by Barb Hendee
Still, Welstiel did not blink, and for just a moment Lanjov’s face expressed a suspicious fear as he stood up.
"I'm sorry you are cross with me," he said. "But my mind is firm on this. She leaves tomorrow."
Welstiel realized he had lost his own composure, and held up one hand.
"Forgive me," he urged. "Sit and drink, and we will speak more. Perhaps there are other ways to put an end to this matter."
"It is late, and the day was long," Lanjov stammered. "Another time. Enjoy your wine, and thank you for meeting with me at such a late hour."
Lanjov hurried out into the night, and Welstiel sat alone.
Although Sapphire's protection often drove Toret's actions, as he and Chane wove through the back alleys of Bela's coast-side outer ring, he pushed all thoughts of her from his mind.
He'd starved himself since this stranger had first appeared on his doorstep with word of the hunter. For all of Rashed and Teesha's abilities, he'd done something neither of them ever attempted: He had created his own minions. He didn't like to think of Sapphire as a servant, but in truth, she was bound to him. Chane certainly was a servant, and a valuable one at that. Toret enjoyed the irony of raising a wealthy noble as his slave. Now, he needed muscled fodder to provide the dhampir with an exhausting fight from all sides.
He would surpass even himself, and raise two from death in the same night.
"You understand what to do?" he asked Chane, as they peered from an alley across a filthy street to a shabby tavern. Prostitutes, who'd seen more prosperous days, shuffled in the doorways, trying to entice a few pennies for services rendered.
"Yes, but you need to choose carefully," Chane replied. "Men armed with swords, or at least visible fighting blades, are the best probability. Choose men who have been drinking but are not drunk. A true fighter seldom falls too far into his cups."
Months ago in Miiska, if Rashed had given him such a cavalier lecture, Toret would have hissed back with seething resentment. He'd changed since then in more ways than simply improving his station. Now, he carefully listened to Chane's advice.
"Did you ever help your father choose guards?" he asked.
Chane's jaw twitched. "Yes."
Toret didn't press the matter and looked back to the street. They were both dressed as poor merchants in order to blend in, should they walk on the streets or enter a tavern. Toret wore a faded blue tunic and green cap made by winding a thick scarf into coils and fastening the ends. For the first time in months, he felt comfortable. He liked the loose tunic and how the cap hid his constantly unruly hair.
He was starving for life, for blood, but he still felt anticipation as Chane watched for possible candidates.
"Anyone?" he asked.
"Not yet. Do you wish to find both men and have me incapacitate them before you begin?"
Toret hesitated. He wasn't exactly certain what "incapacitate" meant but grasped that Chane wanted to know if they should secure both subjects before Toret began-as opposed to turning one and then beginning the process again.
"Yes, both," he answered, and leaned his hand against the stained bricks, feeling strangely comfortable. "I've never been in this part of the city. Have you?"
"No." Chane quite often used as few words as possible. He had his functions, but conversation wasn't his strong point.
Several men passed in and out of the tavern, but Chane showed no interest in anyone. Then, unexpectedly, he spoke. "Sapphire wants a pretty young girl to feed on. Did she tell you?"
"Oh, she told me, all right." Toret sighed. "I've no idea where to find one, and we've other matters to worry about right now."
"When we finish, I will go into the second ring. An attractive merchant-class girl in a decent dress should do."
Toret gave him a sidelong glance. Chane had never offered on his own to do anything for Sapphire.
"Yes," he answered, still puzzled. "That'll do."
"There." Chane nodded toward the street. "Look."
Two tall sailors with weatherworn skin emerged from the tavern. One wore a hook-tipped sword on his belt, and the other wore two heavy daggers strapped crosswise over his lower back. They were sober enough to bypass a large and obstinate prostitute without causing a scene.
"They are together," Chane said. "Convenient, and I doubt we will find anyone more likely down here."
Toret agreed. "Stay back."
Once again, Toret became Ratboy the street urchin, who knew how to survive, disappear, and remain forgotten. He'd always despised this part of himself, and yet now slipped effortlessly into his old ways. Pulling off his cap, cloak, and purse, he messed up his hair. Chane faded back into the alley shadows. As the sailors passed, Toret stepped out and dropped the purse behind them.
"Sirs," he called, drooping shoulders and bent knees making him look even smaller. "One of you dropped a purse."
Both turned at once, instantly on guard. Upon spotting the thin, dusty-brown beggar boy, they relaxed.
Toret picked up the fallen purse and stepped toward them, but only as far as the alley's near corner. He held out the purse.
"I think you dropped this."
"Not me, lad," answered the one with the sword. "It's not mine."
"Are you sure? I saw it fall as you passed."
Curiosity crossed their features. They stepped closer, and Toret settled back slightly, as if wary of their approach, forcing them to move in front of the alley's mouth. The leader approached without fear and looked down.
"No, lad, you're an honest fellow, but that isn't-"
Toret sprang at him, clamping down with one strong hand over the man's mouth and wrapping his other arm about his throat. Before the sailor could reach for his sword, Toret wrenched him sideways into the alley and dragged him farther into the darkness.
The instant Toret had moved, Chane lunged from the shadows and lifted the second one off his feet, the sailor's mouth equally stilled by an iron grip. A quick spin into the alley, and the second sailor, struck the brick wall and slumped.
"Chane!" Toret called, holding his struggling victim.
In a flash, Chane swung hard with one fist, catching Toret's sailor in the jaw with a sharp crack. The sailor slumped unconscious.
"Not so hard," Toret snapped. "You'll kill him."
The sailor moaned, and Chane shook his head. "He is still alive."
Toret knelt atop the sailor, hesitating for a moment. He was starving but couldn't allow himself to fail, no matter what it cost him. His actions were all based on what he'd heard from his old master and maker, Lord Corische. He'd never actually seen Corische raise an undead, but he'd heard enough over the years to piece the process together.
Gripping the back of the sailor's head, he bit into the man's throat and drank without caution, feeling life and strength slam into his body like an overwhelming wave. He had fasted in order to take in more life than usual, and he took in as much as he could hold. This was the gluttonous gorging of the starved, with no pleasure in it as his body seemed to tear inside under the pressure of so much filling him up all at once.
He slowed immediately as he heard the sailor's heartbeat falter. His victim had to die so fast and hard, with a full leaching of his life energies, that it pushed him beyond the point of death before it actually occurred. He was guessing at what came next, but it had worked with Sapphire and Chane.
Toret pulled his teeth out of the sailor's flesh, slashed open his own wrist with his nails, and forced the dripping wound into his victim's mouth. Trying to keep from choking with his last breath, the sailor swallowed down Toret's dark fluids.
The man's heart stopped beating.
Toret fell, writhing in pain.
The alley darkened before his eyes, and sounds of his own body convulsing on the alley floor faded in his ears. Perhaps this was why there were so few of their kind.
Awareness died in Toret as he suffered the sailor's death as if it were his own. In this moment, he and his new creation were connected as one.
His own flesh felt like it would split and rupture from the inside. He forced his senses to widen, open, and then slammed his fist against the alley wall. Pain shot up his arm, but he didn't dismiss it as any undead could. He let it stab him. He struck the wall again. And again. Finally he flopped down on his back.
The hard cobble ground into his shoulders, and he let the irritation goad him. Any sensation to stay aware and pull him back up away from death was welcome.
As his vision returned, he found Chane staring down at him curiously.
Toret tried to speak but couldn't and simply held up a wavering hand. Chane obeyed, pulling him to his feet, and Toret staggered deeper down the alley to disgorge.
He'd not taken in all of the sailor's blood, for that was physically impossible. But he'd taken in so much to kill so quickly, that he couldn't feed on the other man if he was already glutted. His abdomen clenched as he heaved, and like an overturned bucket, blood poured from his mouth to splash on the ground, collecting in a dark pool around his feet.
Toret's vision jumped and twisted in vertigo as he stumbled back down the alley, one hand on the wall to steady himself. The first sailor's body lay still and unmoving, eyes open and mouth frozen wide in shock. Chane's expression remained casually curious.
"He is dead?" Chane asked.
"Yes," Toret managed to answer, resting for just a moment more. "The body will flush all waste, and perhaps by the end of the night he'll rise, but he must rest for tonight. Tomorrow evening, he'll be ready to serve our family."
Chane studied Toret. "You do not look like you can do this again."
Toret ignored him, and straddled the second man. Gripping the back of the sailor's head, he gorged again. As life slammed into his already sated body, he gagged. When he heard the heart falter, he pulled back, but the alley spun wildly around him.
"Help me!" he hissed.
Chane gripped his wrist, jerking it toward the sailor's mouth.
Darkness erupted in Toret's head and swallowed him whole.
Pieces of memory thinned and drifted from him like blood in tepid running water.
A clay-walled hovel in the beggar's quarters of il'Nar'Sahkil, where his mother lay sick as he scavenged and stole food from the markets, wondering always where and who his father was.
Teesha's eyes, softly stern but warmly admonishing as she tended his wounds.
Sapphire's cool body next to him while the sun burned through the sky over their roof.
Cold panic seized Toret like frost crystallizing around him to hold in the memories.
He opened his eyes to find himself lying facedown in the alley, his cheek to the cobblestone, and he convulsed until blood poured again from his mouth. He pushed himself up on his elbows as his abdomen clenched over and over, even after nothing more would come up.
By the time Toret finished, he was too weak to walk, and Chane lifted him to his feet, leaning him against the alley wall. He looked down at the bloodied cobblestones.
"I see now why you did not want to take them back to the house first," Chane commented dryly.
Toret ignored him, both hands flat against the wall to keep himself from sliding to the ground again.
"Search the alleys," he instructed weakly. "Find barrels, crates, tarp, or whatever is useful to hide the bodies. Then hail a carriage. I must get them back to the house."
"Very well," Chane answered. "I'll get them loaded. While you take them home, I will find your lady her young girl, perhaps somewhere in the upper districts. Will you be strong enough to unload them by the time you reach home?"
Toret nodded, and Chane slipped down the alley.
A visitor waited patiently outside Lord Au'shiyn's home in the inner wall ring. He remained in the shadows, and no one in this wealthy neighborhood had even seen him arrive. In little time, his patience was rewarded, as a coach pulled up to the outer gate.
Lord Au'shiyn stepped out and walked toward the front steps of his home as the coach pulled around behind the house. In a city that had grown faster in population than in physical size, space for a personal coach and driver was a luxury even among the wealthy. Lord Au'shiyn lived well indeed.
As he reached the front door, the visitor stepped from the shadows to follow him up the walk, and called out softly, "A word, if you please."
Au'shiyn turned in mild annoyance, looking tired and uninterested in a late chat, but then recognition crossed his features, and he stopped.
"Oh, good evening. What brings you here so late?"
The visitor stepped up to front porch as if to convey information, and his gloved hand seized the back of Au'shiyn's neck.
Before the Suman elite could cry out, the visitor bit into his throat with elongated canines, not to drink but to tear. He ripped flesh open to expose raw veins, crushing his victim's windpipe in the process.
Lord Au'shiyn died quickly, with panic in his eyes.
The visitor shook the body until blood ran free to soak the white shirt and russet robe. The layered cloth wraps about Au'shiyn's head fell to the porch. Pausing, the visitor shredded the shirt's front for savage effect and then dropped the corpse upon the steps.
Chapter 12
The sun hadn't yet risen, and Leesil lay sleepless in his bed.
Upon leaving Lanjov's bank the day before, he, Magiere, and Chap had gone to the alley behind the Rowanwood. Chap smelled the piece of lavender silk Leesil had cut from Sapphire's gown, sniffed the ground, and, with a bursting cry, took off down the winding back ways. Only a few streets away, the hound raced into an open road and stopped, turning about in confusion. The trail was gone.
After this disappointment, they journeyed to the sages' guild to check on Wynn's progress, but she was still awaiting delivery of records. With nothing further to follow up, they returned to their inn for supper and much-needed sleep. Except that Leesil had not slept well at all, and now lay on his back, eyes closed, unable to quiet his thoughts.
How would they spend yet another day with no further hint of where to look? He had no answer.
Predawn darkness finally overwhelmed him in his frustration. Rolling to his feet, he leaned the bed up against the wall on its side to give him a small space of open floor and lit the candle on the bedside table. He slipped his new weapon from its sheath. The blade had been well beveled and sharpened, ready for use.
He began with slow feints as he tested its weight. At times he felt unbalanced, for it was heavier than expected. The blade itself was stable in his grip, but he needed its twin as a counterweight on his other arm. He executed a series of straight jabs with the blade's point, alternating with sweeps of his leg. Each time he tried a swinging chop with the weapon's outside edge, he felt an unnerving imbalance in his step.
In the sleeping inn's silence, booted footsteps in the hall were easier to catch, and he paused, perfectly still. Who would be walking around the upstairs guest quarters at this early hour? Then a short rapping sounded at his door. Slipping the blade behind his back, he cracked the door open.
One of the white-surcoated city guards stood outside. A few steps down the hall stood Captain Chetnik in full uniform, pounding on Magiere's door as well.
"It's Captain Chetnik," he called out. "Don't be alarmed."
"Don't be alarmed?" Leesil said, sticking his head out. "Yes, why would she be alarmed by someone beating on her door before sunrise? If this is about the Rowanwood, we'll talk later at the barracks."
Chetnik barely glanced at him, and Magiere opened the door, rubbing one of her eyes.
Her long hair was completely black in the dim hallway and hung loose down past her shoulders, making her pale face stand out like a specter. She still had her shirt on and was wrapped up in a blanket from her bed.
"Chetnik?" she said. "What's wrong?"
Magiere was tall for a
woman but looked vulnerable standing next to the towering captain. Chetnik looked her up and down, and Leesil's grip tightened on the blade hidden behind his back.
"Lord Au'shiyn of the city council was found dead on his front steps this morning," Chetnik said. "Looks the same as Councilman Lanjov's daughter."
Magiere stared at him without speaking.
"There's more," Chetnik went on. "The constabulary of the Westside mid-district found a body two days ago in an alley but just notified me. It's a young woman who was reported missing, and her condition appears to fit the pattern. I assumed you'd want to look at both immediately."
* * *
Magiere rode in silence to Au'shiyn's manor.
Leesil sat in the military wagon across from her, equally quiet, with Chap resting between his feet. Chetnik sat beside her, and the single guard who'd accompanied the captain drove the wagon. As they pulled up to a house, Magiere wondered at the display of wealth all around them.
Nearly every house was three stories tall and constructed of crafted stone or cast brick. Fences and gates were solid iron or stained timbers carved with ornate patterns. The street was impossibly clean, and dwarf trees and shrubs were planted in the small front spaces of many houses. Chetnik leaned toward her.
"I had the woman's body brought here, before it was taken to the funeral house, so you could look them over together. The constabulary couldn't identify her, but one of the guards saw the similarity to Lord Au'shiyn's death and brought it to my attention. I won't contact her family until I hear your thoughts on this."
"My thoughts?" Magiere asked.
"I want to know if you think the killer is a madman or… or something else, and if the deaths are truly connected."
She climbed out the wagon's back. What could any of this matter to the woman's family?
The sun was rising. Magiere felt it on her back as she spotted the weary figure of Lanjov standing on the house's front steps. She passed through the open gate and up the walk toward him.