He looked back outside, struggling to calm his thudding heart. The living he could master, but the dead were another matter entirely.

Tris and the others made camp at the edge of a small forest, just far enough within the tree line to hide themselves from the village below. There were many people on the road, returning from festival or taking goods to the last fairs before winter, and so Harrtuck made a small fire without concern.

"Now what?" Tris asked Vahanian as the mercenary sat next to the fire, a hot mug of watered ale gripped in his hands against the cold.

Vahanian glanced up at him. "Now, we find some cover for going north," he said, draining his mug and setting it aside. He clasped his hands and looked into the fire. "A caravan's good cover," he said after a pause. "Lots of people for camouflage and they still make decent time on the road."

"Won't that be slow?" Carroway asked, finishing his dinner. "I mean, they have to stop a lot to sell their wares and give their shows."

"Beats four fugitives and a guide trying not to look obvious," Vahanian said, never taking his eyes off the fire.

"So what are we going to do?" Soterius asked, setting his plate aside. "Just walk up and say, 'Hello there, we want to be your hired swords?'"

Harrtuck laughed and even Vahanian smiled. "A little like that," Vahanian said. "If they're passing anywhere near here, there's a caravan I have in mind. An old friend of mine named Maynard Linton owns it. Maynard will take us on, no questions asked, and keep his theories to himself if our guards seem overly well-bred," he said, with a pointed glance toward Tris and Soterius.

"How do we find him?" Tris asked.

Vahanian shrugged. "There's a settlement on the other side of the forest. I'll go down to the tavern. Tavern keepers always know where the caravans are."

He left within the hour, heading down the slope into the village while Tris and the others stayed hidden in the forest. Vahanian paused at the outskirts of the village to take stock. It looked quiet enough. Some of the banners from the holiday remained aloft from the corners of buildings, fluttering cold and forlorn on the autumn breeze.

The tavern was on the edge of the settlement, its broken sign askew and unreadable. Vahanian made his way up the sagging steps, toeing a drunk out of the way, and pushed open the greasy door. Something skittered across his boot as he entered. The tavern was full, testimony to a lack of competing facilities, Vahanian was sure, rather than to the food and ale. He sized up the clientele—third-rate merchants, petty cutthroats, fewer and uglier whores than usual, and one or two freelance fighters who appeared to be nothing more than common thugs.

He took a place at the bar so that his back was to a wall, and casually rested his boot on the rail of a chair as the barkeeper brought him a mug of ale. For a candlemark, he listened silently as the patrons grumbled about taxes and guardsmen, muddy roads and too much rain. He listened more closely when the talk turned to trouble in the north, but heard nothing more specific than rumors of dark magic and fierce beasts. As he listened, he watched the crowd. There were few enough inns on the way north, making it likely for those who traveled frequently to spot one another. That included bounty hunters, whom Vahanian wanted to avoid more fervently than ever.

"Heard anything about caravans coming this way?" he asked, draining his mug. He slid his coin across the sticky wood.

The barkeeper shrugged, bit the coin, and threw it into his apron pocket. "I hear there's some coming," he replied in a voice that suggested that he sampled too many of his own goods.

"Any in particular?"

"Maybe. Heard something about Couras's caravan passing through here going south in a few weeks," the barkeeper added, wiping out a glass and setting it back to be used again. "Heard tell that Linton's caravan was heading north, might be here in two or three days."

Vahanian nodded and sipped his drink. He froze as he recognized a squat man with oily blond hair, rising from a table in the back. He had an inkling the man had been looking for him, back in Ghorbal. When it came to tracking prey, bounty hunters seemed to have all the time in the world. If the hunter made a calculated guess about Vahanian's direction, he would check out the inns first. Bad enough if Vahanian were about his usual business, but with the fugitives in tow, it made the risk unacceptably high. He would have to do something about it. As Vahanian watched, the bounty hunter made his way among the crowded tables toward the door. Vahanian turned slightly so that his face was hidden as the man passed, then set his drink aside when the door closed behind the man and followed him into the night.

In the darkness of the alley behind the inn, Vahanian tackled the squat bounty hunter from behind, locking his arm around the man's throat.

"So, Chessis, you're still in business," Vahanian said, tightening his grip.

"Let me go, Vahanian. I'm not looking for you."

"Right," Vahanian replied, maintaining his pressure on Chessis's throat. "And I'm not worth a lot of money to you dead."

"That was a long time ago," Chessis croaked. "They've probably retired the purse by now."

"Somehow, I doubt it. What are you doing here?"

The bounty hunter twisted slightly, enough to bring his boot around, and Vahanian realized almost too late that there was a blade set in its toe. The knife sliced his pantleg as he released his hold and jumped back, pulling his own blade. Chessis dropped into a defensive squat, circling and looking for an opening. In the narrow alleyway with its tangle of overhead laundry lines, drawing a sword would be impossible. Instead, Vahanian crouched, knife in hand, ready to spring.

Chessis lunged. Vahanian parried. Chessis feinted, then lunged again, his knife scoring against Vahanian's arm. With an oath, Vahanian pivoted, his left foot snapping out towards the surprised bounty hunter, letting his boot connect hard against the man's knife hand and sending the weapon skittering down the alleyway. Before Chessis could recover, Vahanian spun, slipping within the bounty hunter's guard and burying his knife deep in the man's chest. With a groan, the oily-haired man clutched at the spreading stain on his shirt and sagged to the ground, just as Vahanian felt the point of a sword in his back.

"It may be too close to fight with this," a gravelly voice said, "but I have plenty of room to run you through, Jonmarc."

Vahanian dropped his knife and raised his hands. "Hello, Vakkis."

"Some day, before I kill you, you're going to have to teach me that footwork," Vakkis remarked coolly. "You're really a marvel, Jonmarc. I may miss you when you're dead. Escaping from the Nargi is feat enough. Learning their ancient fighting skills is another." Vakkis made a tsk tsk in the back of his throat. "It's going to be much quieter for me after you're gone, Jonmarc."

"I never knew you cared, Vakkis," Vahanian replied. "I'll be glad to give you your first lesson now, if you want."

The jab of the sword's point between his shoulder blades was his reply.

"You know, Chessis was telling the truth," the bounty hunter went on. "We aren't looking for you, at least, right now. I've got another client."

"Slime spreads," Vahanian remarked, and this time, the sword jab drew blood.

"Where is Martris Drayke?"

"How in the hell would I know?"

"Turn around, slowly, and keep your hands up," Vakkis replied, keeping the point of his sword against Vahanian's flesh as the fighter turned, and bringing the sword to bear above his heart. "Now, I'll ask again. Where is Martris Drayke?"

"You're getting old, Vakkis," Vahanian replied. "Hearing's going. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."