The armaragor glanced over his shoulder. "The one from the gate-tower's seen us. He's… aye, he's on his way here-with his alarm-horn."
"That's unfriendly of him. He's alone?"
"Yes," Hawkril said. "Should I-?"
"No, we need him taken silently. His helm and tunic would be useful, too. Get down here."
The armaragor stooped, puzzled, as Craer laid himself on the flagstones and asked, "Did you bring that cloak the Coinmaster left behind? The one I pointed at?"
Hawkril snorted. "Of course. My mind may not follow yours down every devious twist and trail, but I trust you-the Three alone know why." He plucked a wadded bundle of cloth from behind his shield-strap, and shook it out to full length. "Here 'tis."
"Right. Draw your sword and lay it ready here." The procurer patted the flagstones just to his left. "Then keep hold of that cloak and lie down on top of me-and don't crush me, you great ox, or as I die groaning, I'll curse you to the doing something much worse. How close is our enthusiastically approaching guard?"
Hawkril glanced again. "Starting along the last run of battlements now."
"Good. Spread the cloak over us. I don't want him to see anything of me but my boots. Leave the talking to me, and don't act startled."
"You're the madman," the armaragor agreed amiably, lowering himself carefully onto his elbows and shaking the cloak out over them both.
"Ready?" Craer murmured from beneath him. "Shift your left arm a bit, so I can peer out under it. Yes."
A moment later, he gasped in a high, feminine-sounding voice, "Oh, yes! Oh, love me! More! More! Don't stop, my stallion! Oh, don't stop!"
Hawkril moved atop his friend as if they were lovers, hearing the nearby scrape of a cortahar's boot coming to an uncertain stop.
"Oh, yesss! More! Oh, give me more of you, you great-oh, ohhh, ohhh!n Craer cried, setting Hawkril to trembling with suppressed laughter.
"Graul!" the cortahar exclaimed, his voice a mix of disgust and wonder, and the overdukes heard the tip of a grounded sword grate on stone. "Who's that, Orsor, and where did you find her?"
Craer laid a finger across Hawkril's lips, reminding him to be silent. "Oh, my Horse!" he cried in apparent alarm, sounding so much like Embra playacting that Hawkril nearly collapsed into guffaws. "Someone's watching us! Oh, hurry! Uh! Hurry!"
He paused for a moment, and then added with a girlish giggle, "Unless he's one of your friends…"
"Forefather above," the cortahar growled, leaning closer. "Orsor, who is this wench?" He peered, leaning on his sword as if it was a walking stick, and then stiffened. " You’re not Or-"
The rest of whatever he'd intended to say was drowned in gurgling-the only sound the Storn knight could make over the hilt of the dagger that had come whirling up from under the armaragor's arm to bite deeply into his throat.
"Catch him, Hawk!" the procurer hissed, and Hawkril spun around atop Craer with fearsome speed to thrust a hand into the knight's gut ere he collapsed.
"Stand him up and lean him back," Overduke Delnbone added, springing to his feet. "We need to keep his blood off the helm and tunic."
"Neither will fit me," Hawkril observed, plucking the helm from the dead cortahar's flopping head before it could fall off.
The procurer snared the alarm-horn from around a limp, dead arm, and gave his friend a sour look. "You just dislike Storn gear. Put them on." He glanced back along the battlements, and snapped, "Lower him, quickly! A snake-priest is back there, sternly commanding Embra's cloud to begone."
Hawkril did so, dragging the tunic up with one hand as he held the corpse's belt firmly with the other. Craer swarmed over the garment, and in another breath had relieved the guard of two daggers and a slender purse. "Drop him into the moat," he hissed. "Drop, don't throw."
Hawkril gave his friend a weary look. "I'm not completely stone-headed, you know."
Craer blew him a mock kiss. "I know, my Horse."
Hawkril rolled his eyes and lowered the body between two merlons, dangling it at the full length of his arm before letting go.
The splash was louder than they'd hoped it would be, and they both saw the priest's head jerk around to stare directly at them.
Or rather, at Hawkril. Craer was crouching down behind his friend, hissing, "Act like a Storn cortahar standing nightguard."
"Like an idiot, you mean?" the armaragor growled. "Or do you mean stare out from the walls with a bored look on my face?"
"Bebolt him, he's casting a spell! We'll just have to hope Embra quells it. Stride toward him like a guard. I'll be right behind you, but remember: I'm not here. No turning to look to me-and no talking, either! Breezes take our words too far."
"Aye, Mother. Any more advice for the witless warrior?" Hawkril growled, settling the cortahar's helm over his head and smoothing down the front of the scarlet hawk-adorned tunic as he started walking, slow and purposeful, along the battlements. "Like perhaps what you want me to do when I get nose to nose with this particular hostile holy hand of the Serpent?"
"I'll think of something," Craer muttered, from a foot or so behind the armaragor's shoulders.
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of, Longfingers," came the dry, flat reply.
A few steps later, Hawkril finished refolding his cloak, tucked it back into his shield, and added, "We're past halfway there, and yon priest's starting toward us, now. Think faster, little thief."
"Anyone with him?"
"Of course. Four cortahars. You don't think Serpent-clergy dare to do anything dangerous alone, do you?"
"Any bows? Handbows?"
"None I can see. Swords and grim looks-oh, and his spells, of course."
"We have to trust in your lady-love to break those. Mist all gone?"
"Aye, but Embra's sending more now. There're about a dozen more Storn swords by the turret-that's who's calling to the priest. He's turning back to see, and 'tis coming up over the battlements like an eel, right in front of him. Aye, he's going to be mightily suspicious of this mist."
"My, my, another chance to practice his mighty suspicion. How nice for him."
Hawkril sighed. "Craer, as much as I love your familiar leaden wit, how about reassuring me just a trifle? In the matter of just what, by all the Three, I'm supposed to do now? These battlements are quite wide enough for them to come at me six or seven at a time, you know."
"Keep walking. I need us to be much closer."
"Craer! I've dined quite heavily enough from your 'Trust me and my mysterious little stratagems, thick-headed warrior' platter. I can act far more effectively if I know what you're planning, and want me to do-beforehand!"
"Ah, a fair point. A fair point, indeed. There's just one little problem, Tall Post."
Hawkril waited, striding on. And waited.
Finally, he sighed and came to a stop, turning to peer out from the battlements.
"What're you doing?" Craer hissed, from beneath him.
"Waiting for you to tell me what your little problem is, without my having to ask, 'And what would that be?' "
"Ah," the procurer responded jovially, "I'm glad you asked that. The little problem is this: I haven't the faintest notion what we're going to do, beforehand. I just go-and do."
Hawkril bent over and gave Craer a very cold look. The procurer smiled crookedly up at him, bright-eyed, and spread his hands. "Well," he added, "you must admit that thus far every one of our battles has worked out all right in the end, yes?"
The armaragor straightened up and squared his shoulders. "Eight." Then, ignoring the frantically hissing procurer behind him, he strode to where the priest was furiously dispelling mist (with only passing success) and called: "Orsor? Orsor?"
The priest turned and fixed him with a glacial glance. "Get back to your post, fool! You heard the orders, did you not? Whatever business you have with Orsor, it can wait. Go!"