by J. C.
When Leesil had fled Venjetz eight years ago, Chap's place had been at his side. That was part of his purpose. Chap had never questioned his kin in this.
Gavril and Nein'a had played no part in what would come, in stopping the return of the ancient one known by differing names to the different people of this world. Wynn and her sages called it "the night voice" from the decayed Sumanese scroll they had uncovered. Ubâd, that abomination to life, had prayed to it by the name of il'Samar. Leesil's parents had been expendable in the plan of Chap's kin. Now, like Leesil, something pulled at Chap. Leaving this city with no answers…
It would feel as if he abandoned Nein'a and Gavril again.
He rumbled, then looked back at the two beings now in his charge grunting once for their attention. Leesil stood up beside Magiere, and they began to make their way back toward Byrd's inn.
Dark streets caused little trouble for any of them, each with sight gifted in differing ways. Chap's thoughts were occupied with what he had seen in Magiere's feral expression as she looked at Leesil. Deep within her dhampir self, she still recognized him. Perhaps his presence and their bond now provided the strength she needed for control. It was comforting but troubling nonetheless. Chap had never intended that she delve so deeply, so soon, into her darker half.
Twice he heard small paws on wood across the rooftops. Somewhere out of sight, another odorous feline headed for the inn, and he paid it little attention. As they approached the door to Byrd's, he heard it a third time.
Chap turned to sniff the air. His nose wrinkled at the scent. In the dark he saw a black cat sitting on a barrel outside a tavern down the way, watching him.
"How about some late-night sausages?" Magiere asked him. "After all that running, you must be hungry."
Chap forgot the cat, and his ears perked at Magiere's words.
Oh, sausages!
Chapter Eleven
Darmouth was lost in thought in the Hall of Traitors when Faris appeared in the far doorway and hesitated. Darmouth let him wait.
He disliked having his private thoughts interrupted. He'd been thinking of how best to approach Hedí.
He'd courted many women, but none like her. Polite and guarded and cold, she showed no interest in what he offered her. This was a far cry from the women of his early years, eager to please and beg favor. He could simply order the marriage to take place, and he expected it to go forward as planned during the winter feast, but he wanted more. He wanted the mother of his heirs to accept him by her own choice. He wanted the proper image of a royal family.
"What?" he finally barked at Faris.
The Móndyalítko quietly stepped in, passing between the stone coffins of Darmouth's father and grandfather. He stopped two paces away, and his attention shifted briefly to the back wall. Bare skulls leered within shadowy stone cubbies where the light of burning braziers around the room couldn't fully penetrate.
"Forgive me," Faris said with a submissive nod. "I followed the hunter as you asked. There was another disturbance. This one more public and not far from the Bronze Bell. Lord Geyren's mistress, Marianne a'Royce, was killed."
Darmouth turned toward Faris, his anger growing.
Marianne a'Royce was an empty-headed and spoiled girl. However, she was a favorite of the other "ladies." Lord Geyren was excessively fond of her, and Geyren collected taxes and tribute from nearly a third of the provinces lands north of Venjetz. This death had consequences Darmouth couldn't afford.
"The hunter told the truth about one of her companions," Paris continued. "The dog picked up a scent and tracked the killer. But by the time I caught up in the chase, the dhampir had lost her quarry in the alley behind the Ivy Vine."
Darmouth stared at him. "What of the girl in the sheepskin coat?"
"She wasn't there," Faris answered, and the lilt of his voice suggested some private doubt had been confirmed. "There was a man in her place with a glowing amulet on his chest. I never saw his face clearly, but he was quick, skilled, and knew the city well. He took shortcuts even a regular visitor might not know. When they returned to their inn, I followed."
"You remained… in disguise?"
"Of course, and it seems they stay at the inn of the very man who found her for us—Byrd, one of your longtime agents. Convenient, isn't it?"
Darmouth disliked coincidence, though Byrd had been useful through the years. Such things often warned of betrayal in the making.
"What else?" he asked.
"I thought you'd want the news of Lord Geyren's mistress right away."
Darmouth pulled one of his daggers and stepped in close to Faris. "Go back to the inn and get inside, you half-wit! Can you make yourself small enough?"
Faris went rigid but didn't back away. "Yes… Byrd has a weakness for homeless cats. He wouldn't be concerned at one more."
"Then get to it." Darmouth added, "Report back before morning."
Faris glowered briefly as he bowed and backed toward the door. Darmouth didn't care if his servants hated him, so long as they obeyed.
* * * *
Welstiel gripped the shoulder of Chane's tattered shirt so that both their presences were hidden by the power of his ring. He crouched below the window until he was certain that Magiere was long gone, then stood up. Chane did not move.
"Are you injured?" Welstiel asked.
Chane stared into the room's darkness with a blank expression. There was blood on his face and shirt. Westiel took the basin and water pitcher from the table. He set them on the floor.
"Clean up and get out of those rags and back into your own clothes."
"He wept for her," Chane rasped, still staring at nothing.
Welstiel had no idea what this meant. "Get up!" he ordered.
Chane blinked and a haughty, offended expression came over his long features. He climbed to his feet, picking up the pitcher and basin.
"I'm not leaving this room without my sword again, and I'm not wearing these rags. An old cloak with a heavy hood will do, if need be."
Welstiel grew hesitant. If need be? Chane did not wish to go hunting again?
"What happened? Did Magiere catch you off guard?' he asked.
"The dog sensed me from a short distance," Chane rasped back. "I was unarmed and couldn't fight all three of them. I had to run."
"You were not supposed to fight," Welstiel threw back at him.
Chane set the basin back on the table. He poured water from the pitcher too roughly, and droplets splashed over the rim. He slapped a hand towel into the water and turned on Welstiel.
"And it occurs to me that I take all the risks to get Magiere to do your bidding, to move on in search of your prize, whatever it is. I won't wait much longer for you to tell me more. Or you can serve your own secret needs by yourself!"
He snatched up the wet towel, wiping blood and coal dust from his face, then stripped away the soiled clothing, dropping pieces to the floor. Welstiel saw the layers of lash scars covering Chane's back, a gift of discipline from his father in life.
Welstiel considered cowing Chane into obedience, but he did not. He was too relieved that his companion's ire appeared to bring back his former wits. In spite of Chane's haughty nature, he had once been resourceful and far more useful. Welstiel would have him so again, but he had no intention of revealing any more than necessary, and especially not about the patron of his dreams.
Chane dunked his hair into the basin, scrubbing with his fingers. He dried his hair out, soiling the towel, and then pulled on his shirt and breeches. His hair was jaggedly cut and a few patches were still black, but his own red-brown color showed through.
"When do you think this assassination attempt will occur?" This was at least an intelligent question, rather than mindless muttering about some weeping man.
"Soon," Welstiel answered. "Perhaps in a few days." Chane nodded, and Welstiel began putting the room in order. He stuffed the more usable remains of Chane's peasant attire in a pillowcase and shoved them into his pack, in case the dis
guise might be needed again. He dumped the basin's blackened water out the window. When he turned around, Chane sat at the table with the blank parchment and feather quill.
He did not write but stared at the wall in front him, quill poised in his hand. Even so, the sight brought Welstiel another moment of relief.
The inn's front door creaked open, and a stab of winter-night air rushed into the common room.
Wynn lunged from her seat at the nearest table and ran to the door as Chap slipped in—and Magiere and Leesil. Waiting by herself had left her more anxious than was bearable.
"Did you find it?" she asked. "Did you destroy it?"
One look at Magiere's face gave Wynn her answer. Chap grunted and dropped his rump to the floor. Leesil pulled the quarrel case and crossbow off his back, and Wynn tried to assist.
"Close," Leesil said. "I hit him with a quarrel, but then he just vanished."
He looked haggard and sweaty, as if he'd run several leagues. Magiere was worn as well, but her fatigue seemed to come from within rather than from physical exertion.
"Go upstairs and put your things away," Wynn said. "I will find some food. You can tell me all while we eat."
Byrd stepped out through the kitchen curtain, his yellow scarf slightly askew. "Ah, you're back. Did I hear something about food? Come on, Wynn, and I'll dig something out."
Leesil took the other crossbow off Magiere's back and set them both on the bar. Wynn placed the quarrel case next to them. She was about to join Byrd when she noticed Leesil's gaze fixed on something behind the bar.
"Wynn…" Magiere said slowly. "Make us some spiced tea, please.
Leesil lifted his eyes, but he didn't look at her. "Yes, hot tea… and sausages for Chap."
Wynn sensed that her companions needed to collect themselves before they could talk, so she slipped off to the kitchen as they headed for the stairs. She took her time with the late-night supper. Byrd cooked pork sausages while she loaded a bowl with dried fruits and some pickled vegetables from the vinegar barrel. They sliced day-old bread and stoked up the fire to boil water. Once all was ready, she and Byrd carried the hodgepodge meal out to the common room.
Magiere and Leesil were back downstairs again, out of their gear, and all weapons and equipment from the hunt stored away. They sat at the table nearest the front door, and Chap lay between its legs. Wynn took one of the tin plates she carried and placed two sausages on it. When she leaned down, one sausage disappeared into Chap's snapping jaws before the plate touched the floor.
She did not scold him for bad manners and stood up to pour tea into the mugs Byrd had set out. Magiere took the first and set it down in front of Leesil. She seemed strangely sad beneath her usual dour air.
"Are you all right?" Wynn asked.
Magiere pulled another mug across to herself. "A woman died tonight. I should have gone out sooner."
Wynn sat down. "Do not blame your—"
A sharp scratching at the front door made her pause, and Byrd got up. When he opened the door, a dark shape bolted through his legs into the room.
Everyone at the table shifted or tensed. Wynn jerked her feet off the floor, twisting quickly in her chair as she searched for what had invaded the room.
Across the floor near the bar sauntered a dark brown cat as large as Clover Roll. His eyes glistened like his fur. Everyone relaxed again.
"Another stray," Leesil muttered before taking a gulp of tea. He had not yet touched any of the food.
Byrd's reply was cut off by hissing and spitting. They all looked over to see Clover Roll up on the next table, head low as he yowled at the newcomer. His dirty-cream fur stood on end, and his tail arched forward over his back with the tip quivering.
The few other cats about the common room slinked away in all directions. Only Tomato, sitting with her brother at the bottom of the stairs, stood her ground. Her mouth widened in a hiss, and she resembled a tiny orange porcupine. But Tomato was too small to be heard over Clover Roll's raucous noise.
"Clover, stop that," Byrd scolded. "You know what it's like to be hungry, so mind your manners!"
Wynn remembered Chap was right below the table, and she leaned sideways to peek at the dog. Chap watched the new stray without a blink but stayed in his place. Wynn breathed easier. At least Chap had resigned himself to being a guest in this place with so many four-footed patrons.
Clover Roll lowered his voice to a grating rumble.
Byrd tore up small bits of sausage and dropped them onto a plate. "Here, boy," he said to the cat. "Come and eat this."
The newcomer strolled over to nibble on the tidbits Byrd offered. At the quick lick of the animal's tongue, Wynn noticed that it was dark like the rest of him rather than pink.
"All right, what happened tonight?' Byrd asked, hunkering down in a chair. "You all look like you've seen the backside of cheer."
As far as the hunt was concerned, they had no secrets from Byrd. Magiere started with the bodies of the woman and servant in the alley. Wynn listened intently to all, down to the vanishing of their quarry.
"This ever happen before?" Byrd asked.
"No, not without leaving some trace," Leesil answered.
"Not only did we fail to protect the people here," Magiere added, "but I took this bargain with Darmouth so we'd have an excuse to get back into the keep. We're no closer to that, either."
Tomato still made a great show of hissing. Wynn walked over to pick her up, softly petting the kitten's head as she returned to the table.
"You will find this undead," she encouraged, looking Magiere straight in the eyes. "We can still take its head to Darmouth and reenter the keep. And you must get this vampire, Magiere. It is a terrible danger to the people here."
Magiere remained quiet.
"There may be another avenue we could attempt," Wynn continued. "Concerning why Leesil's parents ran for the keep. Magiere… could you not befriend Lieutenant Omasta? From the way he looked at you, he appeared quite interested. Did you notice how he looked at you?"
Leesil spit tea back into his cup. "What?"
"Wynn… !" Magiere snapped but was too shocked to finish.
"That's enough!" Leesil shouted, standing up. "All of you stop thinking you can toy with Darmouth."
"Well, then, lad," Byrd put in, his voice rising, "why don't you come up with a way to get inside by yourself?"
Wynn was not fond of shouting matches, but after time in Magiere's company, she had hardened to them. Her dislike of Byrd grew more and more, and she looked away in disgust. She noticed that the plate of sausage scraps on the floor had hardly been touched, and the new stray was nowhere to be seen. Clover Roll sat on the front window sill, rumbling, as he peered out through the half-open shutter.
Magiere's tone was low and threatening as she turned on Byrd. "And what exactly are you up to? You think this coy routine—"
"The new cat is gone," Wynn said.
Byrd looked around. "Maybe he was just a neighbor out for a stroll and headed home."
The diversion quelled the brewing fight, and Leesil dropped back into his chair.
"We are all tired, and it is late," Wynn said, putting Tomato up on her shoulder. "We should sleep and talk tomorrow."
Magiere was the only one who nodded agreement and began piling dishes back onto the wooden serving tray.
Before Wynn headed for the stairs to retrieve Potato, she stepped to the front window and scratched Clover Roll's back. He purred in answer but remained vigilant. Wynn looked out to the empty street as cold night air struck her face.
* * * *
Hedí gave up on sleep and climbed out of bed. It was late, perhaps well past midnight, but the bed's heavy coverings felt stifling. She decided to walk the halls, if nothing else. No matter that she could leave at any time, this room was still her cell and the keep no more than a prison. If she tired herself enough, she might return later and sleep. She pulled her cloak over her cotton shift and fastened the front.
The corridor was as
cold and stale as her room, but she breathed in relief nonetheless. The passage was deserted, as expected, and she headed toward the stairs down to the main level. Perhaps there was still some wine about—or ale, if she were desperate—to help calm her into slumber
Hedí stepped off the stairs into the main entryway and turned toward the communal meal hall. She was halfway to its arched entrance when she heard low voices behind her. Someone was talking in the counsel hall on the other side of the wide entryway. She paused, remaining still to listen more carefully.
"You're certain?"
Hedí recognized the low voice as Darmouth's growl. She backed toward the stairs, staying clear of sight, and then crept toward the council hall's entrance with soft steps.
"Yes, my lord," Faris answered from within. "The traitor you described and the one who attacked our men at the Stravinan border. One and the same. His companions called him 'Leesil.' He is with that woman you hired. They stay at Byrd's inn, and Byrd took part in their discussion. The half-blood and his companions spoke of getting back into the keep."
A long silence followed. When Darmouth answered, his voice grated with strangled rage.
"Take them all—now! Use as many men as you need. I want his corpse on the keep wall by dawn!"
"No, my lord," Faris warned. "If he's half of what you claim, soldiers might not be able to capture him. We could catch his woman and the others, but he would slip away in such an insecure area. And taking this hunter by force in public is no better. Word has already spread among the nobles from Geyren that you personally hired her to protect them. How will it appear if you arrest her only a day later?"
"I don't give a damn what it looks like," Darmouth snapped.
"Wait until tomorrow," Faris advised. "Send her word that you require another audience. The death of Marianne a' Royce is reason enough. Once she is within these walls, we can hold her quietly. When she fails to return to the inn, the half-blood will come for her."
"Why, when he already abandoned his own parents?"
"He will, my lord. I saw him look at her. He will come… and we will deal with Byrd later."