He pushed the grisly image out of his head. What mattered was that it wasn't his father lying there. Nicos must really be in Kesk's brutal hands, and Aeron had to find a way to set him free. He started to turn away, but then he hesitated.
He told himself not to be an idiot. The scout deserved whatever misfortune came her way. She'd killed Kerridi, Gavath, and Dal.
Yet she hadn't shot Aeron, and he hadn't knifed her when he'd had the chance. What was the point of sparing her then, only to let her die later? Assuming she wasn't dead already. From where he stood, he couldn't tell.
Maybe she'd watched the Red Axes abduct Nicos. Maybe she could tell Aeron something he needed to know.
His reasons for intervening felt like mere excuses, unconvincing even to himself. Yet, witless though it was, he'd feel base and vile if he simply walked away. He set the book down, and took a cautious step toward her, and the Rainspan squealed and shuddered. He froze.
"Scout," he said, "if you're alive, you have to let me know. Otherwise, I'm not coming out there."
She didn't respond. That was it, then. Maybe she was only unconscious, not dead, but all things considered, it would be stupid to risk his own neck to find out.
Or so he told himself. Then he crept forward anyway.
He moved slowly, setting his feet down as softly as he ever had slinking toward the jewelry box on a lady's vanity with the woman and her husband snoring in bed just a few feet away. Despite his caution, the Rainspan snarled and jerked.
It didn't crumble away beneath him, however, and in time he reached the woman. He stooped, cupped his hand over her nose and mouth, and felt the brush of her exhalation. She was alive.
Aeron guessed that meant he wasn't a complete fool. Maybe three quarters' worth.
"Ranger," he said, "wake up."
He gave her a little shake, then pinched her cheek hard. No matter what he did, she wouldn't stir.
"Wonderful," he said.
He lifted the guide in his arms. The damaged bridge had protested simply at supporting him. The weight of two people concentrated in a single spot made it rasp and buck repeatedly. The jerking grew increasingly violent, and the snapping and grinding, louder.
Aeron's heart hammered. His mouth was dry. He felt an almost ungovernable urge to scramble off the walkway as quickly as he could, but he forced himself to proceed as cautiously as before, until finally he reached the safety of the shelf to which the Rainspan was attached.
He set the archer down, wiped at the sweat on his face, and panted until he caught his breath. Then he searched her.
Her sword was stuck out on the bridge, and her bow presumably lay somewhere in the street below. She still had a dirk, a buckler, and some arrows in her quiver, however, all of which he tossed beyond her reach. She certainly seemed severely injured, but he was no healer. He wanted to make certain she didn't suddenly rouse and stick something sharp in him or brain him with the shield.
Next he went after her coin. Like many folk in Oeble, she carried a few coins in the pigskin purse on her belt, but more in an interior pocket of her leather armor. When he relieved her of her gold and saw just what a tidy sum it was, he grinned. At least he was back in funds again.
He stuffed The Black Bouquet under his tunic. Big as it was, it rode uncomfortably there, but he needed both hands. Though someone had once told him an injured person shouldn't be moved any more than necessary, he couldn't leave the ranger there. He had to take her someplace where she could be helped.
He wrapped her in her cloak in what he recognized was a rather pitiable attempt to disguise the nature of the peculiar burden he proposed to carry through the streets. He tugged his hood as far forward as it would go, to shadow his features, then he picked her up, carried her down the stairs, and out of the tower.
He was fit and she was slender, but the past couple days had been strenuous, and his arms and back soon started to ache. He was pondering the advisability of draping her over his shoulder when someone whistled in the darkness up ahead. A moment later, a similar series of shrill notes warbled from behind. Aeron couldn't understand the signals-as far as he knew, no outsider could-but he recognized the distinctive signature of Whistlers calling to one another. The first one trilled again. It sounded closer. The gang member was evidently heading down the street.
Aeron could have dashed for the mouth of an alleyway, but not quickly enough, not encumbered with the ranger. He considered dumping her, but even if no one molested her, there was no guarantee that anybody would help her, either, and he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. He could also try relying on his cowl to conceal his identity, but he doubted it would do the job, not if the Whistler was actually hunting him and passed close by.
That meant his best option was to hide. He carried the scout into a shadowy doorway and hunkered down. He drew a throwing knife in case he did have to fight, and stayed motionless thereafter.
A pair of bravos, both human, came into view. The cleanshaven one swaggered and sneered as, Aeron assumed, bullies the world over were wont to do. The one with the long, drooping mustache looked bored.
They glanced this way and that, plainly searching for someone or something. The man with the mustache peered straight at Aeron, but then turned indifferently away. The fugitive slumped with relief, and the ranger twitched and groaned.
He frantically tried to clap his hand over her mouth. It took him a second to find it inside the muffling cloak. Meanwhile, he waited to see if the Whistlers had heard her.
No, evidently not, for they wandered on down the street. Once they were gone, and his nerves left off jangling, he checked on the guide. She was still unconscious. She'd moaned in her sleep, if "sleep" was the proper word for her condition.
"You're too much trouble," he told her. "I earned every bit of your stinking gold." He wrapped her up again and carried her onward.
The priests of Ilmater maintained a house of healing on the thoroughfare called the Rolling Shields. Someone had painted the god's emblem, a pair of white hands bound with red rope, on the door, where the lamplight illuminated it. A scarlet bell pull hung beside the sigil, but with his hands full, Aeron found it easier simply to kick the panel until a stocky young acolyte with bloodstained sleeves opened it. The smells of astringent soap, incense, and sickness drifted out from inside.
"I have an injured woman here," Aeron said. "I'll pay for a private room and the best care you can give her."
"Everyone receives the best care we can give, no matter the size of the donation," the novice said stiffly.
Still, he led Aeron past the public wards with their double rows of cots to a chamber with a single bed in it. Aeron set the scout down, and the acolyte disappeared. A senior priest, scrawny, pale, and grizzled, appeared a minute later. He gave Aeron a curt nod, then proceeded to examine his patient. Eventually he rested his fingertips against her head and murmured an incantation. Pale light shone around them both, as if they were celestial beings possessed of halos. Bone clicked inside the guide's body. Aeron assumed it was knitting itself back together, but even so, the noise set his teeth on edge.
"How is she?" he asked.
"She was gravely injured," said the priest, "but she'll mend."
"Quickly, I imagine, since you used a spell on her."
"I'll be using more, but even so, it may be tomorrow or even the next day before she regains consciousness."