to the square nicely hidden. But Haban’s tent wasn’t there today. Instead of the pink-and-gold-striped silk tent Van Gast had expected, full of the scent of incense and sound—if not entirely honest—trading, stood a hastily cobbled-together stall selling pots and pans and other homely metal things, half of which Van Gast couldn’t name.
No Haban—that made his itch burn even more. Haban had held that pitch for as long as Van Gast could remember, had helped him out of more than one tight spot. Yet maybe that last trade had done for him—if they’d found that diamond on Haban, he’d be in the dungeons by now, or dead. A diamond that had originally been stolen from the Yelen. A theft that had started this whole sorry episode.
The stifling heat of the Godsquare, from the old stone of the temples radiating the stored sunlight of the day, from the people who surrounded him, was a blessing to his bones. Because here was the biggest danger. A square full of racks and traders, any one of whom might recognize him. For ten thousand sharks his mother would have turned him in. Nowhere was safe, everywhere was risk—and with that risk, thrill. He was alive with it, with the flutter of his heart, the pump of his blood. The itch of his trouble bone.
He sidled up next to the stall selling pots and pans and looked about. No Josie, no white-blond hair among the dark-haired crowds. A merchantman’s crew barged past, drunk and stumbling. Two ladies, their faces painted and their outfits even skimpier than the heat demanded, winked at him, but he ignored them and kept scanning the crowds.
Guards moved along the edges of the square, attempting casual interest and failing. The itch became a burn, became a shout of run, run NOW!
* * *
Rillen scanned the crowds from his vantage at the steps of Herjan’s temple, where he lurked among the wisdom-seekers. The square was dim, orange and black against the dying sun, yellow sparks of lamps lighting up pools of people, heaving crowds among the stalls and priests, beggars and hawkers. The noise of them swirled up to him—shouts, cajoling traders, the low, pitiful tones of a professional beggar, the roar of a thousand sets of Forn’s bells swaying among the press, sounding for all the world like the susurration of waves upon a beach.
He’d prepared as much as he could. Guards all round the square, some dressed as traders or sailors, some as guards. Men on roofs—Van Gast was legendary for his way of snaking up a wall and disappearing among the chimneys. Rillen had made sure every logical way off the roof of Herjan’s temple was covered, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough, not when they couldn’t say for sure which man he was until Haban’s niece turned up. Maybe not even then, but it was all the men he had.
She entered the square and Rillen puffed out a breath of relief. He lost her a moment as she darted between a press of people, and then she stopped by a stall, staring at the corner of the temple below him. Where Haban’s stall had been. Rillen scanned the dark corner—half a dozen men. Two sailors, obviously drunk, one beggar in rags, the stallholder, a man in a green shirt and what looked like one of the bodyguards from the pen on the corner—big muscles, a lot of bare skin, a face like a dog licking a thistle and enough weaponry to floor an elephant.
Rillen made a silent signal and his guards began to move. He hurried down the steps, keeping his eyes on her. She still stood by the stall. He nodded to a guard, indicated her, that the man should bring her, and turned to the corner of the temple. He needed to know which one.
The beggar eyed him warily and drew back as Rillen approached. The sailors began to argue, flinging insults and oaths like the priests threw colored rice on Kyr’s day. The man in the green shirt stood with his back to him, and Rillen almost passed him over—nothing about him really stood out, just a man like thousands of other merchanters crew hands in the city, in a sober green shirt. And bright red boots.
Is that him? Or not? Where is that little bitch to tell me? He cocked his gun and strode forward. A voice came from behind, low and soft.