Chapter Four

It bad seemed a good idea at the time.

Dezra Majere had woken before dawn, dressed quietly, and snuck out of her room, past her parents' chamber to the stairs. Her hand had been on the banister when she heard the dick of a door opening behind her.

She'd frozen, stomach clenching, and glanced back, expecting to see her father. It was just Laura, though. Relieved, Dezra had raised a finger to her lips, then nodded down the stairs.

Soundlessly, the sisters had crept down to the tavern. Dezra had slipped into the kitchen to grab a wedge of cheese, given half to her sister, wolfed the rest down.

"What's happening?" Laura had asked. "Why are you up so early?"

"I'm going out," Dezra had answered.

Laura's face had tightened with concern. "Father's tapping the spring beer today," she'd said. "He's bound to miss you."

"Let him. I'm not running tankards to a bunch of drunks."

"He'll ask me where you went."

Dezra had thrown up her hands. "Laura, don't be hopeless. Just cover for me, and I'll never ask you again."

"That's what you said last week. And the week before that."

"And you did a good job, both times," Dezra had answered, flashing a lopsided grin.

Laura had sighed. "Sure, Dez. Whatever you say."

With a bow—a masculine gesture, to go with her men's clothes and short, brown hair—Dezra had padded out of the Inn.

The fairgrounds had already been busy when she arrived. Workmen built stalls and platforms for the festival; merchants set up their wares outside their tents. She'd walked among them freely, but not unnoticed. Dezra had always been a tomboy, but she was nineteen, and many of the men stopped to watch her pass. Instead of blushing, as Laura might have done, or glaring, like her mother would have, she played along, pouting and winking. One didn't grow up in an inn without learning to flirt.

She hadn't come to the square just to parade in front of a bunch of clods with callused hands, though. She had work to do. She'd eyed the stalls the craftsmen were setting up, and noted two in particular: a moneychanger and a gemcutter. Both tradesmen were from out of town, weren't particularly attentive, and had goods within easy reach.

Both easy marks for a young thief.

Satisfied, she'd left the town square and headed south, to the seedier side of town, where she'd entered the Rusty Shield Tavern and ordered a whiskey and a dark ale from Brandel, the scruffy, eyepatched tapman. She'd downed the whiskey in a gulp, then nursed the beer, not speaking to Brandel or the tavern's mangy regulars. Finally, at mid-afternoon, she'd thrown back another whiskey and headed back to the fairgrounds.

She'd wandered the fair a while, careful not to draw attention to herself. Bought a baked apple, stuffed with raisins and spices. Talked with several young men, laughing and leading them on—even kissed one, full on the mouth, to his astonishment—before leaving them behind. Through it all, she'd watched the merchants she'd marked, waiting.

The first opportunity came when she was near the moneychanger's counter. Several stalls down, a weaver had caught a kender wandering off with a colorful blanket under his arm. As the weaver shouted for the guards and the bewildered kender protested that he was only taking the blanket to show a friend, the moneychanger's patrons had turned to watch. Dezra had bided patiently by the counter, and when the moneychanger glanced up toward the ruckus, she'd snatched a stack of coins and slipped them into her pocket.

It wasn't much, only about fifty pieces of steel. As she strode away, though, she'd relished the surge of energy that rushed through her. She loved that thrill—except for a tumble in the stables with a young man, Dezra thought there was nothing better.

Ganlamar, the gemcutter, was more difficult. He was shrewd, but she was confident she could beat him. She'd moved in, repeating the pattern: hover nearby, wait for a diversion, then move… .

It had seemed like a good idea, anyway.

This time, the distraction came from across the square, where a barker was announcing an arm-wrestling contest. One of the contestants was a centaur, of all things: a swaggering beast who drew everyone's attention. The other was Caramon. Dezra had laughed at the irony: her own father, providing the distraction she needed.

The crowd around Ganlamar's booth began to thin as people hurried over to watch the match. Dezra sidled closer to the table, one eye on the contest and the other on the fat gemcutter. Ganlamar was in the middle of selling a pair of opals to an overstuffed spice merchant. Stones and money changed hands, then the gemcutter turned too, to get a glimpse of the horse-man.

Lightning-quick, Dezra reached out and seized a shining amethyst. At the same moment, on the other end of the counter, a young child knocked over Ganlamar's scales.

The balances clattered loudly as they fell, and the gemcutter whirled to see what was the matter. Dezra pocketed the amethyst, but it was too late. Ganlamar's eyes met hers, then narrowed to angry slits.

Dezra ran.

"Stop!" Ganlamar shouted, leaving his apprentice to watch his wares as he gave chase. "Thief! Come back!"

Sure, thought Dezra as she dashed away, into the mob. She elbowed her way through the press of bodies, sending people sprawling. Some idiot, hearing Ganlamar's cries, grabbed for her sleeve; she shoved him into a baker's counter, then charged onward. Loaves of bread flew everywhere.

Ganlamar was surprisingly fleet-footed. Glancing back, she saw he was catching up to her. She cast about, looking for something to slow him down, then bolted for a potter's stall. She vaulted over the counter, smashing a clay urn and drawing an outraged shout from the potter, then lunged for one of the ropes that held up his tent. She drew a dagger from her belt, and, with a flick of her wrist, slashed the rope. The tent collapsed.

The potter and several townsfolk crowded around, grabbing for the fluttering canvas. The sudden commotion blocked Ganlamar's way, and Dezra gained another dozen strides on him before he resumed the chase. She slammed her dirk back in its sheath, laughing as she ran.

She hadn't been heading toward the arm-wrestling contest on purpose, but there it was, just ahead. She considered turning aside, going the long way around, but Ganlamar was gaining ground again. Lowering her head, she plunged on. As she skirted the edge of the mob surrounding the contest—a mob that was now watching her instead of her father and the centaur—she caught a glimpse of her mother. Tika stood beside Caramon on the dais, staring straight at Dezra.

"Crap," Dezra muttered as she darted past.

There was a rope ladder ahead, hanging from a walkway. Dezra bolted for it and leapt. It swung wildly as she grabbed its rungs and began to climb. Ganlamar shouted furiously below.

She was nearly at the top when she heard the whistles. The shrill sounds were all around her, moving along the walkways among the trees. She knew what they meant: Solace's town guards were up there, trying to head her off. There were more guards below, too, grabbing for the swaying ladder. She swore again, climbing faster, and pulled herself up onto the walkway, far above the staring crowd.

"Over there!" shouted a voice to her left.

Glancing over, she saw guards heading toward her, carrying spears and clad in leather cuirasses and iron helmets. She whirled and ran the other way. She led a merry chase, dashing across bridges from treehouse to treehouse, but the guards were well coordinated, several staying on her tail while the others ran ahead, trying to outflank her. Far below, the onlookers yelled and laughed. Dezra was sure some were cheering for her.

She barreled across a walkway, which jounced wildly with each pounding step, then reached the balcony at the other end and pulled up short. Half a dozen guardsmen were waiting for her.

They started forward. "C'mon, Dez," said the one in the lead, a youth she remembered from one particularly unsatisfactory stable-grope. "Give up before you get yourself hurt."

"Bite my breeches," she snarled.

She heard boots on wood behind her. Looking back, she saw several guards blocking the way she'd come. Angrily, she spat and glanced around, seeking escape.

Then, suddenly, she saw her chance: To her right, a few feet from the balcony's railing, was another bridge. It wasn't attached to the balcony where she stood, instead linking two neighboring trees, but it was tantalizingly close, swaying gently in the breeze.

"The Abyss with it," she muttered, and ran for it.

There was a single guard in her way. She hit him hard, ducking low and driving her elbow into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath. Below, the crowd gasped as Dezra hopped up onto the railing, teetered for a heartbeat a hundred feet above their heads, then leapt off, toward the bridge.

It was a day full of bad ideas.

She made the jump, but just barely, catching the walkway with her arms and scrabbling for purchase. Her legs churned beneath her as her fingers clutched the bridge's planks. One of her boots came off, falling to the ground below.

"Dezra!" bellowed her father, below. "What are you doing?"

"I wish to Reorx I knew," she muttered, trying to pull herself up.

"Help her!" her mother shrieked. "Someone get to her before she falls!"

The guards didn't sound so coordinated any more. Their clattering footsteps milled about the balcony behind her, spreading out as they tried to find their way to her. She made another try to haul herself up, but she had no leverage. She started to lose her grip.

She wondered which would hit the ground first: her head or her feet.

Suddenly, the tromp of footsteps rattled the bridge. It shook so badly, she nearly let go. "Careful, damn it!" she snapped. "You'll knock me loose!"

The man coming toward her must have heard, because he slowed his pace. She continued to slip, dimly aware of her parents' panicked shouts below. Finally, after what seemed like forever, a meaty hand grabbed her wrist. She looked up, expecting a guard, but instead saw a broad, guileless face, surmounted by a mop of blond hair.

"Who the—" she blurted.

He reached for her with his other hand. "My name's Uwen."

Before she could ask more, he grabbed her arm and jerked her upward, muscles bulging. He lifted her like she was a child, then set her down on the bridge. Below, the tenor of the crowd's cries changed from fear to relief.

She leaned against him, breathing hard. "Thanks," she gasped.

"You're welcome," he said. He grinned at her, his simple, blue eyes almost glowing, and Dezra groaned inside. She'd seen that look on many a drunk's face. It was dumb infatuation.

Hobnail boots clomped toward her, from either end of the bridge. There wasn't anywhere left to run, so she pushed herself away from Uwen with an apologetic shrug. "Sorry to leave you like this," she said, turning toward the approaching guardsmen. "But I think I'm about to be arrested."