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close over the street that their roof peaks almost touched. He chose ways that kept him on the edges of the day markets and far from Elturel's High Hill. Traveling thus, skirting this and flanking that, it was not until well into the morning that Pinch returned to the Dwarf's Pot.
    As the old rogue pushed open the alehouse's creaky door, Therin unexpectedly stepped out from the shadows. "Piss in Ilmater's wounds -where've you been, Pinch?" The thug's voice was torn between relief and stress, and it was mirrored in the long knife clutched in his hand even as his body sagged back against the wall. Pinch knew by the knife it was serious business, not just because Therin had a knife out, but because it was a skene, a long, thin dirk. It was a blade favored by Therin's honor-obsessed people, the Gurs-Selune's children, the people of the highway. The skene was a sure sign of deadly intent.
    "Pizzle it yourself. What's the play here?" Without waiting for an answer, Pinch slipped to the side where he could get his back against the wall and face his foes directly. Even though Therin wasn't threatening anymore, a man would be a fool to think all was well. With his hold-back dagger already in hand, Pinch scanned the common room for more danger.
    It was empty, which even at this hour was not right. There was always at least one drunk or well-paid doxy toasting the day -but today there was nothing. Save for Therin, there weren't even any of Pinch's gang. "Hell-riders, did they-"
    Therin didn't need the rest of the question. "It was the patriarch's catchpoles. Came in here like apprentices to a cry of 'Clubs.' Set to bust up the place looking for you and the little fellow." He stooped and slid the long knife back into its boot sheath.
    "Damn Cleedis and his spies! Sprite-Heels -where is he?"
    "Up here" was the muffled answer. Pinch looked up in time to see a small stream of dust fall from the roof beams, and then Sprite was dangling by his awkward little arms.
    Therin nodded up with a grin but made no move to help. "Slipped out of sight and got himself up there." He purposely raised his voice for Sprite to hear. "Can't imagine how a runt like him managed it, though."
    "I heard that!" the halfling shrieked.
    They both ignored him. "And Maeve?"
    "Right here, my dear Pinch," cooed a voice at Pinch's ear. The old rogue could feel her warm, ale-scented breath on his cheek, but she was nowhere to be seen.
    "Got meself invisible as soon as trouble come through the door. Just in case." Vanishing was Brown Maeve's first reaction to most danger.
    "Well, make yourself whole, woman." Pinch addressed the air where he thought she stood. "And you up there, get yourself down. We're leaving town." He strode through the near-deserted hall toward the upstairs.
    "Leaving?" There was a loud thud as Sprite dropped to the floor. Halflings, it seemed, did not land like cats. "None too soon, I think."
    A bottle on the Piss Pot's bar suddenly upended and burbled a healthy swig. "Oy, Maeve -you'll be paying for that!" snapped Algaroz as he came through the door from the back kitchens.
    Caught with the snappings, the frumpy sorceress flickered into existence. "It's a going-away drink," she chided. "Old Pinch wants us to leave town."
    "And none too soon, if the officers keep ruining my trade -"
    "Leave, just cause we had a little trouble with the constables? Things were looking good here. I say we stay." Therin marked his objections by leaning significantly against the front door. With his big muscles and rope-scarred neck, he made an imposing obstacle.
    "Fine for you to say when they haven't made you, moon-man!" Sprite snapped.
    Therin reddened at the name "moon-man." It was an old insult for his kind, one that reminded him of the suspicion he'd always faced as a Gur.
    From the stairs, Pinch cut it off before the pair went to their blades. "Settle it later!" Pinch shouted from the stairs. "Listen, you bastards. It's not because the catch-poles showed, but that they