They've lost the trail. Ricardo knows it, probably everyone knows it, but Tarnas'll be damned before he fesses up to it. The fat idiot is still ploughing ahead of the group, his breath coming in faint little whuffs as he strains to keep his pace ahead of Ricardo's.

Sidling up to him, Ricardo asks for the third time in the past half-hour: "You sure you still got some tracks you're following, there?"

"Shut up, kid."

Ricardo smirks, but he shuts up. If he knew a lick of anything about tracking, of course, he'd take the lead himself—but he doesn't, so for now he's content to keep sauntering behind Tarnas with the rest of the little band. After all, Ricardo figures, even though the bloke seems about as thick as a brick, he's brought in more subhuman pelts than any other hunter in town, so he must be doing something right. Even a busted clock's right twice a day, and all that.

They're close to the forest's center when Tarnas turns around at last, facing the group with a sour expression: "Let's split up."

Ricardo raises one cool eyebrow. "Sure that's a bright idea, old man? Strength in numbers seemed like the better plan to me."

"The trail's cold," Tarnas snaps. "We'll cover more ground this way."

Ricardo can't help but grin. It's as close to an admission of failure as Tarnas'll ever give.

Tarnas continues with his "orders": "We'll need two going south, two east, and two north."

Ricardo's eyes flicker across the group. Breda's already sidled up to Gormley: "We'll go east," she says. Figures—the pair of them may as well be married, the way they cling together.

Lakavere is standing near Tarnas, and Zihark—as usual, Zihark's standing a few feet away from everyone else, at the back of the group. "I'll go north," the silver-haired swordsman says softly. "I don't care who comes with me."

Ricardo looks at Tarnas, then, and Tarnas is looking at Zihark, scowling. He knows Tarnas is thinking of who to bring along with him, and he knows Tarnas doesn't think too much of Zihark—so, really, the only viable candidates are himself and Lakavere. Only, Tarnas probably doesn't think too much of teenaged brats from the military academy who play at being hunters on the weekends, either. So when Tarnas turns to look at him, scowls, and says, "I'll go south with Lakavere," Ricardo's not surprised.

Ricardo glances over his shoulder at his new companion. He's not sure if he thinks much of Zihark, either—the skinny stranger walks like some stiff-necked noble, and he hasn't said more than two words to any of them since they entered the forest. But Ricardo's too wired to care much, fidgeting with his sword in anticipation—it's not like Tarnas would've been much better, anyway, and he's figures that he's got enough talent for the both of them. So, as the other two groups saunter away to the south and east, he turns to Zihark, grinning: "Alright, partner. Let's show these bastards what's what."

Ricardo takes the lead straight away, and Zihark offers no protest. Following Tarnas's lumbering gait all day has made him antsy, eager to take charge. They don't have any good tracks to follow (and honestly, Ricardo's such a poor tracker that he'd probably miss seeing them anyway), but he figures if they walk long and fast enough, they're bound to startle something up. Worked well enough for him the last time he went hunting, anyway.

Granted, last time he went hunting, instead of just Zihark, he had a pack of a dozen other boys with him (classmates from the academy he'd hassled into joining him), and when they found the tiger, it was already limping from some prior injury, and he hadn't even been the one to land the killing blow—but Ricardo would rather ignore such petty details.

For a while, Zihark keeps pace with Ricardo—impressive, considering how fast Ricardo's going. But after a while, the other swordsman starts lagging behind—not persistently, but in short bursts. Ricardo just keeps going, and Zihark generally catches up within a few seconds. A couple of times, though, Zihark lags long enough to compel Ricardo to stop and turn around (scowling with impatience)— but every time he does, Zihark's already catching up again. It's irksome, but not a huge drag on his pace, so he doesn't say anything until Zihark stops overlong to kneel by a tree: "Hell's the holdup, man? Tired already?"

Zihark doesn't move, still kneeling by the tree. Ricardo snorts and rolls his eyes, thinking Zihark's just being an addlebrain. Town as small as Bargar, they take whatever hunters they can get, but between this laggard and Tarnas, Ricardo's starting to think maybe he'd be better off going solo.

But then he notices what Zihark's looking at—at the tree's base, there are pawprints. They're so faint that Ricardo can only barely see them, and he's amazed Zihark noticed them at all: "You're tracking."

Zihark answers without looking up: "Yes."

Ricardo laughs, reaching a hand around to scratch the back of his neck while Zihark continues scrutinizing the prints. Even though Ricardo's not much of a tracker himself, he can tell by watching that Zihark's skilled: it's in the way he angles himself relative to the sun to get the best view, in how he notices the barest of details (a few stray seeds, or a strange texture in the dirt), and in the general sharpness of his gaze—a sharpness that's lacking in lesser trackers like that bloke Tarnas. "Figures," Ricardo says, abashed. "I mean, you've been doing this a while, right?"

Zihark's eyes flicker momentarily to the other swordsman, but he says nothing.

Ricardo wonders then if Zihark actually is a noble, some glory-seeker who won't condescend to talking to riffraff like him. Only, most nobles like that wouldn't even condescend to tromping out to Bargar, and most nobles like that barely know how to hold a sword straight. He hasn't seen Zihark handling a sword, yet, but the handle and the scabbard of his blade are both well-worn, and he's heard even Tarnas grudgingly admit that the man's got some talent.

But he doesn't seem exactly common, either, and now Ricardo's intrigued. So he keeps prying: "Tarnas told me you came to this town just for the hunting. Where've you hunted before?"

Zihark's still not answering. Ricardo frowns. "Cat got your tongue or something, man?"

"It's easier to find them," Zihark says stiffly, "when they can't hear us coming."

Ricardo hears the testiness in Zihark's tone, but he tries laughing it off: "Oh, lighten up, there's nothing nearby—"

"I think I have a better idea of that than you," Zihark says, rising to his feet once more and striding past Ricardo.

Ricardo knows that, of course, and he knows he should probably just shut up, but something in him bristles at the reprimand, bristles at Zihark just walking past him, so instead he scowls, blurting, "Well, you're the one who's supposed to be bad luck."

And for whatever reason, that's the thing that finally gets Zihark's attention—he halts, tilting his head to look at Ricardo over his shoulder, brow furrowed, stance poised. "Oh?"

"Least, that's what Tarnas was saying, the other night at the tavern," Ricardo says, bullish. "He says every time he goes on a hunt with you, ever since you got here, stuff goes wrong. One time he was about a foot away from a tiger when the lance he was using cracked in half, just like that. And another time the tracks you lot were following just led in a circle to nowhere. Stuff like that."

Zihark's turning to face him again, and he's eying Ricardo rather the way a teacher might eye a particularly dangerous upstart. "And what do you think, Ricardo?"

Ricardo doesn't notice how Zihark's hand has twitched closer to the handle of his sword—poised, anxious—so instead he just laughs, shrugging: "What I think is, I think Tarnas drinks too much, and he's a bit of a git. He brings a shitty lance with him and blames someone else when the thing cracks."

Zihark laughs—a small, curiously forced laugh, but a laugh just the same. His stance relaxes. "Maybe that's so," he says, and turns again, striding ahead.

Ricardo quickens his pace, sidling close to Zihark, and keeps yammering: "Y'see, the difference between me and Tarnas is, I don't believe in bad luck. You know? You make your own luck." He's grinning now, Zihark's earlier offense forgotten—focused again on the hunt, twitchy with anticipation. "We're gonna get this subhuman."

Zihark shoots Ricardo another glance over his shoulder, and Ricardo knows for sure in that moment that Zihark's no noble, because no noble would ever look at him that way—wary, cautious, threatened.

When Zihark finds some bent blades of grass trammeled down in a meadow an hour later, they scour the place for tracks—claw-marks, bits of fur, pawprints, anything. But the patches of bent grass are few and far between, and the earth's so overgrown that it doesn't hold pawprints well. The best they can tell is that something did pass through, and it was probably the tiger, and it went... somewhere.

"Farther north, I think," Ricardo guesses, "along that gorge over there—maybe that's where he got off to."

Zihark frowns thoughtfully before shaking his head. "No. He was headed that way—" Zihark walks as he talks, following the tiger's path, gesturing at the few prints they've been able to find, "—but he circled back here and turned east. You can see the crushed sagebrush over there. We should head that way."

Ricardo's about to go along with it. Zihark's done this before, maybe dozens of times. Ricardo's only got three lousy hunts to his name, and those barely count; he didn't know what the hell he was doing. But, as he walks up beside Zihark, he notices something—Zihark's standing in a dusty, dry patch of earth, free of the overgrowth that plagues the rest of the grove, and clear as day behind him is a set of prints. The way he's standing, it's almost like he's hiding them.

"You blind, Zihark?" Ricardo snaps. "You're standing right over some prints."

Zihark blinks, staring back at Ricardo like he's the dumb one. Then Ricardo strides forward, and Zihark turns fast, stepping right on the prints. "Idiot," Ricardo says, shoving Zihark backward, "don't mess 'em up." Then Ricardo kneels, scrutinizing what's left of the tracks—luckily, a few prints have been left untouched. "See there, clear as day. The tiger went north."

Zihark opens his mouth, as if to protest—but what's he going to argue about? He's wrong, and Ricardo can't resist the chance to gloat: "No wonder you lot kept getting turned about, that one time, with you an' Tarnas as trackers. Sure you're cut out for this?"

They've reached the northern edge of the forest. The trees are spaced farther apart here, interspersed by small meadows and fields of ryegrass and reeds. Zihark's gone quiet again; he hasn't spoken since they found the tracks earlier. Ricardo's pretty sure he's got a read on the fellow, now—he's no noble, sure, but he is some glory-seeker, stiff with pride and thin-skinned. Can't deal with getting told off by some teenage brat, so he clams up and starts lagging behind.

So let the scrawny idiot sulk, Ricardo thinks as they step into a sun-drenched meadow, he's not going to let it bother him. And when there's a flash in the reeds, Ricardo sees it first—one sleek, silvery sheen of fur. Ricardo shouts, and then he's running downhill after it, tearing through the tallgrass. The tiger startles, turns, starts sprinting away, but he's too heavy to accelerate quickly; Ricardo's grinning as the distance closes between them, and he draws his sword.

Zihark starts running, too. The other swordsman had been standing several paces behind Ricardo, but he's frightening-fast right now, gaining on him within seconds. Ricardo can hear Zihark's footsteps behind him, but he doesn't look backward—so he doesn't realize how close Zihark is, doesn't see that Zihark's running straight toward him, until Zihark lunges and tackles him from behind.

The impact sends him toppling forward. His sword flies from his hand, and for one panicked moment he thinks there's more subhumans about, thinks he's getting tackled by some wild tiger, thinks he's good as dead. But he manages to twist around just enough to glimpse Zihark, and then he doesn't quite know what to think, but he's pissed. As they lurch forward, Zihark kicks out and jerks backward, and he feels Zihark's foot crushing his own, feels his own ankle twisting back so far he screams as he crashes face-first into the ground.

Zihark jumps away just a half-second later, nimble, unscathed, scurrying to the side. Ricardo lifts his head from the ground, spitting dirt. He looks ahead, quick—and the tiger's still running; it's charging up a grassy ridge maybe a hundred paces away. Ricardo grits his teeth, clawing his fingers into the dirt, and hauls himself back onto his feet—but the second he does so, his damned ankle gives out , and he's face-first in the dirt again.

Zihark's standing nearby—Ricardo notices that just now. Zihark's not even going after the damned tiger, he's just watching it go, like he's wanting it to get away. "The hell was that?" Ricardo shouts as he rolls himself over and sits himself up straight, his ankle still pulsing with pain so badly that he's gritting his teeth. "That was the tiger, just now, you stupid git! I had him!"

Zihark just barely turns his head toward him. "I'm sorry; I must've stumbled."

"Stumbled?" It's a goddamn lie—Ricardo knows it, even though Zihark's wearing a perfect poker face, and it's such a stupid lie too. "You mowed straight into me—"

"Calm down, Ricardo—"

Ricardo's not listening; ignoring his ankle, he throws himself back onto his feet. The pain sharpens, and he stumbles backward, but he at least manages to keep his balance. "You know what I think, Zihark?" he snarls while stumbling forward on unsteady feet. "I think you're all talk. You waltz into town like you do this all the time, and you somehow convince Tarnas to let you come along even though he doesn't like you. But then you blunder the tracks, and you blunder this—and you know what I think?" Ricardo squares himself now, as if he's getting ready to have a go at Zihark, and he's spitting his words like viper's venom: "I think you knocked me over on purpose, because you just couldn't handle someone else getting the glory."

Then Zihark laughs. Just laughs, and his laughter rings eerie and hollow in the clearing. "Yes, Ricardo, that's exactly it," he says coldly, "I engineered this just because I wanted your glory, because I wanted all the honor of the hunt—"

Ricardo balks. He's got half a mind to straight-up slug Zihark, right now, but there's something in Zihark's laughter that paralyzes him—something strange and bitter and caustic that he can't quite comprehend, but frightens him just the same.

He's still balking when, suddenly, there's a horrid, tigerlike yowling to the north—sharp, pained, and very close. Zihark's laughter dies instantly. Then he's gone, sprinting toward the sound, sprinting so fast that he's disappeared over a ridge before Ricardo can so much as blink.

Damned if Ricardo'll let this ankle keep him away from the fight—clenching his teeth again, he starts hobbling after Zihark. As he draws closer, his ankle screaming in pain every step of the way, he can hear the grunts and the shouts of the melee. It sounds like Tarnas and Lakavere, and it's going in their favor—the earlier yowls have been replaced by muted growls and whimpers, and the growls are fast fading.

By the time Ricardo limps over to the scene, the hunt is already done. Tarnas is grinning, face flushed, sick with happiness; below him is the carcass, blood still welling up from the ragged gash in its neck like mud in a ditch during a rainstorm. Zihark stands at the edge of the scene, eyes fixed solidly on that carcass.

"I thought you two were hunting south of here," Zihark says, still winded, and his voice has an odd quaver in it—for one bizarre moment, Ricardo's thinks maybe Zihark's tearing up, but when he looks at the swordman's face it's cool as ice, as usual. "Ricardo and I were covering the north."

Tarnas snorts unapologetically. "Tracks led here, so I came here." Then he meets Zihark's gaze and smiles a crooked-toothed smile. "Hey, don't look so glum, now. You'll have your chance next time."

"Of course," Zihark says, but his voice isn't jealous or angry; it's just husky and hollow. When Ricardo looks at Zihark, the older swordsman's head is bowed, and the wind is sweeping his hair in front of his face. He doesn't look like a glory-seeker at all, just then, with his gaze so dark and heavy, though Ricardo can't figure out what else he could be. The word unlucky drifts strangely into Ricardo's mind, and he feels a sudden chill. The breeze comes to him, then, carrying a scent of autumn with it: the stinging scent of dead leaves and ashes.