The Black Bouquet

He thought maybe he shouldn't be trying to shake it. An outlaw, after all, survived by heeding his instincts. Perhaps he was only striving to ignore them because he'd just lost Dal, Gavath, and Kerridi, and it pained him to think he might lose Burgell in a different but no less final fashion.

"Burg," he finally said, "did someone get to you?"

The gnome blinked and asked, "What nonsense are you talking now?"

His turquoise eyes, brilliant even in the soft lamplight, glanced down and to the left as he spoke. Aeron was fairly certain it was what gamblers called a "tell"-a sign Burgell was lying.

"It occurs to me I've never known you to work with the casement open," said Aeron. "You usually don't want folk peeking in at your business."

"We're on the third floor."

"Someone could spy from one of the upper story apartments in the tower across the way. But let's say you wanted someone to know I'd shown up here. Then the open casement would help you signal."

"Did you see me wave a flag or write a note and fling it out?"

"No, but you triggered the thunderclap, and that kind of clumsiness isn't like you, unless you did it on purpose. You followed that up with more noise and flashing light, and since then, it looks to me like you've just been stalling, waiting for somebody to burst in through the door you didn't bother to relock."

Burgell backed away from the work table and snatched a scrap of ram's horn from his pocket. He lifted it above his head and jabbered words of power.

Aeron leaped up from the couch, charged, dived across the low table, and slammed into Burgell, presumably spoiling his conjuration. He hurled the gnome to the floor, dropped on top of him, and poised an Arthyn fang at this throat. Despite the circumstances, and his own anger, the human felt an irrational flicker of shame for manhandling someone so much smaller than himself.

"Get off me," Burgell panted, "or I'll turn you into a beetle. I'll boil your blood."

"Don't talk nonsense. You're no battle mage, and even if you were, you'd need a demon's luck to get off a spell before I cut your throat. Now, who turned you against me?"

"The Red Axes."

"Well, at least it wasn't the law. Do the Axes have a crew watching the place?" Given that Kesk had all of Oeble to search, and his normal business affairs to manage, that seemed unlikely. "Or just a beggar or streetwalker who'll carry word to the gang?"

If the latter was the case, Aeron might have an extra minute or two in which to make his escape.

"I don't know," answered the gnome. "They didn't tell me."

Aeron's anger clenched tighter inside him.

"Curse you," he said, "why would you do this? I thought we were friends."

"We are," the gnome replied. "That's why I tried to shoo you away from my door, but you wouldn't have it. Once you bulled your way in, I had no choice."

"That's a load of dung."

"No, it's not I didn't like betraying you, but I have my own neck to worry about. I can't afford to anger Kesk Turnskull. Please," the gnome said, his voice breaking, "anybody would have done the same!"

"And anyone would do what I'm going to do now."

But just as Aeron was about to drive the dagger in, his rage abruptly twisted into sadness and a kind of weary disgust.

"Or not, apparently," Aeron said, "unless you try to get up, call out, or throw another spell."

He rose. Burgell stared at him as if he feared the human was only feigning mercy, toying with his victim before he made the kill.

He shouldn't have worried, if for no other reason than Aeron plainly didn't have time for such an amusement. He stuffed the strongbox back in the saddlebag, then scurried around the workroom, snatching up a selection of Burgell's tools. When he ran out of room in the pouch, he stuck them in his pockets and inside his shirt.

Next he opened the casement and peered outside. He didn't spot any bravos striding through the little marketplace below with obviously hostile intent. That didn't necessarily mean they weren't there, but it was marginally encouraging even so. Above him, the blue sky was unobstructed, which was to say, it didn't have a Rainspan cutting across it, co

All things considered, Aeron thought he'd take his chances in the street. He pulled up his hood. Many folk would go without on such a warm, pleasant autumn day, but even so, a covered head would likely be less eyecatching than his red hair.

As he opened the apartment door, it occurred to him to demand his gold back from Burgell. But even if he hadn't been in a hurry, he wouldn't have bothered, wouldn't have wanted to talk to his false friend any more than necessary, and so he simply ran down the steps. The infant had stopped wailing, but the stairwell still smelled of warm, rising bread.

Aeron hoped to reach the exit before any of the Red Axes appeared to block the way, but when he peered over the second floor landing, he saw that he hadn't been that lucky. The door below him opened, and two figures, Tharag the bugbear and the peevish human who'd lost to the hulking goblin-kin at cards, appeared in the bright, sun-lit rectangle. The Red Axes exclaimed at the sight of their quarry and scrambled up the steps.

Aeron retreated to the far end of the landing, drew his largest Arthyn fang, and settled into a fighting crouch. At first, the Red Axes advanced on him with cudgels in their hands. Then they caught sight of the saddlebag tucked under their intended victim's arm, realized they didn't need to take him alive to discover its whereabouts, and readied their own blades.

Aeron waited until they were nearly in striking range. Then he stuck his knife between his teeth, planted his hand on the railing that bordered the landing, and vaulted over.

At least he didn't have as far to fall as when he'd jumped off the parapet at the Paer. The landing jolted him, but he weathered it, and when he looked up, he discovered that his gamble had paid off. The Red Axes weren't so keen to kill him that they were willing to leap after him and risk breaking their own bones. They were scrambling back the way they'd come, which meant Aeron would have no difficulty reaching the door ahead of them.

Gri

He flopped over onto his back. The paunchy, tattooed Whistler who'd been selling falcons stood over him, swinging one of the perches over his head for another blow. It was a clumsy sort of improvised quarterstaff, but it would do to bludgeon a man into submission.

Aeron wondered fleetingly why that particular rogue was meddling in his business. Maybe Kesk had bribed or intimidated the Whistlers into joining the hunt. Or perhaps the wretch was acting on his own initiative. He might want to curry favor with the Red Axes and move up to membership in the more successful gang.

Either way, Aeron had to deal with him quickly, before Tharag and his partner ran back out the door. He tried to twist himself around into position to strike back, but didn't make it in time. The perch hurtled down, and the best defense he could manage was to catch it on his forearms instead of taking it across the face. The blow crashed home with brutal force. Aeron gasped at the pain, and some of the folk in the crowd laughed and cheered the Whistler on. As far as the thief knew, they had no particular reason to favor his assailant over him except that the vendor currently held the upper hand, and the citizens of Oeble tended to enjoy watching a bully administer a good beating.

The perch jerked up into the air. Aeron finished swinging himself around, pulled his knees up to his chest, and lashed out with a double kick. His heels caught the Whistler in the knees, something cracked, and the gang member stumbled back and toppled onto his rump. Aeron hoped he'd crippled the poxy son of a whore.