No merchant in their rightful mind would choose to trundle their precious cart of saleable goods through an outlaw-ridden forest. No honest one, anyway.

Sabriel stood, palms resting against her hips, surveying the assortment of glinting gold merchandise with a flat expression adopted more from habit than any real need to conceal her feelings. It wasn’t really the bric-a-brac she was interested in, anyway. Anyone carrying anything valuable through these parts was either under careful protection, or just plain stupid.

The cart’s owner wasn’t stupid. He was eyeing her Alliance badge with a wary look and had been intelligent enough to keep his mouth shut and cooperate so far. His sense of caution had become familiar in Shaman; ever since Sabriel had arrived, she had been regarded by the faithful of both sides of the civil war as an unknown. A potential ally or enemy. She’d swiftly learnt that she could go anywhere and question anything provided she kept them guessing.

“Where are you off to this evening, honey?” She enquired, smiling pleasantly. At least, Sabriel thought it was a pleasant smile. Most other people thought she’d been taking lessons in pleasant smiles from Mordowrgi, her tiger familiar.

“Ahh… just, you know, the ’Dragon.” He smiled back, a little strained. A bead of sweat had appeared on his brow despite the cool evening temperature.

“You’re heading the wrong way, my friend.” Sabriel purred. She pointed behind him, her hand brushing against her gun in its holster as it moved. “The tavern’s that way.”

The merchant didn’t turn to follow her finger, but another bead of sweat did appear on his brow. He wrestled with himself visibly for half a second before muttering a thanks and swinging his cart round, scurrying back into the undergrowth with the same urgency he’d had when she’d stopped him a moment before. Sabriel didn’t bother following him. She didn’t need to; Mordowrgi would already be on the case. She folded her arms across her chest and waited for the inevitable comment from the judgemental tiger.

Sure enough… ‘Stinks of thievery.’ Mordowrgi growled into her mind after a moment. Sabriel psychically gripped his mind and tugged herself mentally closer to him, allowing his physical sensations to wash over her. It was incredible that a predator so large could move about so stealthily. She could feel his muscles tense habitually as his yellow eyes focused on his prey, his claws sifting the earth beneath his silent padded paws, his tail curling quietly through the shrubbery so as not to rustle even the quietest leaf. ‘He’s turning away from the tavern.’

Of course he was. Sabriel rolled her shoulders back and clicked her neck, considering her options. After weeks of unsuccessfully hunting down Tristan’s camp, she’d come to the conclusion that this forest had a magic to it much realer than the Amazon’s mysticism. No path ever led the same way twice; it was as though the woods shifted and moved around her, making it impossible to even get close to her target. The only way to get there, she’d grimly ascertained, was to be led there by someone who already knew the way. Between them, Sabriel and Mordowrgi had spent the last week subtly questioning and following every suspect they came across, to no avail.

There was no tantalising promise in the air tonight. Sabriel did not cling to the hope that this merchant was anything more than a common crook, but she couldn’t overlook the very slim possibility that he was trying to smuggle his wares into the outlaw camp. It was a quiet night. There was no one else about to have to choose between.

‘Sabriel.’ Mordowrgi’s voice had the permanent rumble of a revving motorbike. His purrs always sounded menacing rather than happy. ‘There’s someone else here.’

Sabriel unfolded her arms, reached down and placed one hand lightly over the gun. She moved with a stealth which could rival her cat, skirting puddles, dry twigs and thick bushes, feeling Mordowrgi’s mind guide her way. She stopped only when she saw the merchant and his cart in a natural bowl below her. Confident that the shrubbery and her khaki clothes had concealed her well enough, Sabriel stood very still, observing the merchant’s stiff, unmoving frame. He’d stopped in the middle of the low bowl, one hand gripping the cart with white knuckles. His head was tilted slightly as if he were listening. The forest was silent, unnaturally so.

With minimum movement, Sabriel drew her gun.