The mercenary who called himself Tullo watched the commotion from a distance. The guards had discovered the bodies and the missing prisoners, and a furious shouting match was in progress. The issues in question seemed to be what to do next and, more importantly, who was to blame. Consensus in the latter point seemed to be settling on the dead men.
Tullo turned away and walked back among the wagons. His own personal bag was strapped to the side of one of the fish haulers; he undid the straps, then shifted his few personal effects out of the way. Another flap, cunningly stitched so as to be nearly invisible, gave access to a hidden space. From this he removed a long black cloak, which he swung about his shoulders, and a piece of folded black cloth, heavy and glittering with fragments of obsidian.
When he pulled the formfitting black mask into place, glass clicking and clattering, he was Hunter once again. And just in time, too. Voryil, commander of the guards and the only one who knew about the Penitent Damned’s presence in the entourage, hurried into the narrow alley between the two wagons, wearing a very nervous expression.
“Ah,” he said. “You’ve heard what happened, sir?”
“I have,” Hunter said, shedding Tullo’s southern accent like an old coat. “This is very unfortunate.”
“The drug must have lost its effectiveness.” Voryil’s tone was very slightly accusatory. On the one hand, it had been Hunter’s responsibility to make sure the girl’s power was contained. On the other hand, one did not live a long and healthy life by throwing failure in the face of the Penitent Damned, no matter how justifiably. “Alex was able to access her power and break her bonds. She killed Erik. As for Father Omorte … there seems to be some confusion.”
The boy, Hunter suspected. I should have been more careful.
Voryil coughed. “Ah … what would you like us to do, sir? Shall we go after them?”
Hunter shook his head, glass clicking. “No. We cannot match the girl’s power with what we have here. We press on to Elysium. I will make my report to the pontifex.”
Voryil looked uncomfortable, perhaps wondering how he would be represented in that report. “They can’t have gotten far, and she may still be weak. It will be nearly a month to Elysium and back—by then they’ll have gotten away clean.”
Hunter smiled under the mask. “That will not be a problem.”
His demon filled his mind, and two trails appeared, like glowing ribbons in the air. They snaked off to the east, into the woods.
Tracks could be covered. Dogs could be fooled. But Hunter’s demon placed its barbs into his targets’ very souls, and they were not easy to shake off. And I’ve had plenty of time to get my hooks into these two.
“No, Voryil,” he said aloud. “That will not be a problem.”
Two weeks to reach Elysium, explain things to the pontifex, and two more weeks to return with a team of Penitents powerful enough to overcome the girl’s formidable demon.
Only a month’s head start. It hardly seems fair.
He only hoped they knew how to survive in the woods. It would be a pity if they starved to death before the chase has even begun.