Mistress of the Empire. Janny Wurts

counted the cost. He would have to replace the factor. A certain slave was going to die of what must seem natural causes, and the trade shop must be shut down, a regrettable necessity, for while it doubled as part of his network, it was one of the few profitable Acoma undertakings used by the spy ring. It paid for itself and provided extra funds for other agents.

      Grey light filtered through a crack in the wall. Dawn was nigh, but the men showed no sign of stirring. They had not fallen asleep, but were waiting against the chance the man they sought might show himself at the last hour.

      The minutes dragged. Daybreak brightened outside. Carts and wagons rumbled by, the costermongers bringing produce to be loaded at the riverside before the worst of the heat. The chant of a team of barge oarsmen lifted in tuneless unison, cut by the scolding of a wife berating a drunken husband. Then a shout raised over the waking noise of the city, close at hand, and urgent. The words were indistinct to Arakasi, wedged behind muffling bales of linen, but the other two men in the warehouse scrambled immediately into motion. Their footfalls pattered the length of the building, and the board creaked aside.

      Most likely they made good their escape; were they clever, they might have used the sound of their leaving as opening gambit for a ruse. A partner could yet be lingering to see if their quarry flushed in response.

      Arakasi held still, though his legs were kinked into knots of spasming muscle. He delayed a minute, two, his ears straining for signs of danger.

      Voices sounded outside the doubled door, and the rattle of the puzzle lock that held the warehouse secure warned of an imminent entry. Arakasi twisted to free himself, and found his shoulders wedged fast. His arms were pressed flat to his sides; his legs had slipped too low to gain purchase. He was trapped.

      He knew galvanic desperation. Were he caught here, and arrested as a thief, the spy who had traced him would hear. A corrupt city official would then receive a gift, and he would find himself delivered to his enemy. His chance to make his way back to Mara would be lost.

      Arakasi jammed his elbows against the bale, to no avail. The gap that pinned him widened, only causing him to fall deeper into the cleft. The board walls added the sting of new splinters to his wrists and forearms. Silently swearing, he pushed and slipped inexorably beyond hope of unobtrusive extrication.

      The warehouse doors crashed open. The Spy Master could do nothing now but pray for a chance to innovate as an overseer bellowed, ‘Take all those, against that wall.’

      Sunlight and air heavy with the scent of river mud spilled into the warehouse; a needra lowed, and harness creaked. Arakasi deduced that wagons waited outside to be loaded. He weighed his choices. To call attention to himself now was to chance that no one from the enemy net waited outside, a risk he dared not take. He could be followed again, and luck would not spare him a second time. Then all debate became moot as a work team hurried into the warehouse, and the bale that jammed his body suddenly moved.

      ‘Hey,’ someone called. ‘Careful of that loose bit up there.’

      ‘Loose bit!’ snapped the overseer. ‘Which of you dogs broke a tie when the bales were stacked and didn’t report the lapse?’

      A muddle of disclaiming replies masked Arakasi’s movement as he flexed aching muscles in preparation for his inevitable discovery.

      Nothing happened. The workers became involved with making excuses to their overseer. Arakasi seized the moment to lever himself upward. His thrust jostled the cloth that had been shifted, and it overbalanced and tumbled downward to land with a resounding thump against the floor.

      The overseer yelled his displeasure. ‘Oaf! They’re heavier than they look! Get help before you go trying to push them about from above.’

      So, Arakasi concluded: the factor must have realised his dilemma and arranged a possible cover. No space remained for mistakes if the impromptu salvage was to work. Hastily he threw himself prostrate. With his face pressed to the pile of cloth where he perched, he mumbled abject apologies.

      ‘Well, hurry along!’ the overseer cried. ‘Your clumsiness is no excuse to lie about in idleness. Get the wagons loaded!’

      Arakasi nodded, pushed himself off the stack, and fought against the unsteadiness of stiff muscles to keep his feet. The shock was too much, after hours of forced inactivity. He bent before he collapsed, leaning against the fallen bale and stretching as if examining himself for injuries. A worker eyed him sourly as he straightened. ‘You all right?’

      Arakasi nodded vigorously enough to shake loose hair over his features.

      ‘Then lend a hand,’ the worker said. ‘We’re almost done at this end.’

      Arakasi did as he was bidden and caught the end of the fallen bale. In tandem with the worker, he joined the team doing the loading. Head down, hands busy, he used every trick he knew to alter his appearance. Sweat dripped down his jaw. He smeared the trickle with his hands, rubbing in dust and dirt to darken the thrust of his cheekbones. He ran his fingers through the one lock of hair kept dyed since a scar had turned it white, then smudged artfully to extend shadow and lend the illusion of shortening his chin. He lowered his brows in a scowl, and thrust his bottom teeth against his upper lip. To an onlooker he should seem nothing more than a worker of little intelligence; as he hefted his end of the cloth he stared directly ahead, doing nothing that might identify him as a fugitive.

      Each pass from warehouse to wagon scraped his nerves raw. By the time the wagons were loaded, he had singled out a loiterer in the shadows of the shop front across the street. The man seemed vacant-eyed, a beggar left witless by addiction to tateesha; except that his eyes were too focused. Arakasi repressed a shiver. The enemy was after him, still.

      The wagons were prepared to roll, the workers climbing on board. Mara’s Spy Master hoisted himself up onto the load as if expected to, and elbowed the man next to him in the ribs.

      ‘Did the little cousin get that robe she wanted?’ he asked loudly. ‘The one with the flower patterns on the hem?’

      Whips cracked, and a drover shouted. The needra leaned into their traces, and the laden wagons groaned into movement. The worker Arakasi had addressed stared back in frank surprise. ‘What?’

      As if the big man had said something funny, Arakasi laughed loudly. ‘You know. Lubal’s little girl. The one who brings lunches down to Simeto’s gang at the docks.’

      The worker grunted. ‘Simeto I’ve heard of, but not Lubal.’

      Arakasi slapped his forehead in embarrassment. ‘You’re not his friend Jido?’

      The other man hawked dust from his throat and spat. ‘Never heard of him.’

      The wagons had reached the corner of the alley and swung to negotiate the turn. Urchins blocking the way raised curses from the lead drover, and the overseer waved a threatening fist. The children returned obscene gestures, then scattered like a startled flock of birds. Two mangy hounds galloped after them. Arakasi dared a glance back at the factor’s residence. The tateesha halfwit still drooled and watched the warehouse doors, which were being closed and locked by a servant.

      The ruse, perhaps had worked.

      Arakasi mumbled words of apology to the man he had bothered, and rested his head on crossed elbows. While the wagon rolled, jostling over the uneven paving and splashing through the refuse that overflowed the gutters by the dockside, he smothered a sigh of relief. He was not clear of danger, nor would he be safe until he was miles removed from Ontoset. His thoughts turned to the future: whoever had arranged the trap at the factor’s would presume that his net was discovered. He would further surmise that his escaped quarry must guess that another organisation was at work. Logic insisted that this unseen enemy would react with countermeasures to foil just the sort of search that Arakasi must now launch. Ring upon ring of confusion would befuddle the trail, while the Ontoset branch of the Acoma network was left a total loss. Its lines of communication must be dissolved without trace. Two more levels of operation would have to be engaged, and swiftly: one to check for leaks in the branches in other provinces, and another to sift through a cold trail to