There was a chill in the early morning air, which made me dig deeper into my nest and wrestle with my cloak. What finally made me stir, however, were the noises: preliminary sounds from the artisans, the clunk of hammers and squeal of saws, then once those had settled into their rhythm a hubbub of voices, which rose slowly or perhaps drifted nearer. It was coming from the direction of the north gate. I cursed and sat up.
The pain had eased to a general soreness. My shoulder wasn't bleeding anymore, though there were dark stains were I'd been lying and in smudges on my cloak. My head had cleared; the dizziness and nausea had passed. I still felt anxious, however. Had I slept? If I had, it hadn't been for more than a few minutes, for the light had hardly changed.
I shifted to a crouch, and crept through the wreckage of fishing equipment, more conscious of the aquatic reek rising off it, briefly puzzled by its presence such a way from the coast. Only a narrow gap kept the next building separate. I hopped over to land amidst roughly tied bundles of furs and tanned skins.
The voices seemed closer now. I decided it was something in the accents that had disturbed me. I couldn't place exactly what, though, or make out words.
I kept moving through a series of shallow leaps and one longer jump that I barely managed, which jolted my sore muscles and nearly made me cry out. I picked my way between barrels stinking of cheap wine, bales of cloth, smoked fish, baskets of olives, slabs of chalk, and squares of fresh-cut slate.
The voices grew louder.
I was beginning to feel oddly exuberant. I remembered the joy I'd taken from navigating those roofs, sometimes picking my way to a chosen target, sometimes fleeing after a job, but often travelling that way simply because it was most fun. My aches and pains seemed to bother me less. Old instincts guided my feet, reviving a deftness I'd almost forgotten.
I was out of breath when I stopped, though, and limping. I'd reached a wide roof covered with sacks of gravel, strips of unbeaten metal, and a few tall amphorae that smelled of oil. Memory, along with a change in the sounds from below, told me I'd reached Dancer's Way. I slipped to my knees and crawled to the low raised wall around the edge, found a spot between two crudely patterned jars and peeked down to the road below. If Dancer's Way was wide by Muena Palaiya's standards, it was also perpetually cluttered by traffic of people and animals, endless brightly covered stalls along its borders, the overflowing wares of shopkeepers, and an ever-present underclass of beggars, entertainers and ne'er-dowells. Even at this early hour, it was far from quiet.
Of course that had as much to do with the party moving slowly up the street on horseback, stopping every so often for one of their number to converse with a street trader or passer-by. Three guards trailed behind them on foot, looking uneasy and keeping their hands close to their sword hilts. It was obvious they were supervising the mounted men, who in turn were questioning those they met, when they weren't bawling out a description to everyone within earshot. While the order of that description varied, the content remained the same: "Tall, skinny, dark haired, unshaven, wearing a green cloak over grey trousers and black leather boots. Goes by the name of Easie Damasco." Moreover, it always finished the same way: "Twenty onyxes to the man, woman or child who directs us to him."
It was bad enough to discover that the hunt had followed me straight into Muena Palaiya, apparently with the consent of the local guard. What was worse, far worse, was that I knew the man riding at their head. I recognised the austere elegance of his clothing, the stern, sharp features, and the intensity that accompanied even his simplest movements.
Only one feature differed from when I'd last seen him. He was missing his moneybag.
Nevertheless, there could be no doubt it was Moaradrid, here in person, hounding me for a jewel I'd given away, a giant I'd abandoned, a worthless rock and a handful of coin. I decided then, with absolute certainty, that he was insane. I'd crossed him, and now he would run me to the ends of the land — not because he cared for his lost belongings, not even as an example, simply because it was my misfortune to have crossed a madman.
One of the riders glanced upward.
I ducked.
My heart pounded my ribs; my breath struggled against clenched teeth. No shout came, no drum of feet on the stairs joining roof to street. Still, I clearly couldn't stay where I was. Was the rest of Moaradrid's force scouring Muena Palaiya, street by street, a living net constricting even as I sat there? Even if they weren't, every citizen within the walls would soon be looking out for the valuable commodity that was my face.
I scampered back in the direction of the cliff face, leapt in an awkward crouch over one alleyway and then another. I changed direction once I'd gained some distance from Dancer's Way, turning southward towards the Red Quarter.
Though the Red Quarter was as old as Muena Palaiya, its current name derived from one of Mayor Estrada's innovations. She'd insisted that any seller of illicit substances or services should hang a red flag or banner, or in some other fashion bear the colour on their premises. If she'd meant it as censorship, it had backfired. The local dens of iniquity had taken the notion enthusiastically to heart. It was where I'd lived, and where I'd enjoyed most of my time. Assuming Castilio Mounteban still owned the Red-Eyed Dog, it was also the one place I could hope to find sanctuary.
Halfway there I was pleased to discover some sacks of moth-eaten clothing left out in a corner. A quick search produced a faded purple cloak. It was too thin for sleeping in, the lining and hem were torn, but it had a hood, so I took it and left my own muddy, blood-spattered garment in its place. There weren't any boots, sadly, or trousers in remotely my size. A little further on, though, I found an open basket of figs left to dry in the sun. I took a large handful, and — although I was more thirsty than hungry — made a hurried breakfast.
With something in my stomach and a disguise of sorts, I felt better. New problems soon arose, however. The Thieves' Highway became more difficult beyond the edge of the Artisans' Quarter.
First, there was a narrow slum of cheaply constructed houses, and my progress was slowed by avoiding badly made straw roofs that wouldn't hold my weight.
The Red Quarter, with its eccentrically fashioned buildings of two and more storeys, proved to be even worse. I managed to jump onto the balcony that ran around the first floor of the Crimson Gown and clambered over, trying not to tangle myself in the burgundy drapes suspended from the overhanging roof above.
I darted round the first corner and nearly ran into a woman, somewhat past the prime of youth, dressed in a robe that barely covered lurid undergarments. She was leaning on the rail, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. She turned to stare at me from beneath a mass of henna darkened hair, through eyes sharp with kohl and haggard from lack of sleep.
Feigning drunkenness, I stammered, "You're a very beautiful lady. I think I love you."
"You can love me after breakfast," she said, her voice gravelly from the smoke. "Come back in an hour."
"Every minute will seem like a day," I told her, and staggered back the way I'd come.
It was obviously going to be more trouble staying off the streets than it was worth. I pulled my hood up, wrapped the new cloak tight around me, and followed a flight of stairs down to the passage below.
The Red Quarter offered a degree of safety in itself. The ways were narrow, barely reaching the dimensions of alleys, and no one was eager to make eye contact. Few were out at that early hour. Those who were had either been drinking all night and reeled by or lay curled against walls groaning, or else were about to make an early start, in which case they stared ahead as if embarked on some tragic duty. I saw no sign of Moaradrid's troops, though I could hear them bellowing nearby. Presumably, they were still trawling Dancer's Way.