The tiles slipped and skidded under his boots, and he cursed again. Van Gast came into view, briefly, running over the steeply sloping roof as though it was level ground. Not aiming for any one of the easy ways off the roof, but heading straight for a long drop. Rillen paused to aim, but, contrary to all expectation, Van Gast dropped out of sight in a jangle of bells.
Rillen led the way after him, listening for those bells that marked his position as clearly as if Rillen could see him. Loose tiles made the slope treacherous, and Rillen took care, more care than Van Gast had, and peered over the edge of the roof.
A long drop—too damned long and why he’d not even thought Van Gast would go this way. Rillen slid over the edge with care, dangled as far as he could and dropped, his men close behind. One fell awkwardly, with a broken scream and the snap of bone. Rillen ignored him, ignored the wrench of his own leg, the jar on his bones and limped on.
Yet no matter how fast they ran, how they jigged around obstacles through the alley and into a square, Van Gast was always a step ahead and wasn’t in the square when they reached it.
Rillen swore viciously under his breath. He’d thought he’d blocked all ways from the roof. He had done, blocked every sane way. Van Gast hadn’t even tried them, had instead gone straight for the insane way, the sloping roof that was almost sheer, the long drop. He alone didn’t seem to have done himself an injury—Rillen’s leg throbbed where it had twisted on landing, and none of his men from the roof were much better.
The rest of his men came at a run from the Godsquare, just as a stallholder was pointing to a dark, narrow alley full of rubbish. A nod from Rillen, and the fresh men leaped after Van Gast. Rillen stayed where he was, glaring at anyone who looked like they were about to speak.
Van Gast was gone, slipped through his fingers like smoke. Kyr’s mercy, Rillen had enough men here to take an entire ship, and yet one man eluded them. Eluded everyone. For now. Don’t think I’ll stop. There will be another way. Yet it was still a failure, would still have to be reported as such. Haban’s niece better come through with something else.
He moved at that thought, made his slow way back to the Godsquare, turning over and over in his mind how he would tell his father he’d failed. Sod his father, it was Bissan he wanted to impress now, and this wasn’t impressive.
He reached the square and found a vantage point. Haban’s niece was gone. Rillen frowned, annoyed. No sign of her. She’d disappeared into the heaving, curious crowds. She turned him in, what else do you want?
He wasn’t sure, but something made him uneasy. A stallholder shoved a pan under Rillen’s nose and tried to persuade him to buy it, his hand fast on Rillen’s arm. Rillen yanked it away.
Haban’s niece had better get in touch again, find another way to catch Van Gast, or Haban’s life would be worth less than his next piss.
* * *
Holden let Tallia lead the way through the crush, though he kept his eyes sharp. For Ilsa, who he should be trying to find, should be trying to make it up to. He’d looked and looked but finding one person in this press of people would be nigh on impossible, and in the end he’d given in and let Tallia take him to see where Josie was berthed.
The crowds buffeted them this way and that, pressed them close, too close for Holden’s comfort, and pulled them apart again. Somewhere in the Godsquare, Tallia took his hand and he didn’t let go as he should have. On the plaza outside the walls, the crush was worse, the vast space filled to bursting with racks and merchant crews, traders grabbing for customers with sly, beguiling hands. Next to a stand selling wooden toys, the crowd shoved Tallia right into his arms so that he had to grab her to stop them both from falling.
The worst thing was that he didn’t want to let go, that she was everything Ilsa had ceased to be. Warm where Ilsa was cold, soft where Ilsa was a sharp shoulder. Smiles where Ilsa was a frown.