“I figured it was something like that.”

The Creeper was resigned to eking out a meager living fleecing the country folk until information concerning Rannit and her defenses suddenly became highly prized by certain parties in his former home. He was only too happy to augment his income by paying for reports of activities on our walls.”

“He lied?”

“Continually. And with what I must admit was considerable flair. If they believe him, finder, they are coming prepared to face an arcane defense built upon spells developed secretly during the last days of the War.”

“Spells. Not cannon.”

Mills tried to giggle, but could only make a bubbling noise deep in his throat.

“They may have spent months developing measures to defend themselves from magics that don’t exist.”

“Hurrah for our side.”

“Oh, don’t be such a cynic, Markhat. If we can maintain this mistaken belief for a few more days, we will have a considerable tactical advantage, come the first exchange of pleasantries.”

“No way to avoid that, sir?”

Mills sighed.

“I fear not, finder. But see here. Our enemies are deeply suspicious of each other. Their initial attack may result in disaster for them. All that shall be required is for one of them-just one-to turn on another.”

“Think that’s likely?”

“I know my kind, finder.”

“Now who’s the cynic?”

“What’s this?”

Mills pointed.

There was a man on the street.

Not walking, strictly speaking. He did manage a sort of forward motion, but he did so only with considerable effort and after numerous falls, turns and halts for loud shouting matches with persons who didn’t actually seem to be present. Sometimes these conversations turned to fisticuffs, and those turned into falls as the sudden flurry of wild punches was apparently too much to coordinate with the act of walking upright.

“He shall soon be one of mine I suspect.”

I didn’t need to agree. Weedheads so far gone they make that much racket in this neighborhood were unlikely to see many sunrises.

But this was no ordinary weedhead. In one hand he clutched a scrap of paper. He studied it periodically, holding it up to the moonlight, and then turning about as if trying to match something on the paper to something in the street.

He drew closer, muttering, singing, shouting or sobbing. But always checking the paper.

When he drew even with the Timbers, he stopped, fell to his knees and crawled to the ruined front doors.

“Courier,” I whispered. “Probably from Lethway.”

“Lethway? I know the name.”

I watched. The weedhead raised himself up and landed a trio of weak blows upon the door.

There was a glint in the darkness, and something snatched the weedhead inside so quickly both his mis-matched shoes were left behind.

I heard a single anguished cry, a cry cut short, and then nothing.

Beside me, Mills sighed.

“He is being dragged into a cellar,” he whispered. “There are a dozen men. And an ogre. Interesting.”

“Can you hear them?”

“Another one?” said Mills in a voice gone strange and distant. “Damn, boss, they’re already stinking down here.”

“Shut up.” Another voice, fainter, with an accent.

“What’s the old bastard have to say?”

“The meet is still on. Same time. But he’s suspicious. Thinks we may have company. One of his own. And that finder.”

“The finder will be dead well before then.” Another voice, softer than the others. I wondered if Mills was trying to speak as a woman through his ruined throat, or mimic a dry whisper.

“This other. Is he coming alone?”

“Bastard doesn’t know.”

“We’d better plan for extra guests,” said the softer voice. “Even so, they won’t be a problem.”

“What else is he telling? Lot of pages there.”

Silence, while someone studied the note.

“More of the same. I think he’s playing us.”

“What you think is none of my concern.” A new voice, this one cold and hard. “See to the walls. The kid alive?”

“Was last time I checked. Do we need him?”

“For the moment.”

Mills blinked.

“Isn’t this fun?”

“I’m giddy with amusement. Anyone you recognize sound off?”

“The sorcerer, perhaps. An upstart. Barely skilled even in the most basic of the arts.” Mills frowned. “It was he who predicted your imminent demise, Captain. I take a dim view of my officers being slaughtered so close to the eve of war.”

“So do I, sir. Rest assured I’ll be alive and kicking when the fleet sails down the Brown.”

“See that you are.”

Mills rose, made a show of brushing filth from his bloody clothes and winked.

“I shall leave you to your case, Captain. Though I trust you are aware that I can, and will, bring an army to bear on this place, should you ask it of me.”

“I appreciate that, sir. I really do. But this is hardly a matter for the Regency.”

“As you wish.”

Mills turned and walked away, silent as a shadow.

And gone, utterly gone, in just half a dozen steps.

I lay there until the sky grew light. Yes, I dozed. Some kindly angel, or more likely a lingering magic left by the Corpsemaster, kept the rats from chewing me down to bones and boot-heels.

I slithered away from my trash heap. I snuck out of my alley. I stank my way back to Cambrit, so befouled and malodorous even the dead wagons gave me wide berth.

I didn’t dare my office. If someone was waiting for me, with mayhem on their mind, I figured they’d be there, sharpening their knives. So I came up the wrong end of Cambrit and stripped naked in the alley by the bathhouse. I kept my boots and my hat and my long black coat, because naked men stand out on Cambrit even at a distance.

Old Mr. Waters met me at the door. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t lecture me on hygiene. He just took my clothes and shoved them into that enormous cast-iron stove that heats his water and handed me two bars of soap and a towel.

I’d lately taken to keeping a change of clothes, including boots, with Mr. Waters.

“I’ll get ye your clothes,” he said. “And I hope to Hell whatever ye done last night was worth it.”

“So do I.”

I slipped into the merciful waters, and tried to forget Mills and his unblinking dead eyes.

Chapter Twenty

I actually went to sleep in the hot copper tub. I probably would have drowned, had Mr. Waters not grabbed me by the hair and yanked me out.

The bathhouse was filling up. The Arwheat brothers were there, shouting and shoving and laughing. Old Mr. Bull was in for his monthly bath. He looked wizened and almost Elvish peeping up through the suds. All were eager to regale me with tales of the hard-eyed men who’d been watching my door last night.

Mr. Bull had chased them off his stoop just that very morning. He wasn’t sure where they’d gone. I bet it wasn’t far.

I didn’t ask Mr. Bull or the Arwheat brothers or anyone else to keep their mouths shut about my bathing habits. They weren’t going to talk to outsiders, and asking would only have insulted them.

I dressed in my clean clothes and put on my clean shoes and slipped out of the bathhouse by the back door. From there I stuck to alleys and walls until I found a cab at Merry and managed to climb inside without ruining my shirt with a sudden flight of arrows.

Tamar was my first stop. She’d need to know I intended to bring Carris home in the morning.

That’s all I planned to tell her. The last thing I needed was Mr. Tibbles to show up yapping at the Timbers.

The management of the Wolford Inn has definite ideas about freshly bathed menfolk just breezing up the stairs to visit their female guests. I was on the verge of testing the mettle of the bespectacled young man behind the desk by walking up anyway when Tamar glided down the stairs.

She was all smiles. She was wearing a light blue day dress and a white hat with a blue ribbon. The white basket that held Mr. Tibbles was trimmed with the same blue ribbon.