Midkemia"/>
A WOMAN SCREAMED IN OUTRAGE. Three young men overturned carts and pushed aside shoppers as they crashed through the evening market. Their leader – a tall, rawboned youth with red hair – pointed to the retreating back of their prey and shouted, ‘There he goes!’ Night approached the port city of Durbin as desperate men raced through the streets. Merchants pulled prized wares from tables as three young warriors shoved anyone and anything blocking their pursuit. In their wake they left consternation, curses and threats; all of which they ignored. The summer heat of the Jal-Pur desert still clung to the walls and cobbles of the city, despite the slight breeze off the sea. Even the harbour gulls were content to stand idly by and watch for any morsel that might fall from a passing vendor’s cart. The more ambitious among them would launch themselves into the air and soar for a moment or two, hanging languidly on the heat rising from the dock stones, then quickly return to stand quietly near their brethren. The evening markets were crowded, for most of the inhabitants of Durbin had spent the blistering afternoon resting in the shade. The city’s pace was leisurely, for these were the hottest days of summer, and men who lived on the desert’s edge knew better than to struggle needlessly against the elements. Things were as the gods willed. So the sight of three armed and apparently dangerous young men pursuing another, while hardly a remarkable experience in Durbin, was unexpected given the season and the time of day. It was just too hot to be running. The man attempting to flee was, from his look, a desertman: swarthy and dressed in a baggy shirt and loose-fitting pantaloons, a midnight blue headdress and open robe, his feet clad in low-topped boots. Those who followed were led by a northerner, probably from the Free Cities or the Kingdom of the Isles. His ginger hair was uncommon in the Empire of Great Kesh. His companions were also young men, one broad-shouldered and dark of hair, the other blond and of slighter build. They were all sunburned and dirty and had hard expressions that added years to their appearance. Their attentions were fixed on their quarry and their weapons were easily at hand. They were dressed in garb that marked them as men from the Vale of Dreams – breeches, linen shirts, riding boots and leather vests instead of robes and sandals. They were most likely mercenaries, a likelihood accentuated by their grim determination. They reached a boulevard that led to the docks, and the man fleeing dodged between merchants, shoppers and dockmen heading home for the night. The leader of those in pursuit paused for an instant then said, ‘He’s heading for the grain-shippers’ dock.’ With a hand gesture he sent his blond-haired companion up a side street, then motioned for the darker youth to come with him. ‘I hope you’re right,’ said the shorter man. ‘I’m getting tired of all this running.’ With a quick glance that showed a grin, the leader said, ‘Too much time sitting in alehouses, Zane. We need to get you back to the Island and Tillingbrook’s tender mercies.’ Too out of breath to comment, the shorter youth just made a sound that clearly indicated he found that remark utterly lacking in humour, as he quickly wiped perspiration from his brow. He had to hurry just to keep up with his taller companion. The inhabitants of Durbin were practised when it came to dealing with duels, brawling, gang wars, riots, and all other manner of civil disorder. By the time Jommy and Zane reached the corner around which they had seen their quarry vanish, the alarm had outstripped them, and the street leading to the docks was almost deserted. Passers-by, merchants, and seamen bound for nearby inns and taverns had sensed coming trouble and vanished into whatever scant cover they could manage. Doors closed, shutters slammed, and those that couldn’t get inside did their best to find shelter. As Jommy Killaroo kept his eyes on the tiny figure of their fleeing target, Zane con Doin glanced into every passed doorway, alley entrance or other cover for potential ambush. All he saw were citizens of Durbin hunkering down, waiting for the trouble to pass. Jommy saw their man duck around a corner at the end of the boulevard, and said, ‘Right towards Tad if he’s as fast as he usually is!’ Zane grinned. ‘He is. Suri won’t escape.’ For a month Jommy, Tad and Zane had been on the trail of this man, an erstwhile trader named Aziz Suri, a desertman from the Jal-Pur who was reputedly an importer of spices and oils from the Free Cities. He was also reputed to be a freelance spy, broker in information, trader in secrets, and a close contact of the Nighthawks, the Guild of Death. One month earlier, at the Emperor of Kesh’s Midsummer’s Festival, a plot to destabilize the Empire and plunge it into civil war had been prevented by agents of the Conclave of Shadows, and now they were seeking out the remaining pockets of assassins, to put an end finally to their centuries’ long reign of terror. Zane struggled to keep up with Jommy. While he was able to run as far as the taller youth, he was not able to do so at his longer-legged friend’s furious pace, and maybe Jommy was right: maybe he had spent too many nights in the alehouse. His trousers had been getting tighter of late. As they reached the end of the street, they came upon the grain-shippers’ docks: a long series of stoneworks punctuated by three large derricks, fronting onto two massive warehouses. From the far end of the dock Tad ran towards them, shouting, ‘In there!’ and motioning that their quarry had slipped into the narrow passage between the two warehouses. Jommy and the two younger boys took no pains to hide their approach, for after a month in Durbin they knew this area of the city fairly well: well enough to know that their prey had dashed into a dead-end alley. When they reached the narrow opening, the man bolted from it, heading straight towards the harbour. The setting sun glinted red off the sea, and he squinted and turned his head, raising his hands to shield his eyes. Jommy reached out and got just enough of a grip on the man’s arm for a second to turn him completely around. The man flailed his arms, tipping off-balance, as he vainly sought to keep his feet under him. Jommy reached out again, trying to grab the man’s tunic, but only succeeded in causing him to stumble farther. Before anyone could get hold of any part of the slender trader, he slammed into the centremost derrick. Stunned for an instant, the desertman turned, teetered, and then as he regained his wits, stepped off the edge of the pier. A cry akin to a dog whose paw had just been stepped on filled the air as he vanished over the edge. The three young men hurried to the edge and looked over. Dangling from the derrick rope just above a loose cargo net was the little trader, hurling invective upward as he glanced down at the rocks below the jetty. The tide was out, so only a few inches of water protected the dangling man from serious injury below. All the shallow-draught barges used to ferry grain to the ships in the harbour were anchored out in deeper water. ‘Pull me up!’ he shouted. Jommy said, ‘Why should we, Aziz? You led us a nasty chase through the entire city of Durbin in this bleedin’ heat—’ he wiped perspiration off his forehead and flipped it with his hand at the man to demonstrate just how out of sorts he was, ‘—and all we wished for was a short, quiet chat.’ ‘I know you murderous cut-throats,’ said the trader. ‘Your chats get men killed.’ Tad said, ‘Murderous cut-throats? I think he has us confused with someone else.’ Zane drew his belt knife. ‘You’re confusing us with a different bunch of murderous cut-throats is my brother’s opinion. I’m not so sure.’ Looking at his companions, he asked, ‘If I cut this rope what do you think of his chances?’ Tad leaned over, as if studying the matter, then declared, ‘It’s no more than twenty feet to the rocks.
