"As you wish," he said, his head lowering as if he was about to do something unsavory that he'd regret.

  "Oh, before you kill me, or try," I said, "you might want to watch out for the falling bits of plane. I nodded at the sky, then smirked.

  He frowned, but he looked up nonetheless.

  I threw the sand I'd cupped into his face and did the only thing I could think of under the circumstances.

  I ran.

  Um...

  As I stumbled in the desert, tripping on rocks, kicking up sand, and generally making a poor show of scarpering like a proper wizard, I kept expecting him to attack. I'd assumed the next thing I'd see was my brains splattering on the ground in front of me then opening my eyes to be greeted by a very pissed off Death, scythe in hand, foot tapping impatiently.

  But no, I kept on running, and nothing happened.

  So I ran, and ran some more, because that was all I could think of to do. But then I slowed, and then I stopped, and then I turned around. What was I doing? Why was I running? Ah, yes, he was gonna kill me if I didn't open the box for him. Or was he? Aha, no, he wouldn't, he could have done that already. He was still hoping I'd be of use. Maybe not now, he knew my stance, but maybe in the future if he couldn't get the box open after serious magical interference over the coming months. He wanted me alive as a backup.

  I realized just how stupid I'd been. He'd gone. I slapped my forehead for being such a numpty. I couldn't lose him, I might never find him again.

  Feeling like a first-class twat, I reluctantly gave chase. Back at the parachute, I scanned the desert. There he was, the sneaky bugger, running hell-for-leather towards the city. A city with countless places to hide and try to disassemble my wards at his leisure. It would take an age to find him, if I ever could, as he could move from place to place and stop me ever getting an exact location.

  I picked up the pace, much as my body protested, and ran after an old man headed back into the heart of Dire Dawa.

  This was not turning out to be fun, some alone time to put my past behind me. It was the worst damn holiday ever, and I'd had some truly sucky experiences of sand.

  Keep Going

  The mystery man may have been three hundred and some years older than me, but he was leaving me for dust. To be fair, I wasn't in the best of ways, and I blame the malnutrition, the dehydration, the fighting, the chasing, the falling from planes, but it still rankled as I jogged through the dunes and past the shanty towns, the occasional vehicle and the staring people whilst trying not to collapse.

  He was up ahead and in my sights but I couldn't keep up and I certainly couldn't catch him.

  Where was he going? What would he do? Would he put others in danger?

  With a mighty force of will, and several hurried gulps of water and a mouthful of raisins, which was a bad idea as you try running and swallowing tiny dried grapes without choking, I forced my protesting muscles to obey. Soon the city lay ahead in all its sprawling glory. We chased down roads that morphed from dirt to potholed asphalt, ran past tin-roofed huts and stalls selling fresh fruit and vegetables, dodged goats and scrawny sheep, even several cows or something that looked like them, and then we were on larger roads where the traffic became horrendous.

  I'd forgotten in the space of a few weeks just what the city was like. Chaos on an unprecedented scale. Horns blared, people shouted, stalls and stores lined the streets, and wherever we were in the city it was the same old chaos. Everyone seemed to understand how it all worked apart from me. I never could get to grips with the flow of traffic or the fact everyone managed to dodge each other when they all seemed to be moving at random.

  It was like a group of ants. If you glanced, there was no rhyme or reason, but if you watched carefully then patterns emerged, order from the chaos. But I was an outsider, wasn't born and bred here, so wasn't privy to how to navigate the madness without getting whacked by planks of wood or being barged into at every turn.

  And yet, through it all, I managed to keep him in my sights. He was heading somewhere, and the way he kept glancing over his shoulder meant he was becoming increasingly frustrated with me still following him.

  On it went through the afternoon but soon dusk would fall and it would be a different story altogether. There was no way I could keep up the pace, and he knew it. And he knew he just had to give me the slip once and that would be it. Game over for the foreseeable future.

  So we continued, me using what little magic I still had available to keep him on my radar. I tapped into the connection we had made, the closeness of weeks, and it allowed me to know more or less where he was whilst he remained near.

  We dashed down alleys, we dodged through small markets, we even had a spell in a nice cool, air-conditioned shopping center, and then we were back out into the heat and the blare of the city, through tourist areas and into the true heart of Dire Dawa where it seemed like every other citizen had come to buy supper.

  Street vendors and small restaurants all vied for business, shouting out their menus or specials for the day. The smell was intoxicating, utterly bewildering to my senses, and my mouth watered at the thought of sampling the wares. No time, but boy was I tempted.

  And then it happened.

  I lost him.

  The Hunt Is On

  So stupid. Why had I run away from him in the first place? Sure, I feared for my life, but I should have thought about it logically. Yeah, tell that to the guy who just jumped from a plane. I regretted it now as I stood amid the hordes all eating street food as the night bore down and the cool air allowed them to enjoy their meals outside surrounded by the hustle and bustle.

  He was nowhere to be seen, a ghost. Vanished from right in front of me. He was here a moment ago, where could he be now? I zoned out of the noise, ignored the jostles, the stares, or warnings to get out of the way, and I looked inward, let the connection between magical forces of a very different kind grow stronger.

  I felt his presence, and that of the artifact, both linked so tightly now that it was hard to discern one from the other. It didn't matter, as long as they were together then it was all good, or as good as it could currently be.

  Letting the magic guide me, I walked without paying attention to my surroundings and followed the trail. He was only minutes ahead of me so I didn't need to panic yet. Not much anyway.

  I wandered past smiling men cajoling me to sample mouth-watering barbecue. I ignored women adorned with gold hoops up their arms and brightly colored headdresses who sweetly promised I was in for a treat if I stepped inside and ordered the curry, and I refused to be suckered into buying jewelry from men with crooked teeth and even more crooked hearts.

  What I did was follow a shadow through the streets and alleys that were out-of-bounds to those who didn't belong. I got stares from hard men standing in the shadows of doorways protecting whatever nefarious things went on inside. I got warned off by groups of skinny youths in ragged t-shirts and tattered shorts who stood around guardedly dealing whatever the latest drug was that had taken hold and ruined a new wave of lives. I moved past them all, paid them no mind, and they knew they could only push so far before they looked away and resumed their business.

  Why had he chosen this part of the city? If I looked foreign then he looked positively alien here. He didn't have the swagger, didn't have the look to have a hope of getting through here without some serious trouble. Unless they knew him, or knew of him. Or maybe his very oddness would work in his favor. The fact he was so out-of-place could go in his favor if he could act nonchalant enough. He clearly wasn't a tourist, had the African way about him in many regards, but he was also typically British.

  And yet he continued to move, always several steps ahead, and as the night wore on and we wormed our way through the heart of darkness, I knew he was heading somewhere specific rather than merely trying to throw me off the scent by haunting the unsavory parts of a mostly beautiful, rich, and vibrant city.

  I was seriously flagging by now though, and I knew myself well enough to know that soon I would be unable to continue. As I turned down one dark alley then the next, waded through filth and skipped over small streams running between houses clogged with detritus and stinking to high heaven, I was just about out of steam.

  My foot caught on the cracked road and I stumbled, unable to halt my fall. My hands made contact with a damp squelch as they sank into a mire of rotten garbage. Well, it probably wouldn't make me smell any worse, which was about all I could say that wouldn't be censored as I clambered shakily to my feet. I shook off the worst of it, the sticky coating refusing to budge even after wiping my hands on my combats, so I staggered on into the night, following a fading scent of magic and misfortune, pining for my old life where I had clean tea towels and coffee any time I wanted it.

  Such luxuries gnawed at me as I waded, filthy and weak, through streets full of those in similar dire circumstances. We were more alike now, one and the same. Undernourished, overworked, unsure of the future. Except, my misery was temporary, I hadn't lived my whole life like this.

  This isn't to say that this city was different to others, they were all the same once you cut through the thin veneer of respectability and surface shine. The richest cities on the planet had their fair share of poverty, and the more wealth that flowed through them the harder those at the bottom had it. Here, people smiled at you who in other countries would offer nothing but a frown or tears. It could make you forget their plight, how hard they had it, but the back streets were different.

  Away from the lights and the commerce, were those who lived a different life. A criminal life often forced upon them out of necessity, sometimes chosen as an easy way out rather than the only way out. Those were the ones you had to watch out for, the individuals who enjoyed the fear they instilled, the death they caused, the heartache they forced upon defenseless families on a nightly basis.

  This was where I was at, and I did not like it one bit. It was too familiar, too close for comfort, as this was where I had spent much of my life. Mixing with the scum, the desperate, the cruel, and the merciless.

  I was all of those things too, and worse, but I tried not to be, even though I failed. What I wanted was to be a good guy but good guys are boring and turn their backs on opportunities to have fun and go on adventures, and if there was one thing I always was, it's adventurous. Although I'd rather have them in my own country so I didn't have to travel far.

  Foul of body, clothes, and heart, I put my gangster walk into full effect, dared anyone to say a cross word to me or even look at me funny. Shadowy figures receded into the doorways, kids scrambled for cover, and even the rats ran away as The Hat passed. He was seriously pissed now, and they knew it.

  An old hand at playing the hard man, I kept my muscles relaxed, my neck loose, and scanned the area ahead without making eye contact with anyone for more than the briefest moment. They saw I meant business, was a man of the streets, and they left me alone with my demons.

  Into the Night

  There was no use denying it any longer. I'd lost him. He was close, annoyingly so, but every time I felt his presence, knew in my bones he was just around another corner, that all I had to do was speed up and take a turn, he was gone by the time I dragged my sorry arse there.

  The bond between him and the artifact was strong, stronger than ever, or maybe I was merely getting better at tuning in to them both. I felt the artifact, felt my wards struggling against his constant barrage, and I felt him, his desperation, his frustration, and his fear.

  For he was scared. Of me, of the artifact, of what it could do, even of the depraved parts of the city he'd entered, but what he was most terrified of was losing it all. Of me snatching the artifact from him and him never getting a second chance. He knew this was his one shot. Lose it, and there would be no replay.

  So he moved fast and silent through the city, took twists and turns he knew well, better than me, and never once stopped for more than a few moments. My guess was it had been some time since he'd familiarized himself with the back alleys, and not everything in such a city is static. Buildings come and go, alleys get blocked up, others become too dangerous even for him, and yet he always found a way to keep moving, to never let me catch him.

  And I knew I couldn't. That the best I could hope for was to keep giving chase and never give him the chance to rest. Keep on going, always one step behind, and offer no respite. Eventually he'd have to stop, he'd simply have to, but this game could not continue. I didn't have it in me, not any more. I was empty of everything but grim determination, but my resolve wasn't enough to allow me to hunt until my prey was captured and the infernal prize was mine.

  I tripped yet again in more rotten filth, then used a crumbling wall for support to right myself. As I staggered on, I came to a halt at a corner and peered around into yet another poorly lit street. He was gone again, and so it would continue.

  No more, I could not do this for another minute.

  I shook and I shivered and I almost collapsed right there and then, but this was no place to leave yourself exposed to the desperate and the despicable. Taking a moment to gain a sense of place within this vast crush of humanity, I did some dubious mental arithmetic then turned around and headed off, leaving him to his desperate wandering. I then realized he wouldn't know if I was following him or not, didn't have the connection I had, so my only hope was that he would tire himself out while I rested up a while.

  Several shaky minutes later, I was back in the hubbub of the beautiful city where people gossiped and shouted, smiled and laughed, slapped each other on the back and settled down for drinks or dinner. Lights shone bright from stalls and stores and I have never been so pleased to be accosted by people desperate to sell me live chickens, which had happened more often than you'd think.

  Mindful of the state I was in, and amazed anyone came anywhere near me, I sought out one of the wash houses that littered such areas. These shanty towns had dubious water supplies and amenities and much washing and laundry was a communal affair. I found a typical place soon enough.

  A large open space surrounded by towering buildings of brick, block, and corrugated iron, there were numerous raised platforms with large pools of water for the washing of clothes. Hoses snaked across the cracked concrete. Freezing, and shivering, I nonetheless stripped and hosed myself and my clothes down before going to a laundry platform. I gave my clothes a good scrub, and me along with it, used handfuls of scooped-up soap pieces that littered the area. It was far from perfect, it was far from enjoyable, but who was I to complain?

  This was as good as it got for many, and lots even appreciate it. Those who came in from the desert found water on demand like this almost miraculous, so washed their clothes without grumble whereas I complained if the washing machine back at home took too long and moaned about the price of detergent.

  Clean, or cleanish, but freezing and naked, I hung my clothes on a line and checked nobody was around. Before I collapsed, I used what fragments of diffuse magic still resided inside me and I let a warm wind blow against my clothes, drying the worst of the cold off them and then, unable to control the elements for a moment more, I numbly dressed in damp gear that was at last semi-clean and felt a hell of a lot better for it.

  Right, what was next?

  I left the wash area, found the nearest stall selling warm food, and slumped into a rickety metal chair at a table. I pulled out cash, handed it to the grinning stall holder, and told her to keep feeding me until my money ran out. She said it would be a long night with that much money and I said that was fine, and so she began to serve me in a very timely fashion.

  As the night wore on and people came and went, so my energy levels rose. Between plates of warm goat, rice, hot drinks of goats milk laden with sugar, and repeats of the limited menu, I dozed, each mini sleep longer than the last until I found myself being shaken by the smiling, if now somewhat concerned woman, telling me it was time for her to leave, that she appreciated the money but it was almost dawn and she had to go home to see to her children.

  I thanked her for her help, and then she was gone, pushing her cart away into a sleeping city.

  Almost sleeping, The Hat stirred. He was fed and watered, had even shucked off the worst of his weariness, and so was ready for battle to commence once more.

  Getting Ready

  As I straightened in my chair, my body creaking and groaning more than usual, I planned what to do next. What I was sorely tempted to do was find the hotel and go rest up for a few days so I was fully fighting fit, but I knew it would take weeks or months to recover properly from all my wounds, both physical and mental, and I wasn't sure I could bear to be inside a room of any sort after my incarceration.

  Plus, I knew if I went back there, had a big hug from Sameena, and enjoyed her food and company, I would become sidetracked, lose my edge. No, I had to continue to suffer, to feel like shit, and be miserable. It would give me the edge I needed to capture him, and I knew I'd need every ounce of dogged determination I could muster if I was to pull this off.

  But I really wanted to go home, ached for my old life, and although I knew deep down I wouldn't, couldn't do it, I was sorely tempted to leave him and the artifact here, forget the whole sorry affair. It wasn't an option though, not if I had an ounce of humanity, and I did, more's the pity.

  So I got myself together, was surprised to discover my backpack on a chair next to me and not stolen, and I hoisted it onto my shoulders, lifted my face to the sun as it rose over the skyscrapers of Dire Dawa, and turned slowly in a circle until I felt the drag of wards lead me into the heart of the city once more.

  My idea of rest and a little recuperation was misguided. I'd thought it would help me find the thief easier, allow me to move faster through the city and catch him once I had his location pinpointed. What I hadn't banked on was being unable to find him in the first place. I sensed the wards, had a feeling for the artifact and him, but it wasn't like the day before. That deep connection was lost. All I had was a trace, like a fleeting breeze, hinting at their whereabouts.

 

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