CHAPTER FOUR

Mheren and Poiniard quickly made their way north, towards the city's main gate. Away from the beleaguered inn, and away from their friends. More than once, Mheren paused to look back, but each time Poiniard urged her onward. "Brandt said this is what we must do," he said, and each time, Mheren nodded and turned away. He thought he saw tears in her eyes, but it was dark and he could not be sure in the flickering torchlight. Perhaps it was only a trick of the light.

Poiniard was not sure they were doing the right thing, either. He had no desire to face trolls again, and unlike Mheren, he felt no attachment to Harrow or anyone else back there at the Bear. Running away seemed the natural thing to do, made all the more easy since Brandt had ordered them to do just that. But Wyrding somehow gave him a confidence he'd never felt before, and that only added to the cowardice he couldn't help but feel. His frantic whispers, urging Mheren not to turn back, were meant as much for himself as for her.

The weather was beginning to cool. A storm was coming. By the time they neared the gate, Mheren was herself again- firmly committed to her goal. "We must escape from here, quickly." She knelt and stuffed her cloak into her pack. There was no sound of remorse in her voice. "How much further is it?"

Poiniard looked around. "Not far, I think, he said. "I don't often come to this part of the city. In fact, I've only used the north gate once before. The Square of the Gate should be up there, just around that corner."

At last, they came to the city gates, and only to find them guarded. Four pikemen stood together near the gate, huddled about their watchfire, yet alert. "A bad omen," one of them said, looking up at the brewing storm.

"Aye," said another, nodding. "The Elementals come out to play on such nights." With that, the guards all tightened their grip on their pikes, and a few drew circles over their chests, a gesture meant to ward off spirits.

Mheren loosened her sword in its scabbard and looked over at Poiniard. From their vantage point, they were invisible to the guards. "We'll fight our way out if we must," she said, rising slowly from a crouch. "You unbar the gate, I will deal with-"

She stopped in mid-sentence and looked again at the gate. Poiniard imagined he felt a faint tremor from Wyrding. Surely, it was the storm playing tricks on him. Then, he looked toward the gate, and saw what had caught Mheren's eye.

A pale-skinned man emerged from an outbuilding near the gate, on the heels of a nervous-looking officer of the watch. At the sight of him, all of the guardsmen snapped to attention. Behind the pair, a trio of impossibly tall men emerged from the shadows. They were nearly giants, great hulks clad in voluminous black cloaks. The three took up positions behind the pale man, while the officer sweated and the four guardsmen shifted nervously.

"Look sharp tonight, lads," said the officer. "No one in or out." The repetition of standing orders was meant to impress on his guardsmen the important nature of their unexpected visitor.

"Who's that?" Poiniard asked Mheren.

Mheren scowled. "His presense is no coincidence. We are not to be allowed out of Culhaven, it seems." The arrival of an officer, a noble and the three trolls didn't seem to daunt her in the slightest. She was determined to get through that gate.

Poiniard had no idea who the man was, but there was little doubt in his mind what sort of creatures hid beneath those cloaks. "Mheren," he whispered. "There's a better way."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I know of some tunnels which lead out of the city. I have friends there who will help us." He didn't like the odds of trying to fight their way out through the gate.

"What sort of friends?"

"The Dark Lady will help us."

"Who is she?"

"The leader of my guild." Without looking back, he turned from the gate and led Mheren back into the city. Soon, they were in a maze of back alleys and dark streets.

"This is nothing like the area along the Street of Scribes," Mheren said. All the doors were kept shut, the windows darkened. The streets were uneven and muddy.

"When the coming storm breaks, the going will only get worse," Poiniard said, leaping nimbly over a puddle of murk. "At least the streets are empty."

"This whole place smells of rot and garbage," Mheren said. "Why does it not surprise me that friends of yours would live in such a place?"

Poiniard was glad her grim humor had returned. "These streets I know," he said. "I'm just glad to be away from those things at the gate."

They continued on through the slums for a while, Poiniard leading and Mheren following. Suddenly, Poiniard halted. They had turned down a side street, and three men blocked their way. They were rangy and unkempt, holding clubs and bared daggars.

"Well well," one said. "What 'ave we 'ere?"

Poiniard heard the whisper of Mheren's sword clearing its scabbard. He put a restraining hand on her arm, and flashed a hand-sign at the thugs. Recognition dawned in their eyes, and one of them returned the countersign with a flick of his hand. The three man backed off. One tapped the brim of his hat apologetically.

"Glad to see I get something for my guild tithe," Poiniard said, as they continued on. Mheren sheathed her sword and breathed a sigh of relief, but Poiniard was too intent on reading the street signs to notice.

A few blocks further south and the neighborhood began to improve. The roads turned upward, leading towards a small hill near the middle of Culhaven. They passed under a lesser gate, but it was guarded only by a pair of bored swordsmen. A few of Mheren's coins gained them entrance to that quarter of the city known as the Heights.

The streets were not deserted, but still few others were abroad. Those they passed were either drunken fops or heavily guarded merchants. A temple spire loomed nearby, silhouetted against the clouded moon.

"Good thing the moon is full," Poiniard said. "Makes things a lot easier to see." Then, a cloud passed over the moon.

"That's the last we'll see of her tonight," Mheren said. "Storm's coming."

They halted before a gated compound. A wall surrounded the place, festooned with gargoyles and other ornate stonework. Two heavily armored men stood by the gate. "Private guardsmen," Poinaird said, indicating the black tunics the men wore.

Mheren nodded. "Mercenaries. The Black Lions."

Poiniard looked at her, surprised. "How do you know that?"

She smiled. "It's on their tunics."

He wondered whether she could really make out the symbol on their uniforms from so far away, but didn't press the issue.

The sound of hooves on the cobblestones caused Mheren and Poiniard to withdraw deeper into the shadows. A carriage pulled up before the entrance, driven by a pair of well-dressed servants. One of them dismounted and held open the door while two ladies dressed in finery stepped out. The servant pulled a scroll from his belt and handed it to one of the Black Lions.

One guardsman unfurled the scroll and read it while the other scowled at the servant and scanned the street. The hulking mercenaries grinned but stood aside to let the two ladies, already swaying from too much drink, enter into the palace.

"Some kind of masquerade ball?" Mheren whispered.

Poiniard shrugged. "I guess so. Anyway, they won't let us in here. We'll have to go around back."

The servants entrance on the other side of the palace was much busier than the front entrance, with the staff coming and going, usually carrying bundles of food or drink. The two guards, who sat lazily atop a cask drinking ale, were much less imposing than the mercenaries at the front, but no less capable. They were clad in unadorned black tunics. To someone who didn't know better, the two men could have been kitchen staff lazing about. Yet even before they approached, the two guards spotted Mheren and Poiniard coming towards them.

"These men are ours," Poiniard whispered. Mheren nodded.

Poiniard stepped from the shadows. He knew they could see the sword at his belt, and he kept both his hands in plain sight. Mheren did the same, though a little more warily. The two guards made no sign they recognized Poiniard. They didn't even get up from their drinking, but their eyes were alert as they approached, and Poiniard knew they had hidden knives close at hand.

He stopped a short distance from the two men, far enough away to make his presense clearly known, and yet near enough that they could see the surreptitious hand-signal he made with his fingers. One of the men sitting atop the cask returned the counter-sign, and waved them in. Poiniard and Mheren entered without a word.

The kitchens were full of light and bustling with activity. A burly cook narrowed his eyes, and with a surreptitious glance sent one of his lads running off.

"Where are we going?" Mheren whispered.

"The kitchen staff are guild members," Poiniard told her, "but we need to find someone a little higher up."

He kept a hand on her arm as he guided her through the servant's wing. The sounds of music and revelry could be heard from a nearby room, and a seemingly endless throng of butlers and serving maids came and went. At the end of a hallway, they caught a glimpse of a grand ballroom, decorated with banners and pennants and lined with torches. The great room was filled with guests, dining and dancing, everyone wearing a decorative mask. They paused before the archway.

"Looks like all the finest folk of Culhaven are here," Poiniard grinned, eyeing the lavish display. He could only imagine the mountains of jewelry and the piles of gold carried by the wealthy visitors. "We're not dressed well enough," he warned. "We shouldn't linger here where people can see us. We stick out like sore thumbs."

Mheren paused, regarding the ballroom. She grimaced at the sight of the ladies in their plumage. A beautiful woman, very well-dressed, with red hair and a revealing dark gown was making her way across the tiled floor. The woman wore jewels that sparkled with silver and amethyst in the light, and she moved with a haughty grace and a proud confidence. She was statuesque, almost breathtaking in her beauty. Her pale skin stood out in a stark contrast to her plunging dark dress. The woman paused before a table, laughing, speaking with her guests. Mheren caught just a glimpse of her, though, before Poiniard tugged at her and led her down a side passage, away from the ballroom.

"This way," he said. They descended a narrow flight of stairs to a tunnel beneath the pantry.

Mheren started when a young man appeared from the shadows without warning. He was dressed much like the men at the back entrance, in the unadorned livery of the place, but he openly wore a pair of ceremonial daggars at his belt. The man crossed his arms over his chest, blocking the way to the tunnel. He regarded Poiniard with mild disdain.

"Tsk, tsk, Poiniard," he said, with an authoritative voice. "Dropping in uninvited like this."

Poiniard tightened his grip on Mheren's arm. "Ey, Lithome," he said. "We've urgent business."

The rogue Lithome narrowed his eyes. "The Dark Lady doesn't want anybody slipping out without her say-so. She wants to see you before you go, Poiniard. " He eyed Mheren with barely-concealed curiosity. "And your guest."

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