Runner Read Free

eyes. “I think your brother is an extremely dangerous man.”
    The merchant nodded soberly. “So, that being the case, would you open the box?”
    Rebo looked down at the seemingly innocent box and back up again. “No, sir. I wouldn’t.”
    â€œBut what if it contains a peace offering?” the other man insisted. “What then? I feel bad about what happened to my brother’s leg and would like to make it up to him.”
    The runner shrugged. “Your brother didn’t strike me as a man who makes peace offerings, but the choice is yours.”
    â€œYes, I suppose it is,” Telvas replied. “Thank you for delivering the box. And thank you for the advice. Feva will see you to the gate.”
    Rebo stood. “Is there a rear entrance?”
    Telvas nodded understandingly. “Yes, there is. Tell Feva, and she will take you there.”
    Rebo withdrew after that, discovered that Feva had appeared in the hall, and glanced back over his shoulder as she closed the door. The box remained on the surface of the desk, and Telvas continued to stare at it.
    The runner slipped out through the back gate ten minutes later, was pleased when none of the watchmen stationed there showed the least bit of interest in him, and started down the street. Rebo had walked about a hundred feet, and was just about to cross a street, when he heard a dull thump and looked back in time to see a puff of smoke shoot out of a window. The study? Yes, he thought so. There were cries of alarm, followed by hysterical screams, and Rebo knew that Telvas was dead.
    The runner paused to take a long slow look around. Was there another runner lurking in the area? A man or woman hired to confirm the merchant’s death and carry a message back to his brother? There wasn’t any sign of one, but that didn’t mean much, so Rebo sauntered away. It was a nice day, a profitable day, but one that left him with an unfathomable question: How could such an apparently smart man be so stupid?
    Even though Lanni Norr was a stranger to the city, the marketplace was easy to find. First, because at least half of the traffic flowing into Seros was headed there, and second, because once the sensitive drew close enough she could smell the rich amalgam of spices, fried food, and angen feces that scented the air around it.
    Then, as she entered the market, even more senses came into play. There were racks of colorful fabrics, bins filled with vegetables, tables covered with jewelry, booths hung with amulets, racks of handmade clothing, piles of woven baskets, bags filled with white nuts, reels of hand-twisted rope, trays loaded with fragrant candles, display boards covered with wicked-looking knives and so much more that one couldn’t hope to see all of it in a single day. And there were sounds, too. The rumble of a thousand haggling voices was punctuated by the squawks, snorts, and squeals of caged angens, the incessant shouts of vendors who never stopped hawking their wares, the ring of hammers on metal, the wail of a lost child, and occasional snatches of music.
    But there was more, much more, for Norr at least, whounlike 99 percent of the people swirling about her could see the separate energy fields that each individual emitted, catch glimpses of the discarnate spirits who flitted through the area intent on errands of their own, and was constantly buffeted by waves of projected emotion. Not because she sought to experience such things, but because her ancestors had been genetically engineered to pick up on other people’s emotions, manipulate small objects from a distance, heal the sick, and communicate with the dead.
    As Norr made her way through the market, she was exposed to continual bursts of love, hate, greed, fear, lust, and happiness as those about her wrestled with what fellow sensitives referred to as the holy trinity: money, sex, and power—the basic drives behind most human activity, including hers.