Crown Of Shadows Part 20

And then the weight of his sorrow was too great even for prayer, and he wept.

Twenty-nine.

They left the city right after sunset, as soon as Tarrant could tolerate the light. The Hunter had wrapped his cloak about his head and shoulders in a manner that made him seem more like a spectre than a man ... which was wholly appropriate, Damien thought, given the nature of their business. Not until the Core had followed the sun into its westerly grave did he push back his improvised hood and breathe in deeply, testing the scents of the night. the city right after sunset, as soon as Tarrant could tolerate the light. The Hunter had wrapped his cloak about his head and shoulders in a manner that made him seem more like a spectre than a man ... which was wholly appropriate, Damien thought, given the nature of their business. Not until the Core had followed the sun into its westerly grave did he push back his improvised hood and breathe in deeply, testing the scents of the night.

"Nothing," he said quietly, which might mean any number of things. Seemingly satisfied, he urged his mount forward. Marginally confident, Damien followed.

There were two routes available to them, and they had argued for over an hour about which one to take. One followed the west bank of the Stekkis River to Kale, along a road that catered to the needs of travelers. It offered supplies, shelter, and various other amenities that Damien found appealing. But it was also the road that the Church would take in its newly declared war against the Forest, and those troops would be leaving any day now. True, the odds of meeting up with them were small-hopefully they would be several days ahead of them at least-but Tarrant was loath to risk even those odds. And since, truth be told, there was nothing Damien would enjoy less than running into the Patriarch with the Hunter by his side, he had finally agreed to the eastern route, on the far side of the river.

He tried not to think about Calesta as they rode, but it was d.a.m.ned hard not to. Did the demon know about their mission, and was he even now making plans of his own to counter theirs? Tarrant had said that the Iezu could read the secrets in the hearts of men. How did you work up a defense against someone like that? Maybe the demon would be so busy with the Church and its campaign that Tarrant and he were safe for the moment. The Hunter had said that Calesta was involved in that enterprise, although he didn't know exactly how. Maybe it would use up all the demon's energies- Yeah. Right.

Two hours' ride brought them to the western bank of the Stekkis, at a tiny settlement called Lasta. The town's few businesses were all closed for the night, its houses locked and shuttered securely against the darkness. Tarrant used a Locating to find the ferryman's house. Left to his own devices the Hunter might have coerced the man into his service, but Damien took over, and eventually they agreed upon a price which was half coinage and half sorcery. Glaring, Tarrant worked a Warding on a piece of crystal the man supplied, and not until he was content that it worked would the ferryman step forth out of his house to lead them to the river.

Demonlings fluttered overhead as they led their horses along a narrow paved path behind the house, to where a simple wooden ferry waited. It seemed to Damien that there were a lot of them here, given the size of the town. Either the inhabitants were unusually creative or something else was responsible. Maybe the city-born ent.i.ties that foraged in this direction found the water to be a barrier, and piled up here like trash in a cul-de-sac, too stupid to know that if they just turned around and went home their odds of finding food would increase a hundredfold. Their presence was a solemn reminder of just how many nasty things were out there, that usually kept their distance when Tarrant was around. No wonder the ferryman had insisted upon the Warding as part of his price.

The river here was broad but shallow, nothing like it was where it roared over Naigra Falls a hundred miles to the north of them, nothing like the vast delta that was host to half a dozen ports beyond that. The ferry was small but adequate, and if the horses had any complaints, they were quickly banished by Tarrant's faeborn skills. Leaning against the rail, watching the inky black water rush by, Damien remembered his protests the first time he'd seen Tarrant use that trick. Now it was just one more choice bit of sorcery, more practical than some, less offensive than most.

Face it, man. You've gotten used to him.

On the far side of the river there was no town, no road, only a rough dirt path that led away from the river. There would be settlements arrayed between there and the coast, but they would be few and far between and their inhabitants would be wary of strangers. Since the road west of the river offered both comfort and safety, anyone choosing the eastern bank would be highly suspect.

As the ferryman poled his way back home, Damien came to where Tarrant stood, one hand resting against the black flank of his horse. It was clear from his expression that he was Working, and not until Damien saw him move and judged him finished did he speak to him.

"Anything useful?"

Tarrant's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "The Patriarch intends to lead his people into the Forest itself, straight to my keep. They mean to confront me in my lair, confident that G.o.d will favor them in their mission and lead them to victory."

No more. After a moment of silence, Damien pressed, "And?"

He shook his head; clearly he was perplexed. "There are futures in which they succeed. Only a few ... but how could they make it through my domain? Do they think I have no defenses? The very ground will rise up against them, the species I nurtured will-"

"Gerald." He put a hand on the other man's shoulder, for once not noticing the chill of his undead flesh. "It doesn't matter any more. Not the Forest, not any of it." He didn't say the words, but let them hang between them in the chill autumn air, unspoken: You have twenty-nine days left. That's all. You can't afford to lose your focus now. You have twenty-nine days left. That's all. You can't afford to lose your focus now. "As long as Calesta's alive and kicking, everything's at risk." "As long as Calesta's alive and kicking, everything's at risk."

The Hunter hesitated; Damien could see something dark flash in those cold, cold eyes. Anger? Frustration? Tarrant glanced northward toward the Forest, as though he wanted to Know what was going on there, but the strong northerly flow of the current wouldn't allow it. With a muttered curse he forced his eyes away and took up the reins of his horse once more. "You're right, Reverend Vryce. Much as I hate to admit it."

He mounted his horse and swung it around so that it faced east. But Damien didn't mount up, and after a moment Tarrant looked back at him, to see what was wrong.

"I'm not," Damien said hoa.r.s.ely. "Reverend, I mean." He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Not a priest anymore."

For a moment there was silence.

"They cast you out?"

"No." He shook his head stiffly. "I quit. I was ..." G.o.d, he wished there were an easy way to end this conversation. But Tarrant had a right to know. "It was my choice. Really. I ..." Whom was he trying to convince, Tarrant or himself? "It was right," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "The right thing to do."

For a long time the Hunter said nothing. Then: "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." He shut his eyes, trying not to feel the pain of it all over again. How long would it be before the healing started, before he could think about his choice and not feel sick inside? "Let's just go on, okay?" He vaulted up onto his horse's back and grabbed up the reins. "We've got things to do." He kneed his horse into motion, hoping Tarrant would just follow. He didn't want to look at him again, for fear that he would see something all too human in those death-pale eyes. Something he couldn't deal with right now.

Pity.

They rode hard, pausing only to rest the horses when they had to in order to keep going. There were no stables midway along this route at which one could trade for fresher mounts, hence the animals would have to keep their strength up until they reached the coast. That meant three days at the very least, maybe more. Damien and Tarrant pushed them as hard as they dared on that first night, but both of them knew that speed would cost them dearly if one of their mounts became injured as a result.

You could make the trip faster without me, Damien wanted to say. Damien wanted to say. You could put on wings and make the coast in a day or two, and Shaitan in little more than that. You could put on wings and make the coast in a day or two, and Shaitan in little more than that. But he didn't voice that thought. The Hunter was aware of his own capacity, and he knew d.a.m.ned well that having Damien with him slowed him down. Yes, he could reach Shaitan in less than a week if he traveled alone, but clearly he preferred not to. But he didn't voice that thought. The Hunter was aware of his own capacity, and he knew d.a.m.ned well that having Damien with him slowed him down. Yes, he could reach Shaitan in less than a week if he traveled alone, but clearly he preferred not to. He doesn't want to face death alone, He doesn't want to face death alone, Damien mused. And, darkly: Damien mused. And, darkly: I don't blame him. I don't blame him.

It was Tarrant who determined their route, leading them away from the packed dirt of the narrow road into the gra.s.sy lands beside it. There weren't many caves in this area, he explained. They would have to swing farther east to where the mountains started to rise, to increase their odds of finding shelter when dawn came. What went unsaid was an eloquent reminder of what their relationship had become. Tarrant himself could find shelter alone along any stretch of earth, using his fae-sight to locate an underground pa.s.sage and his sorcery to facilitate entrance. What would complicate this search was that he meant to keep Damien with him. And that was the first time in all their travels together that the Hunter had voluntarily chosen to share a shelter with anyone.

He's afraid, Damien mused, as a third moon rose to shed light on their journey. Damien mused, as a third moon rose to shed light on their journey. h.e.l.l, I'd be, too, in his shoes. Any sane man would be. h.e.l.l, I'd be, too, in his shoes. Any sane man would be.

As for being in Damien Vryce's shoes ... he tried not to think about that.

Near dawn they reined up at last, and Damien dismounted with a sigh that was half relief and half pain. Ten months at sea had weakened his leg muscles enough that he could feel every mile of this trip. If the Hunter felt any similar discomfort, as usual he didn't show it. In silence they led the horses to the place where Tarrant had Located shelter, and after a brief bout with a shovel and a wrestling match with several heavy rocks, Damien managed to break into the underground s.p.a.ce. It was dry at least, which was more than he could say for some of the other places Tarrant had led him to.

"I'll stay up here with the horses," he said, nodding toward the camping supplies in his saddlebag. "They should be able to graze, which'll help stretch our supplies. I'll keep them close to home."

And then came the question he didn't want to ask. The answer he didn't want to know. He drew in a deep breath and forced the words out one by one, trying to make them sound casual. "I guess you'll need to ... tonight or in the morning...."

"Feed myself?"

He muttered something unintelligable.

In answer Tarrant unbuckled one of his saddlebags and drew out a large canteen. "As you see, I came prepared." He uncapped the container and took a long drink from it; something about the weight or the way he handled it made Damien certain it wasn't water. "No more nightmares, Vryce. Not this time. You need your strength as much as I need mine, and in the face of Calesta's power ... there should be enough nightmares to go around soon enough, for both of us." He took another short swallow, then capped the canteen once again. "I can make it on this until we reach the coast. After that ..." He shrugged.

Don't think about it, Damien warned himself, as the Hunter shouldered his supplies and slipped down into the darkness of his subterranean shelter. Damien warned himself, as the Hunter shouldered his supplies and slipped down into the darkness of his subterranean shelter. The misery that this world will suffer if Calesta succeeds in his plans is a thousand times worse than anything the Hunter could devise. The misery that this world will suffer if Calesta succeeds in his plans is a thousand times worse than anything the Hunter could devise.

He wished he could be sure of that. He wished he were sure of anything.

Twenty-eight days left.

What will happen to the Church's troops if they do make it through? Damien had asked Tarrant. Damien had asked Tarrant. If your creations let them pa.s.s and they reach the keep. What then? If your creations let them pa.s.s and they reach the keep. What then?

Then their fate will be in Amoril's hands, he responded. he responded. And as for what Amoril is capable of . . . And as for what Amoril is capable of . . . He shook his head grimly. He shook his head grimly. The Forest is still mine, and will be until my death. He may tap into its power, but he can never fully control it. The Forest is still mine, and will be until my death. He may tap into its power, but he can never fully control it.

So they could win out, then.

For a long time the Hunter didn't answer. It was a long enough delay that Damien began to wonder if he had heard him at all, and was about to repeat the question when the Hunter said, very quietly, The price for that kind of success would be high. I wonder if your Patriarch is willing to pay it. The price for that kind of success would be high. I wonder if your Patriarch is willing to pay it.

It took them three days to reach the northern coast. Each night as Tarrant arose, Damien could see him stop and gaze northward toward their distant goal, and he could almost hear him counting down the days that were left to him. Twenty-seven. Twenty-six. Twenty-five. It was enough time to do what they had to, Damien told himself. It had to be. Shaitan wasn't all that far away, so if the journey didn't kill them outright, they should make it with at least a week to spare. Right?

Calesta had still made no move against them. Rather than rea.s.suring Damien, that fact made him doubly nervous. Despite Tarrant's insistence that the Iezu would make no direct attempt to kill them, Damien wasn't so sure. Tarrant had said that the laws of the Iezu forbid them from interfering in human development, and Calesta was doing that already, wasn't he? G.o.d only knew what the demon was planning for them, but it was d.a.m.ned likely not to be pleasant. Maybe he would wait until they got to Shaitan, Damien thought. Maybe this first part of the journey would be relatively easy, as they all prepared for a confrontation on the Iezu's home turf. Maybe- He sighed, and shifted his position in the saddle so that his legs ached a little less.

Yeah. Right. Dream on, Vryce.

They came within sight of Seth shortly after midnight on the fourth night of travel. It was a small town by Jaggonath's standards but adequate for their purposes, with the kind of harbor that should host at least one vessel willing to carry them. Damien saw Tarrant fingering the neck of his tunic as they approached the southern gate, and wondered if he had replaced the Forest medallion Ciani had torn from his neck so very, very long ago. It had made negotiations easier once before, but he wondered if wielding it now would be such a good idea.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Tarrant dismounted and motioned for him to do the same. "Try not to Work here," he warned, as he wrapped the horses' reins about a nearby tree limb for security. "The currents this close to the Forest may well overwhelm you." Damien nodded that yes, he understood. Senzei Reese had almost been swallowed up by the fierce currents in Kale, and that city was just across the river from them. He wasn't anxious to test himself against a similar power.

For a moment Tarrant stood still, gathering himself for a Working. It must be of considerable complexity, Damien noted; the Hunter rarely required such mental preparation. Then Tarrant reached out toward him; Damien could almost feel a gust of power whip about him like a whirlwind. For a moment he couldn't see, and then vision returned to him, and the wind died down. His flesh tingled as if it had just been sc.r.a.ped with a rasp.

"What the h.e.l.l-"

"An Obscuring," the Hunter said evenly. "Not for the flesh, but for ident.i.ty."

"You think that's necessary?"

"I think it's wise. Calesta's known our path for several days now. Why make ourselves more vulnerable than we have to be?" He took up his horse's reins again and remounted. "The fact that our enemy can be subtle makes him doubly dangerous," he warned, and he urged his horse into motion once more.

"I know-I agree-it's just-d.a.m.n!" He mounted his own horse and urged it to a trot, to catch up with Tarrant's own. "You could have warned me."

He couldn't see Tarrant's face, but he suspected he was smiling.

Another half mile brought them to the edge of town. There was a guard stationed on the road there, which was something of a surprise; Damien wouldn't have thought that this small town, off the beaten track from anywhere, would require such security. Two men in armor hailed them as they approached, and gestured for them to dismount. Who were they? the guards asked. Why were they here, and why were they entering the town so late? Damien let Tarrant speak for them both, improvising false names and enough details of their supposed travels that the guards would be satisfied. He was right, He was right, the ex-priest thought, as he listened to the exchange. the ex-priest thought, as he listened to the exchange. Calesta Calesta could well could well have arranged for a welcoming committee, and we would never have seen it coming. have arranged for a welcoming committee, and we would never have seen it coming. If so, that would certainly explain why the demon hadn't made a move against them before. It explained it so well, in fact, that as Damien remounted to follow Tarrant into the town itself he felt a knot of dread form in the pit of his stomach. If so, that would certainly explain why the demon hadn't made a move against them before. It explained it so well, in fact, that as Damien remounted to follow Tarrant into the town itself he felt a knot of dread form in the pit of his stomach.

Calesta wouldn't kill them himself, Tarrant had said. Those were the rules that his kind lived by.

Yeah, but he can manipulate others into doing it for him.

Tarrant led the way to the harbor, following directions that the guards had supplied. The narrow streets were all but silent and the hoofbeats of their horses echoed back at them emptily, as if they were riding in a cavern. It had rained recently, and a thin film of water over the cobblestones made them glimmer like gla.s.s in the moonlight. Black gla.s.s. Polished obsidian. Bricks like those of the Hunter's keep, toward which even now the Patriarch and his chosen few were riding. He tried not to think about where the Church's army was now, or whether or not he hoped they would succeed. Right now they had enough troubles of their own.

They turned down a side street, narrower than before, which curved to the north. They were close enough to the water now that they could smell the rank perfume of the Serpent, salt and seaweed and decay all blended together into a dank miasma. The harbor must be close by.

They came to another intersection and were about to ride through it, when suddenly the Hunter reined up to a stop.

"What is it?"

Tarrant looked down the three roads available, then back the way they had come. Damien followed his gaze. There was an open-air market to the left of them, its wooden tables now empty until the morning. Some kind of factory stood to the right, its windows dark, its doors securely locked against the night. Up and down the street and to both sides of them it was the same: no signs of human habitation, or of any business that might be active after dark.

He watched as Tarrant worked a Locating, and breathed in sharply as the image took focus. The road to the harbor was wide and paved with flagstone, and even at this hour it was not wholly deserted. Not like this road that they had been sent to, which might have been in the midst of a desert for all the human life it contained. They had been sent in the wrong direction ... and that could only mean one thing.

With a sharp curse Tarrant wheeled his horse about, and the Locating shattered like gla.s.s as he pa.s.sed through it. Listening carefully, Damien could hear a faint noise approaching from the way they had come. Voices? There was a similar sound to the west of them, and the clear echo of hurried footsteps. No safety there, either. Damien was willing to bet that the other two roads were similarly guarded, or had been closed off.

"You said they wouldn't know who we were," he whispered fiercely.

"I worked an Obscuring," Tarrant snapped. "Either they're hunting mere strangers ..." He didn't finish the thought, but Damien could finish it for him. Or Calesta gave them a vision of who we really were. An illusion of his own, to take the place of the one you conjured. Or Calesta gave them a vision of who we really were. An illusion of his own, to take the place of the one you conjured. s.h.i.t. If that's what had happened, then they were in real trouble-and not only here, but anywhere that men could be gathered together for action. s.h.i.t. If that's what had happened, then they were in real trouble-and not only here, but anywhere that men could be gathered together for action.

"That way will be a dead end," Tarrant declared, indicating the direction they had been riding. "And that way, too, most likely." He gestured toward the silent street to the right of them. "With an ambush waiting, no doubt." He studied the road down which they had come; Damien saw his nostrils flare, as if sifting the scent of the road for more information. "Calesta will have known that our destination is the harbor. Therefore they will have turned us away from it."

"So we go back?"

"That, or drive the horses forward and go elsewhere ourselves. Maybe the sound of their flight would detract attention for just long enough ... we could take to the rooftops." He nodded toward the wooden awning that had been erected over the market area, and the buildings that ab.u.t.ted it. "They wouldn't think to look up there, at least not until they learned that the horses were riderless."

The sounds were getting closer now, and were loud enough that Damien could guess at the size of the approaching mob. If it was a large enough crowd, then the horses would never be able to break through it. On the other hand, trying to make it to the harbor and beyond without swift mounts to carry them was not an appealing alternative. "What's your preference?" he demanded.

Tarrant stared back down the way they had come, studying the currents that flowed along the street. "Calesta can point people to the roof as easily as he can control their vision. And then what would we have? In this district, where there are no homes to put in jeopardy ..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. Damien could picture the district burning up all by himself, along with the refugees who clung to its rooftops.

"All right, then." Tarrant steadied his horse with one hand and drew his sword with the other. The coldfire blade blazed in the darkened street with an almost hungry brilliance. "Let's do it."

"Gerald."

The Hunter looked back at him. The silver eyes were black as jet, and it seemed to Damien that something red and hungry had sparked to life in their depths.

"You can shapeshift," the ex-priest reminded him. "Fly out of here and reach Shaitan that way."

"Yes," he said shortly. "But you can't."

And he kicked his horse into sudden motion, forcing Damien to follow suit.

It was an eerie ride, back down those deserted streets. Tarrant had wrapped some fae about the horses' hooves that kept their footfall from being heard, but there was no way to tell if Calesta was circ.u.mventing that Working as well. If so, If so, Damien thought grimly, Damien thought grimly, they'll be ready for us they'll be ready for us. He had his own sword out, flame-embossed grip settled firmly in his palm. The sword of his Order, the Golden Flame, of which Gerald Tarrant had once been Knight Premier. And he still claimed that t.i.tle, Damien knew. a.s.suming Tarrant dead, the Church had never bothered to throw him out. For some reason, in this dark moment, the thought pleased him immensely.

They could hear distinct voices up ahead, and see the glittering of lanterns. Not far now. With a sinking heart Damien realized just how many men had come to seal the trap, and he knew that there would be no way through them save on a road paved with blood.

"Jump," Tarrant muttered fiercely. Damien glanced over at him and saw a strange double image flickering about the head of his horse, as though there were two animals sharing the same s.p.a.ce. A quick glance at his own revealed a similar situation. Teeth gritted, sword raised high in preparation for combat, he forced himself to ignore Tarrant's Working-whatever the h.e.l.l it was-as he signaled his mount to leap. His old horse would have done it-his old horse would have followed him to h.e.l.l and back and not complained-but who could tell what this new mount would do? Ten feet closer to the crowd, now twenty. He could make out individual faces, torches and lamps, swords and spears. There was a rage in those faces burning so hot that several were flushed red with the force of it, and as he and Tarrant came into range, curses were wielded along with sharp steel. What the h.e.l.l had Calesta told these people-or showed them-to merit such hostility? There were spears being leveled in their direction, and Damien knew that if his horse failed to jump, they would be skewered within seconds.

Please, he prayed. he prayed. Do it. Do it.

It did.

He could see the false image peel off as his horse rose up, powerful flanks driving them up over the heads of the nearest townspeople. Behind him the false horse-image plowed into the crowd, and the men there, believing what their eyes told them, fell down before it. Tarrant's own phantom worked similar damage, with such brutal efficiency that row upon row of their attackers seemed to be trampled by the ghostly hooves. The men behind them pressed forward, thrusting spears and swords into the illusory flesh, believing in it enough that it seemed to them the bodies resisted, then punctured, then bled.

-And then the real horse was coming down with Damien still in the saddle, only it hadn't cleared the mob yet, not by a long shot. The men beneath him never saw it coming. One minute they were focused on the ghost-horse before them, and the next minute half a ton of steel and flesh was bearing down on them. Damien heard bones crack as they landed on a sea of moving flesh, and he clung desperately to his saddle as his horse struggled for solid footing, wincing at every cry from the bodies crushed beneath him. For a few precious seconds it was all he could do to keep his seat, and hope that no weapon reached him. Then he saw a blade swinging down toward the horse's neck, and with strength born of utter desperation he leaned out as far as he could to strike it aside, then cut back toward its owner's chest. His blade bit deep into leather and flesh, and the man fell back with a cry.

They don't know what they're doing here, he thought, as he whipped around to see what threat might be coming from another direction. he thought, as he whipped around to see what threat might be coming from another direction. They probably don't even know who it is they're fighting. They probably don't even know who it is they're fighting. He could hear screams of fury and pain now on all sides. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tarrant's coldfire blade sweeping like a scythe through the mob. Some of the attackers were starting to back off now, horrified, and the look in their eyes was like that of men awakening from a dream. d.a.m.n Calesta, for whatever he had done to them! Wasn't it enough that armies had to die, without making the innocent join them! He could hear screams of fury and pain now on all sides. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tarrant's coldfire blade sweeping like a scythe through the mob. Some of the attackers were starting to back off now, horrified, and the look in their eyes was like that of men awakening from a dream. d.a.m.n Calesta, for whatever he had done to them! Wasn't it enough that armies had to die, without making the innocent join them!

Finally he was free, the last broken body fallen behind him. He glanced about to see Tarrant break out of the crowd, and gestured for him to take the lead. The black horse broke into a fevered gallop down the dark street, and Damien followed. He could see blood streaming along his horse's neck and could only pray that the wounds weren't too deep. The black flesh of Tarrant's mount, glistening with sweat, made it impossible to a.s.sess its condition, but it seemed to be moving all right. G.o.d forbid either horse should lose its footing now.

Two blocks beyond the mob Tarrant slowed, and focused the fae before them into a picture. Now they could see clearly, as if on a map, where the harbor lay. And they could see just as clearly that they had been sent in the wrong direction, into a trap that had almost killed them.

"Come," Tarrant said, and he kicked his horse into a gallop. Down through the dark streets they rode with desperate speed, across a broad avenue, onto a smoothly cobblestoned road. The few townspeople who were abroad that late fell back from them as though they were demons. At least there were no angry mobs here, Damien thought. G.o.d willing Calesta was arrogant enough that he never considered they would escape him. Or desperate enough that he had focused all his manpower at that one four-p.r.o.nged trap, leaving no backup to cover their escape.

And then they turned right instead of left. "Gerald-" Damien called, but the Hunter waved off his protest and continued in that direction. Then he led them through another turn, equally mistaken. Damien struggled to remember the map Tarrant had conjured, and saw it all too clearly in his mind's eye. "You're going the wrong way!" he yelled. Heads appeared in the nearest windows as townies grew curious about the racket outside, then quickly withdrew. "Your map-" he began.

"Follow me!" the Hunter commanded. With a muttered curse Damien followed his lead. If Tarrant wouldn't stop, then there was no other choice; he wasn't about to let them be separated. d.a.m.n the man, d.a.m.n the man, he swore, as he urged his horse to even greater speed. The mob would never catch up to them now, not unless he and Tarrant did something stupid that would slow them down. Like getting lost. Like forgetting the G.o.dd.a.m.n map. Like turning left when they should go right, and maybe it was all Calesta's fault, maybe Tarrant wasn't he swore, as he urged his horse to even greater speed. The mob would never catch up to them now, not unless he and Tarrant did something stupid that would slow them down. Like getting lost. Like forgetting the G.o.dd.a.m.n map. Like turning left when they should go right, and maybe it was all Calesta's fault, maybe Tarrant wasn't seeing seeing the right turn, but knowing who and what their enemy was, he d.a.m.ned well should have been prepared for something like that. the right turn, but knowing who and what their enemy was, he d.a.m.ned well should have been prepared for something like that.

And then the houses gave way to an open road paved with flagstones, beyond which the moonlight glinted on surf. Damien could hear waves, and human voices, and the soft growl of a distant turbine. The Hunter rode to the end of the street and paused there.

"How-" Damien began.

"Later." The road dropped away sharply at its end, down to the harbor some hundred feet below. A long flight of stairs and a switchback trail offered equally uncomfortable ways of getting down to the water. The Hunter studied the boats splayed out below them, a.s.sessing each one's potential for speed as well as its position in the small harbor. "That one," he said at last, pointing to a small boat at the end of the easternmost pier. Its two masts flanked the exhaust pipe of a steam turbine. "I can raise a wind that will move it quickly, hopefully before anyone thinks to follow."

"What if its owner-?"