Chapter one
Keepinghereyesonher target, Hallie moved with steady purpose along the wide pedestrian walkway that bordered the seafront, the afternoon sun beating down on her head and shoulders. She tried to imagine herself as just another city dweller, heading somewhere with a mundane purpose. Her body knew it was a lie, but pretending it was real helped keep her breathing steady and reduced the tension in her body. Her pacing was a fine balance. Walking too fast would draw attention. Too slow and she would lose sight of her target, and most likely end up being distracted by all the sights and sounds around her that were so different from what she was used to.
Focusing on her forward momentum, she managed to avoid staring at the series of market stalls on the other side of the walkway, their surfaces crowded with goods from all over the world, the scent of exotic spices teasing her nose. In deference to the heat, the stalls were covered with open-sided tents of fabric. Hallie was quite sure that the merchants were having acompetition as to who could get the most colourful and gaudy canopy. Some of the clashing colours hurt her eyes almost as much as looking at the sun. She hadn’t had a chance to browse the goods on offer but promised herself she’d make time before it was time to leave.
Right now, she needed to work. Her quarry - a medium-height man with cool-toned, dark brown skin and greying black hair - was nothing special to look at and blended in with the dark-haired and dark-skinned locals. He was also wearing an outfit of a pale brown, knee-length linen tunic and wide trousers which matched almost every other man in sight. If she lost track of him, or if he disappeared into the warren of streets behind the market, it was going to take a long time to find him again. It had taken four days to get this far in this particular city, and her target was the best lead from two weeks’ fruitless searching across several different countries. Losing him now was not an option as far as she was concerned. She had never had such a long and difficult hunt. Her one advantage was that, in the waning heat of the afternoon, the market wasn’t all that crowded. She skirted around a pair of young women walking arm in arm and talking in fast, high-pitched voices in a language Hallie didn’t know. For a moment she thought that her quarry had disappeared and her breath stopped, worrying flooding her. But no, there he was. Heading towards the end of the row of market stalls, no purchases in his hands or under his arms. He was moving in a very similar manner to her, with clear forward momentum but not looking as if he was in a rush. She didn’t think he’d spotted her as she was far enough back to be out of sight if he took a casual look around.
She had to check her stride as a man moved out of one of the market stalls, head down over his phone screen, and almost ran into her as he headed straight across to the waterfront. He looked like a young, local man, caught up in whatever drama wasunfolding on his screen and didn’t even look up as she moved around him. She shook off the mild irritation and refocused on her target.
Hallie lengthened her stride, the wide legs of her own pale, sand-coloured linen trousers flapping in a way she found both irritating and distracting when she was working. She was dressed for the much hotter climate than she was used to, and to blend in with the local population. The knee-length over-tunic, in the same pale fabric, wasn’t nearly as annoying but she kept worrying that she would get her feet tangled in the wide hems of the trousers and trip over just as she was about to lay hands on her target. Not a fugitive, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. There was no warrant out on this man. But he had information that she needed. And after the long, sticky days spent tracking him down, she didn’t want to risk losing him because of her wardrobe.
Even though she missed her usual working clothes of jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket, she knew that they would have stood out in this city, marking her as an outsider. The linen cloth let her blend in, particularly with her head and hair covered in another drape of fabric. The head covering also kept the worst of the heat at bay. It was strange to think that while she was sweating under the lightweight clothes, back in her home city it was still winter and she would have been at risk of freezing to death in the same outfit.
She side-stepped another pair of women, much older this time, standing together and chatting while they eyed up the goods on a jeweller’s stall. As she passed the women, she caught sight of a familiar figure at the end of the market stalls. It still felt strange to remember she was no longer working alone. Girard Abbott might be one of thehochlen- the elite that ruled the world - but he was also very good at his job and far more than a casual acquaintance. His proper title was Special Investigator,employed directly by the world’s ruling council, the Conclave, in their investigative unit. She still hadn’t got used to the fact that she was employed there, too. She was, however, slowly getting used to the idea that she could rely on him. For now she felt a grim satisfaction at seeing him in place. Between them, they should be able to lay hands on the target and finally get the answers they’d spent such a long time looking for.
Like her, Girard was dressed to blend in with the local population, although in keeping with many of the men, he’d left his head bare, his pale skin and tousled blond hair standing out among so many dark-haired, dark-skinned people. Hallie had spotted a few other people with similar colouring to her and Girard, and had exchanged small courtesies with one or two - a little moment of recognition between two people far from their homelands. Hallie might have dark hair and eyes, but her own pale skin marked her out in this city as every bit as foreign as Girard.
The man they were targeting spotted Girard as he came up to the last market stall and checked his stride, making Hallie tense up. As far as she knew, the target didn’t know he was being hunted. However, from what she’d learned, he’d stayed in business for many years by being cautious and not taking chances.A slippery character, one shopkeeper had told her.Count your fingers if you ever shake his hand.For a moment, Hallie wondered if her target was just going to keep walking, right past Girard. But, no, she was not that lucky. The man grabbed hold of the awning of the nearest market stall, one full of pottery and ceramics, and gave it a hard shove, toppling the stall and tent over onto Girard. The display table of the stall hit the ground with a clatter, spilling its contents in a wide, messy arc. Cries of surprise and alarm rose. The man didn’t wait to see the results of his efforts, instead taking off at a run betweenthe turned-over stall and its neighbour, heading into one of the narrow city streets that led away from the harbour.
Muttering a curse - a slippery character, indeed - and trusting that Girard could get himself out of the mess and then find her, Hallie ran after the fugitive, glad that she had insisted on a pair of decent shoes to go with her outfit rather than the fabric slippers that most women wore in this region. The shoes she had on were far more lightweight than her normal boots, but they did the job. She ducked around the side of the nearest stall and followed the man into the city streets.
She was fast enough that she caught sight of him disappearing around a corner and increased her speed. This bit of the city reminded her of the heart of her home city, full of narrow, twisting streets of houses crammed together, the houses pressed right up against the roadway, with gaps here and there between the buildings where a runaway could hide. If she lost sight of the man now it might be another four days before she caught him again, if ever.
Rounding the next corner she found herself in a relatively straight street, the two-storey houses on either side painted a pale buttery yellow, window boxes on both the lower and upper levels and trails of plants descending from the roofs above. Apart from the plants, scenting the air with a sweet and sharp fragrance, the street was empty. Hallie stumbled to a halt, breathing hard. She hadn’t been running for long, but everything was more difficult in the heat. She was going to need another shower later.
For a moment she wondered if the man had gone into one of the houses, but she hadn’t heard the sound of a door opening or closing. She had heard something, though. Briefly closing her eyes, she tried to remember. A soft, scraping sound. Muffled thuds that might be footsteps, although not on a flat surface. She’d heard that particular combination before. They werethe sounds someone would make climbing a ladder. Rooftop. Snapping her eyes open, she looked around the street for one of the narrow gaps between buildings that might lead to the back of the house, or to a ladder access to the roof, and found one.
A grim smile pulled her mouth as she climbed up the ladder. She’d chased plenty of fugitives through narrow streets and across rooftops in low city. It seemed that even though she was on the other side of the world, some things were not all that different.
As she got to the top of the ladder she paused, lifting her head cautiously over the side, wanting to check where her quarry had got to. Her reward for caution was being able to duck back down again as a large, heavy looking object swung towards her. The swing missed and she launched herself up the rest of the ladder onto the rooftop, just in time to find the object hurtling through the air towards her. She had enough time to recognise it as a plant pot, painted a cheerful bright red.
Hallie side-stepped, the pot landing on the roof at the top of the ladder with a dull thud and crack as the pot split open.
The man was already running away from her at a full sprint across the rooftop garden, hurdling over a low bench and then launching himself into the air and landing, light as a cat, on the next rooftop over. He was proving every bit as difficult to get hold of as she’d been told.
Hallie set off after him, running around the bench rather than over it, and digging into her reserves for more speed as she saw the gap between the buildings ahead of her. She landed, more heavily than her quarry, on the next rooftop and set off after him. He was almost across the roof to the next building.
This roof was bare and badly maintained. Hallie slipped a little on a loose tile as she gathered herself to jump and lost momentum so that she barely made it across the gap to the next building, hitting the edge of the roof with her mid-section,breath forced out of her, scrabbling to get a handhold and drag herself up onto the roof. There were upright metal spikes at intervals along the edge of the roof and Hallie seized the nearest one, almost letting go at once as the painted metal scorched her skin. But she had no foothold and the ground was quite a distance below her so she clung on grimly to the metal spike, sweat making her palm slip until she managed to get a grip on the edge of the roof with her other hand, and, using the toes of her shoes as extra traction, dragged herself up, bruised and wheezing, onto the roof.
There was no time to catch her breath. As she rolled onto her back, another dark object swung out of the air near her and she yelled, twisting away and scrambling to her feet as another plant pot smashed onto the roof where she’d been lying.
The man had more ammunition ready, though, and was already aiming yet another pot at her as she whirled to face him. She sidestepped the worst of the blow, and reached forward, grabbing the man’s wrist with her hand as the pot slammed into her side. It didn’t quite take her breath away again, but it did hurt, landing on the fresh bruises she’d just got from the roof edge. She twisted the wrist, forcing the man’s arm up and back, the pot falling from his fingers, falling to the roof where it bounced and then cracked open, spilling dark soil and small, hard pebbles out as well as the plant.
The man shoved forward, trying to force her off balance, but stepped in the soil and pebble mix and lost his footing, stumbling. Not wanting to let him go, Hallie moved with him, the headscarf she was wearing sliding forwards, halfway across one eye. She muttered a curse. She should have put more hairpins in that morning to hold it in place.
Her captive didn’t wait for her to gather herself, but struggled against her hold. He was a scrappy fighter, and determined, but with ten years as a skip tracer behind her, where her entire jobhad been catching people who didn’t want to be caught, Hallie held him with relative ease, putting more pressure on his arm until he dropped to his knees. With him on the ground, Hallie took advantage, turning his arm again so that it was behind his back and pulling the flexi-cuffs off her belt with her other hand, a familiar and practised move only slightly hampered by the fact she had to burrow through extra fabric to find her belt. With both the man’s wrists securely fastened together, and him still on his knees, she stepped back, pushing the fabric off her head so she could see better.
They were on the roof of quite a large building, all of it laid out as a well-maintained garden. Mostly for food, Hallie realised as she spotted some fruit trees and a herb patch. Distracted by the sweet citrus scent, Hallie took a closer look around, admiring the effort that had gone into the space. Even with plants adapted to the climate, they would still need water to survive. Hallie wondered how the householders managed to get enough water up to the roof to keep all the plants alive, then spotted a large metal barrel at one side of the roof, next to a door that must lead down into the building, the barrel mostly shaded by sheets of heavy tarpaulin. They must collect rainwater there.
The man in front of her shifted his weight as if he was going to try to run and her attention snapped back to him.
“Manju Nayak, you are being detained for questioning on the authority of the Conclave,” she told him, still a little out of breath. She pressed a hand to her side and winced. Her ribs were definitely bruised. Not broken, though, which was something.
“Nah, lady, you’ve got the wrong man,” her captive said, in flawless common tongue, and an accent that would have been perfectly at home in low city. “I’m not Manju. Don’t know him.”
Hallie had to admire his skill at lying. If it hadn’t been for the truth sense that was her particular gift of magic, she might have had some doubt that she’d got the right man. His voice and bodylanguage were consistent in portraying surprise and just a hint of outrage.
“I don’t think so. Come on, we’ve got questions for you,” she said, and put her hand under his elbow, urging him to his feet.
