Shamur wondered whether they'd be so keen to protect her quarry if they realized he was a hired killer. She supposed she'd never know, for she couldn't spare the time or the breath to tell them.
Perhaps she wouldn't even if she could, for as she ran, leaped, and dodged, testing her instincts and agility, risking calamity with every stride, she felt the old exhilaration. Perhaps she was mad, but this was the kind of perilous sport she needed to be happy. Delighting in the play of her muscles, at each obstacle overcome, at the kiss of the icy air on her face, she grinned fiercely.
She bounded onto a ketch amidships. The only person on deck was a small, bald, wizened man wrapped in a voluminous black robe. He was perched in the stern, well away from her and not blocking the direction she needed to go, and she assumed that he at least had no intention of interfering with her. Then, from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed him sweeping his hands and mystic passes as he chanted rhyming words of power.
The spellcaster tossed sparkling powder into the air, and beams of multi-colored light sizzled from his fingers in a fan-shaped burst. Shamur wrenched herself behind the cover of the mainmast, but a shaft of scarlet radiance grazed her shoulder even so. She felt dizzy and weak for a moment, and then the sensation passed.
She darted from her place of concealment, intent on distancing herself from the warlock as rapidly as possible, but he was already jabbering and twirling his arms again. Magic moaned and crackled through the air.
Suddenly, she had no idea why she'd been in such a rush to get away. The wizard seemed such a nice fellow, she ought to stay and make friends, see if she could oblige him in some way-
"No!" she shouted, and the enchantment lost its grip on her mind.
Shamur decided she couldn't just run and give him the chance to hurl yet another spell at her retreating form. She noticed a bucket-a bait bucket, judging from the fishy smell- sitting near the foot of the mainmast, snatched it up, and threw it.
The missile bashed the bald man on the temple, and, dazed, he collapsed to his knees. Grinning, she headed for the other side of the ketch, and then something struck her calf, stuck there, and yanked her off her feet.
As she slammed down on the deck, she saw that it was a long, sticky tongue that had caught her, and at the other end was a goggle-eyed frog as big as a man. The spell-caster's pet or familiar, she supposed. Despite its size, with its natural ability to change color to match its surroundings, she hadn't noticed it crouching in the gloom, and now its tongue dragged her closer, its huge mouth gaping to swallow her whole.
She wrenched herself around into position to cut at the creature's tongue. One swing gashed it deeply and a second hacked it in two to lash about, showering blood.
The frog croaked, hopped into distance, and tried to bite her. Gripping her sword with both hands, she thrust at the creature's throat. The blade plunged in almost to the hilt, and the amphibian collapsed.
Shamur scrambled to her feet, took hold of the weapon, and tried to pull it from the carcass. But even when she tugged with all her might, the broadsword wouldn't slide free.
She knew she had no more time to fool with it, not with the bravo racing farther away every second. Grimacing, she abandoned the weapon, drew her dagger, and ran on.
She finally caught up with the tattooed man at the very edge of the floating city, where the clustered vessels gave way to open water. Naturally, the crafts farther in were unable to move until their assembly dissolved at dawn, but those here at the verge could depart at will, and, standing aboard a small sloop, using a boat hook to push off from the vessel next to it, the bravo was endeavoring to do so.
Another waterman, the rightful master of the vessel, presumably, lay motionless on the deck. Shamur assumed that he at least hadn't been interested in helping her quarry escape, and so the bravo had found it necessary to subdue him in order to commandeer the sloop. And thank Mask for that, because if something hadn't delayed the wretch, she never would have caught up with him in time.
One final leap across the black water landed her on the sloop, which rocked as it took her weight. The tattooed man pivoted to face her, his neck bruised where she'd struck him the night before. His eyes widened in surprise, and he smiled.
"Where's your friend?" he rasped. Apparently the blow to the throat had roughened his voice as well.
"On his way."
"But too late to help you," he said, and Shamur realized he was right. The sloop was still drifting away from its neighbor, and the gap was now too wide for Thamalon to jump. "And you, baggage, have lost your sword."
She expected him to reach for his short swords, but he whipped out a dagger with a curved blade instead.
Shamur doubted it was chivalry prompting him to opt for a shorter blade like her own. He was probably proud of his skill with a dagger, proud enough to rely on it whenever practical. Whereas, though she had some experience with all the white arms, as bladed weapons were called, she was most confident with the sword. She knew the basics of knife fighting, but no more.
Well, she told herself, that would just make it more interesting, as would the fact that while he would have no compunction about killing her, she must take care not to give him a mortal wound. Otherwise, she wouldn't be able to interrogate him afterward.
She assumed a stance similar to the one she employed when fighting with a sword, her weapon hand in the lead. Smiling knees slightly bent the bravo minced toward her with his empty hand leading, and poised to guard his abdomen, his dagger hand cocked back. He sucked in his midsection to make it less of a target.
Shamur retreated, using her longer reach to threaten him and slow his advance, meanwhile studying his technique. She knew she couldn't keep evading him for long, not in the cramped arena of the deck, but she hoped that if she figured out his style before he closed, she could turn that understanding to good advantage.
The bravo glided forward with stylized steps reminiscent of an allemande, sometimes tossing his weapon from one hand to the other. Once he twirled, momentarily giving her his back, then snapped back around with a cut that would likely have taken her in the throat, had she accepted the invitation to attack.
He did indeed appear to be a master of the dagger, tricky and sufficiently confident of his skill to be flamboyant. Shamur reckoned that she might be in even more trouble than she'd thought.
In the few seconds she'd spent studying him, he'd nearly backed her up into the very end of the bow. Unwilling to let herself be cornered, she sidestepped, and that was the instant the bravo attacked in earnest.
His hand streaked at her, and she made a cut intended to intercept it. But his thrust stopped short, her counterattack missed, and she saw at that same instant that his fist was empty. Somehow, without her seeing it, he'd transferred his dagger to his other hand, and now she glimpsed it plunging toward her abdomen.
She twisted, wrenching herself aside, and the thrust missed by a hair. With her left hand, she grabbed for his wrist, seeking to immobilize his weapon, but in one graceful blur of motion, he spun his arm away and danced back safely out of distance.
Shamur pursued him back toward the stern. She stepped and thrust, stepped and thrust, accustoming him to the pace at which she was advancing, then sprang forward with a sudden burst of acceleration which she hoped would catch him by surprise.
It didn't. He instantly dropped to one knee, and her dagger and outstretched arm flew over his head. Meanwhile, his blade drove up at her stomach.
With her own impetus driving her toward his point, she had no time to parry, but could only attempt to dodge. Once again, she was fortunate, for the dagger missed her flesh, though it snagged in her cloak and yanked her off balance before it ripped free. She grabbed one of the lines to steady herself, heard his noisy breathing coming up behind her, and spun back around to face him.