minor city bureaucrat, a lesser noble, or even a fairly prosperous merchant, although what any of those types of people would be doing in a pub like the Hind and the Hound was unlikely to be legal. He remembered Linton’s comment about meeting with the head of the merchants’ guild, and wondered whether the tall, nervous-looking man was Linton’s contact.

Hard to believe that fellow is much good selling to customers,
Jonmarc thought.
He’s as twitchy as a squirrel.

Linton and the stranger resumed their conversation, and the outcome this time must have been satisfactory, because they toasted each other and knocked their tankards together before downing the contents in one draught. The thin stranger thumped his chest as if to prompt a burp, and then got up and headed for the back door.

Linton looked pleased, and sat back in his chair. But as Jonmarc watched, Linton’s expression grew concerned, then uneasy. He struggled to stand, and wobbled unsteadily before collapsing across the table with a crash, sending the tankards flying. Patrons at the next table cursed in surprise and skidded their chairs out of the way with barely a glance toward Linton, who lay sprawled and unmoving.

“I’ll take care of him.” Chessis’s nasal voice was barely audible over the noise of the tavern.

“Get him out of here before he pukes on my floor,” the tavern master shouted, and there was scattered laughter from those who weren’t working hard on their own inebriation.

Jonmarc tried to move forward, but the pub’s patrons were pressed too tightly together for him to do more than take a few steps. Vakkis appeared from somewhere, and together he and Chessis half-carried, half-dragged Linton’s limp body out the back door of the tavern.

Jonmarc struggled toward the door, trying to make haste without resulting to actually fighting his way clear. He had no idea of what he could do single-handedly to get Linton away from Chessis and Vakkis, and he doubted Linton’s sudden collapse was due to the ale alone. Linton’s capacity to drink without getting drunk was legendary among the caravan folk.

Poison, most likely,
he thought.
But did they kill him or just knock him out?

Jonmarc managed to push his way back out to the street and looked for a way to get to the other side of the building. The Hind and Hound was part of a block-long façade, and Jonmarc ran as fast as he dared to the nearest alley between buildings, hoping he was not too late.

He arrived in time to see a wagon pull away from the back of the pub with Vakkis and Chessis in the drivers’ seat. Burlap covered the crates in the back of the wagon, and Jonmarc was certain Linton was hidden under there as well.

What now?
He thought, and cast a glance over his shoulder as if by some miracle Trent and Corbin might appear. They did not, although the wagon was moving as quickly as it could given the crowds in the streets.

Even if I catch up to them, I can hardly fight off both Vakkis and Chessis by myself,
Jonmarc thought.
And if I drag Linton off the wagon, what then? I’m not going to get far hauling his dead weight.
He looked around once more, but constables were scarce in this part of Kerrton, assuming they bothered to venture to these streets at all.

Why would a constable believe me? For all I know, Chessis and Vakkis could be paying the guards to look the other way, or even be working for the aldermen. I’m likely to end up in irons if I ask for help, and Linton will be gone.