The Face of Chaos

'There's a man,' Dolon said at once, in a low, soft voice, 'pi

The tic grew more pronounced, spread to the left, scar-edged eye. The hands jerked as well, until they found each other and clasped for stability. 'Stepson?' Mor-am asked needlessly, a hoarse thin voice: that too the fire had ruined.

Dolon nodded and waited, demanding far more than that.

'They would,' Mor-am said, lifting his shoulder, seeming to give apologies for those that had ruined him for life and made him what he was. 'The bridge, you know - they - h-have to come and go -'

'So now we and the hawkmasks have a thing in common.'

'It's the same t-thing. Hawkmasks and Stepsons. To t-them.'

Dolon thought on that a moment, without affront, but he assumed a scowl. 'Certainly,' he said, 'it's the same thing where you're concerned. Isn't it?'

'I d-don't t-take Jubal's pay.'

'You take your life,' Dolon whispered, elbows on the desk, 'from us. Every day you live.'

'Y-you're not the same S-Stepsons.'

Now the scowl was real, and the moment's sneer cleared itself from the man's ruined face.

'I don't like losing men,' Dolon said. 'And it comes to me -hawkmask, that we might find a use for you.' He let that lie a moment, enjoying the anxiety that caused, letting the hawkmask sweat. 'You know,' he said further, 'we're talking about your life. Now there's this woman, hawkmask, there's this woman - we know. Maybe you do. You will. Jubal's hired her, just to keep her out of play. Maybe for more just now. But a hawkmask like yourself - maybe you could tell her just what you just told me ... Common cause. That's what it is. You know who's looking for you? I'm sure you know. I'm sure you know what those enemies can do. What we might do; who knows?'

The tic became steady, like a pulse. Sweat glistened on Mor-am's brow.

'So, well,' Dolon said, 'I want you to go to a certain place and take a message. There's those will watch you -just so you get there safe and sound. You can trust that. And you talk to this woman and you tell her how Stepsons happen to send her a hawkmask for a messenger, how you're hunted - oh, tell her anything you like. Or lie. It's all the same. Just give the paper to her.'

'What's it s-say?'

'Curiosity, hawkmask? It's an offer of employ. Trust us, hawk-mask. Her name's Ischade. Tell her this: we want this beggar-king. More, we've got one man missing on that bridge tonight. Alive, maybe. And we want him back. You're another matter ... but I'd advise you come back to us. I'd advise you don't look her in the eye if you can avoid it. Friendly advice, hawkmask. And it's all the truth.'

Mor-am had gone very pale. So perhaps he had heard the rumours of the woman. Sweat ran, in that portion of his face unglazed by scars. The tic had stopped, for whatever reason.

The wind caught Haught's cloak as he ran, rain spattered his face and he let it go, splashing through the puddles as he approached the under-stair door within the Maze.

He rapped a pattern, heard the stirring within and the bar thrust up. The door swung inward, on light and warmth and a woman, on Moria, who whisked him inside and snatched his dripping wrap. He put chilled arms about her,'hugged her tight, still shivering, still out of breath.

'They got a Stepson,' he said. 'By the bridge. Like before. Mradhon's coming another way.'

'Who?' Moria gripped his arms in violence. 'Who did they get?'

'Not him. Not your brother. I know that.' His teeth wanted to chatter, not from the chill. He remembered the scurrying in the alley, the footsteps behind him for a way. He had lost them. He believed he had. He left Moria's grasp and went to the fireside, to stand by the tiny hearthside, the twisted, mislaid bricks. He looked back at Moria standing by the door, feeling aches in all his scars. 'They almost got us.'

'They?'

'Beggars.'

She wrapped her arms about herself, rolled a glance towards the door as someone came racing up at speed, splashing through the rain. A knock followed, the right one, and she whisked the door open a second time, for Mradhon Vis, who came in drenched and spattered with mud on the left side.

Moria stared half a heartbeat and slammed shut the door, dropping the bar down. Mradhon stamped a muddy puddle on the aged boards and stripped his cloak off, showing a drowned, dark-bearded face, eyes still wild with the chase.

'Slid,' he said, taking his breath. 'There's a patrol out. There's watchers You get it?'

Haught reached inside his doublet, pulled out a small leather purse. He tossed it at Mradhon Vis with a touch of confidence recovered. At least this they had done right.

Then Moria's eyes lightened. The hope came back to them as Mradhon shook the bright spill of coins into her palm, three, four, five of them, good silver; a handful of coppers.

But the darkness came back again when she looked up at them, one and the other. 'Where did you get it, for what?'

'Lifted it,' Haught said.

'Who from?' Moria's eyes blazed. 'You by-Shalpa double fools, you lifted it from where?'

Haught shrugged. 'A greater fool.'

She hefted coin and purse, down-browed. 'At this hour, a merchant abroad in the Maze? No, not likely, not at all. What did I teach you? Where did you get this haul? From what thief?' They neither one answered, and she cast the prize on to the table. Pour silver coins among the copper.

'Light-fingers,' Mradhon said. 'Share and share alike.'

'Oh, and share the trouble too?' She held up the missing coin and dropped it down her bodice, dark eyes flashing. 'Share it when someone marks you out? I don't doubt I will.' She walked away, took a cup of wine from the table, and sipped at it. She drank too much lately, did Moria. Far too much.

'Someone has to do it,' Haught said.

'Fool,' Moria said again. 'I'm telling you, there's those about don't take kindly to amateurs cutting in on their territory. Still less to being robbed themselves. Did you kill him?'

'No,' Mradhon said. 'We did it just the way you said.'

'What's this about beggars? You get spotted?'

'There was one near,' Haught said. 'Then - there were three of them. All at once.'

'Fine,' said Moria in steely patience. "That's fine. You're not half good. My brother and I -'

But that was not a thing Moria spoke of often. She took another drink, sat down at the table in the only chair.

'We got the money,' Haught protested, trying to cheer her.

'And we're counting,' said Mradhon. 'You go ahead and keep that silver, bitch. I'm not going after it. But that's all you get, 'til you're worth something again.'

'Don't you tell me who's worth something. You'll get our throats cut, rolling the wrong man.'

'Then you by-the-gods do something. You want to lose this place? You want us on the street? Is that what you want?'

'Who's dead over by the bridge?'

'Don't know.'

'But beggars sent you ru

Mradhon shrugged.

'What more do we heed?' she asked. 'Stepsons. Now Becho's vermin. Thieves. Beggars, for Shipri's sake, beggars sniffing round here.'

'Jubal,' Mradhon said. 'Jubal's what we need. Until you come through with Jubal's money -'

'He's going to send for us again.' Her lip set hard. 'Sooner or later. We just go on checking the drops. It's slow, that's all: it's a new kind of business, this setting up again. But he won't touch us if you get the heat on us; if you go off making your own deals. You stay out of trouble. Hear me? You're not cut out for thieves. It's not in you. You want to go through life left-handed?'