Ulick nodded. "Do what you will, but until then it is Esmay who stands first, and he lives under her shadow."
The young men had been walking in the direction of the Citadel Square, and the time had come for Constans to decide whether or not he should give Ulick his full confidence. Yesterday he had moved all his belongings to a large building on the south side of the square overlooking the fortress, and he was minded to establish himself there permanently. It might seem foolhardy for him to take up his abode, not under, indeed, but just above the noses of his enemies; in reality, he was as safe in one place as in another. Here was an immense building, containing literally hundreds of apartments; it was like being in a rabbit-warren, a labyrinth of passages and rooms that it would take a regiment to explore. He had only to observe reasonable prudence in entering and leaving his lair to be assured against the ordinary risks of discovery, and he depended, too, upon the obvious negligence of the sentinels. It was a simple application of the principle that what is nearest to the eye is oftenest overlooked.
For where he stood he could see the huge bulk of the sky-scraper towering into the blue. The building had been constructed upon a narrow, triangular plot of land, and its ground-plan bore a fanciful resemblance to the shape of a flat-iron. Its acute angle was pointed towards them; one compared it instinctively to the prow of some gigantic ship of stone ploughing its way through billows of brick and mortar.
"Come," said Constans, and Ulick, understanding the confidence about to be reposed in him, followed silently.
It was a small front-room on the third floor that Constans had fitted up as his abode, and after Ulick had passed approving judgment upon his friend's domestic arrangement they walked over to the window and stood there looking down into the thoroughfare upon which the building faced. Formerly this open space had been paved with small oblong blocks of stone, but these had long since been incorporated with the walls of the fortress, and in their stead was a stretch of thick, short turf. Pacing slowly along, there came in sight the figure of a man, his head bent down and his hands clasped behind his back. Constans recognized him instantly, even before Ulick's eager whisper had reached his ear. It was Quinton Edge.
Constans knew that he was doing a foolish thing, but the humor of the moment gripped him, and he yielded to it. To make sport of this insolent, and so wipe out, in some measure, the memory of his own humiliation—the temptation was too great to be resisted, and the next instant the bowstring twanged and an arrow plunged into the ground, a scant yard in front of Quinton Edge, and stuck there quivering. Involuntarily, the Doomsman stepped back and another arrow grazed his heel; a half turn to the right and a third shaft sheared the curling ostrich-plume from his hat. A fourth arrow to the left of him, and then Quinton Edge understood. He drew himself up and stood still while a dozen more skilfully directed bolts winged their way to complete the barbed circle that hemmed him in. And each missile bore its individual message to his memory—a tiny tuft of scarlet inserted in the feathering.
Quinton Edge waited an instant or so, as though out of pure politeness, then turned and faced the great building that towered mountainously above his head. There were hundreds of window openings in the tremendous façade of the "Flat-iron," and he had no means of guessing the precise one in whose deep embrasure his enemy stood concealed; at any moment he might expect the final shaft striking home to his heart and staining its feathering all crimson in his life blood. Yet there was no hint of perturbation in the affected languor of his voice; he bowed slightly and spoke:
"What a sorry marksman! See! I will give you a final chance to hit the gold. Make the most of it, for here in Doom no man's hair grows long enough to hide a nicked ear."
He threw back his cloak of crimson cloth and unbuttoned the white, ruffled shirt that he wore underneath, exposing his naked throat and breast. And not an eyelash quivered, while he stood there for the space in which one might count a score slowly.
"As you please, then," he continued, readjusting his garments with punctilious care. "I must warn you, however, that standing so long in this chilly air may mean the influenza for me. By the Shining One! if we keep on like this the interest due on our little account is likely to exceed in amount the original principal. That would be a pity as happening between gentlemen, who know naturally nothing of what they call business and have no desire to cheat each other."