Free Giant Thief by David Tallerman Page B

together as in Muena Palaiya. Sadly, the populace had decided in recent years to elect a new mayor, a woman no less, and whether or not they'd meant the election seriously that was how she'd taken the job. I had no idea how the greater mass of citizens had fared under Mayor Estrada's regime, but I'd quickly found that her unreasonable focus on law and order sapped most of the fun from living in Muena Palaiya. I'd left three years ago, and hadn't been back since.
      It was comforting to find the rooftops, the great Thieves' Highway, just as I'd left them. Perhaps it was too comforting. Lying propped against coils of rope and bundles of netting, shielded by the salt-stained cages, I was as snug as any lord in his silk-covered bed. I knew, deep in my fatigued brain, that if I fell asleep I'd likely wake in a cell. It didn't seem a very immediate concern.
      There was a chill in the early morning air, which made me dig deeper into my nest and wrestle with my cloak. What finally made me stir, however, were the noises: preliminary sounds from the artisans, the clunk of hammers and squeal of saws, then once those had settled into their rhythm a hubbub of voices, which rose slowly or perhaps drifted nearer. It was coming from the direction of the north gate. I cursed and sat up.
      The pain had eased to a general soreness. My shoulder wasn't bleeding anymore, though there were dark stains were I'd been lying and in smudges on my cloak. My head had cleared; the dizziness and nausea had passed. I still felt anxious, however. Had I slept? If I had, it hadn't been for more than a few minutes, for the light had hardly changed.
      I shifted to a crouch, and crept through the wreckage of fishing equipment, more conscious of the aquatic reek rising off it, briefly puzzled by its presence such a way from the coast. Only a narrow gap kept the next building separate. I hopped over to land amidst roughly tied bundles of furs and tanned skins.
      The voices seemed closer now. I decided it was something in the accents that had disturbed me. I couldn't place exactly what, though, or make out words.
      I kept moving through a series of shallow leaps and one longer jump that I barely managed, which jolted my sore muscles and nearly made me cry out. I picked my way between barrels stinking of cheap wine, bales of cloth, smoked fish, baskets of olives, slabs of chalk, and squares of fresh-cut slate.
      The voices grew louder.
      I was beginning to feel oddly exuberant. I remembered the joy I'd taken from navigating those roofs, sometimes picking my way to a chosen target, sometimes fleeing after a job, but often travelling that way simply because it was most fun. My aches and pains seemed to bother me less. Old instincts guided my feet, reviving a deftness I'd almost forgotten.
      I was out of breath when I stopped, though, and limping. I'd reached a wide roof covered with sacks of gravel, strips of unbeaten metal, and a few tall amphorae that smelled of oil. Memory, along with a change in the sounds from below, told me I'd reached Dancer's Way. I slipped to my knees and crawled to the low raised wall around the edge, found a spot between two crudely patterned jars and peeked down to the road below. If Dancer's Way was wide by Muena Palaiya's standards, it was also perpetually cluttered by traffic of people and animals, endless brightly covered stalls along its borders, the overflowing wares of shopkeepers, and an ever-present underclass of beggars, entertainers and ne'er-dowells. Even at this early hour, it was far from quiet.
      Of course that had as much to do with the party moving slowly up the street on horseback, stopping every so often for one of their number to converse with a street trader or passer-by. Three guards trailed behind them on foot, looking uneasy and keeping their hands close to their sword hilts. It was obvious they were supervising the mounted men, who in turn were questioning those they met, when they weren't