Venom's Taste - Lisa Smedman [18]
Wire-linked weights shot past over his head as one of the militiamen below loosed a crossbow in his direction. Then he was around the curve of the building, and the bottom of the ramp came into sight.
At its base were two more slaves, just turning a second handcart onto the ramp. Near them stood an overseer who Arvin assumed was human until he opened his mouth to hiss in surprise, baring curved fangs. The two slaves, eyes wide at the sight of the runaway cart, dived to one side, abandoning their own cart. Arvin could see it was time to do the same. He crouched and leaped off the back of his cart. As he landed, skinning the palms of his hands and tearing one trouser knee, he heard the sound of splintering wood followed by the soft hiss of spilling grain.
Arvin leaped to his feet and sprinted past the slaves, who were cringing under a venomous spray of curses from their overseer. Another pair of wire-linked weights crashed against the wall next to Arvin, spurring him onward. He could hear shouted orders and running feet behind him as he pelted through an intersection, choosing a route that led away from the harbor. He turned up one side street, then another. At the next intersection, he changed course yet again, this time heading back toward the harbor. A few more twists and turns and he’d lose them. But somehow, the militia didn’t seem to be falling behind. Then he heard the shouts of the gray-haired man, telling the militia which way Arvin had gone. Cursing-he still wasn’t out of range of the fellow’s magic, it seemed-Arvin ran on.
Up ahead was a wider intersection from which came the smells of overripe fruit and goat dung. In it, street merchants were setting up their wares. Women shook out dusty blankets and laid them on the cobblestones, claiming their selling space for the day. Heavily laden goats stood with heads lowered, picking at the scraps of rind and peel left behind from the previous day, while older children unloaded produce from bulging sacks on the goats’ backs, setting it out in neat piles on the blankets their mothers had spread.
All of this Arvin took in at a glance as he pounded toward the Y-shaped intersection. He also noted the buildings that framed the intersection: a sprawling pottery factory with smoking chimneys jutting out of its roof, a slaughterhouse with freshly skinned rabbits hanging from its eaves, a tinsmith’s factory from which came the din of hammers pounding on metal, and a narrow two-story tower housing a business Arvin recognized-a spice shop.
Its owner was Guild-a man who, like Arvin, sold products other than those on display. Viro had olive skin and dark, thinning hair with traces of yellow powder in it. He was just unlocking the curved wooden shutters that fronted the spice shop when he heard Arvin running toward him and glanced back over his shoulder.
Arvin’s fingers flicked quick signs in the Guild’s silent language. Need to hide. Distract?
Pretend back door, Viro signed back. Stay inside. Loft.
Arvin panted his thanks and ran into the shop.
The interior was only dimly lit; Viro had yet to open its shutters to let in the dawn’s light. The smell of freshly extinguished candles drifted through the dusty air, together with the sweet scent of cinnamon and the sharp tang of ground coriander. The spices were held in enormous, open-mouthed clay pots that had scoop handles sticking out the tops; Arvin deliberately snagged one of these as he ran by, sending it clattering to the floor amidst a scatter of black pepper. He hoped the pepper wasn’t too exotic or expensive; he’d have to pay Viro for it later.
He ran to the back door and flung it open. Then he doubled back and clambered up a rope ladder that led to a wooden platform-the loft where sacks of un-ground spices were stored.
Outside the shop, he could hear Viro shouting protests at the militia. “No! There’s valuable merchandise in there. You can’t run through there! Stop!”
The militia, urged on by a babble of voices as street merchants