Thief of Lives

by J. C.

  Toret turned away, and the hollow hunger of his existence became acidic.

  "If you think I can't find my way around a few mortal guards, you have no idea what I am. Get out. You're no longer welcome here."

  He heard footsteps coming toward him and spun about. The stranger stood close. His expression was intense, watchful, an unknown decision being made.

  "Should I call Tibor to escort you?" Toret added.

  The stranger's lips parted and then closed quickly. His mask of composure returned as he stepped back.

  "As you wish."

  He turned and left. Toret followed and bolted the door behind him.

  "Tibor!"

  The undead sailor came to the foyer. "Yes, master?"

  "When Chane returns, let him in, but no one else. If that man appears, send him away. Understand?"

  "Yes."

  Toret climbed the stairs to the top floor. He was tired and drained, and badly needed to feed, but he was finally seeing his world clearly. At the top floor, he walked into Sapphire's room without knocking. She was dressing in front of her oval mirror.

  "Oh, Toret," she said, as if surprised at his presence. She looked him up and down.

  He knew he appeared paler than usual, and his one eye was crushed closed, but in his fresh tunic, no one could tell his body was damaged. She was lacing herself into a red velvet gown, and the sight of it touched him. Teesha had worn red velvet at times, though not as brilliant a shade. Sapphire's round face shifted between pouty and indignant. In a flash, she smiled and came to put her arms around his neck.

  "You look better," she said, petting his shoulder. "I simply couldn't abide all those wounds and mess last night. I'm much too delicate."

  Yes, perhaps she was, and he drank in the sight of her. She might not be Teesha, but she was his.

  "You must feed," she said. "I'll finish dressing, and we'll go find you a treat. You should have anything you want." She smiled again, perhaps thinking herself quite generous to consider his desires.

  "Chane is out," he said. "He will bring something back for me."

  "So we're staying home?" she asked, a pout returning. "I've been trapped in here since that horrible hunter attacked me."

  "You're going to be busy all night—packing," he said softly. "We leave Bela at dusk tomorrow. I'll make the arrangements tonight."

  It took a moment for his words to sink in, and then she laughed.

  "You can't be serious. I'm not leaving Bela. This place is paradise. There's nowhere in the country with better inns."

  "We're leaving," he repeated. "If we don't, the dhampir will track us down, douse the place with oil as we sleep, and light it on fire in broad daylight. Still sound like paradise?"

  His seriousness slowly dawned on her, and for a moment she didn't even speak. Then a scream burst from her ripe, snarling mouth, and she grabbed a porcelain vase off the wardrobe and threw it.

  Toret ducked as it shattered on the wall behind him.

  * * * *

  Welstiel sat in Calabar's inn, waiting for Lanjov. The last dream had been suffocating, and he felt weary. His carefully woven web was being cut apart thread by thread. He had lost track of Magiere after the fire at the Burdock, and now Rat-boy planned to flee. He sipped at his tankard of wine and willed calm into his thoughts. Lanjov would come soon, as requested by messenger. If anyone knew where Magiere now hid, it would be Lanjov.

  Possibilities remained, if he could only delay Ratboy and unobtrusively assist Magiere in her hunt—but not too much assistance. If she found Ratboy's home before nightfall, she would have the advantage of daylight and not be forced to engage multiple opponents and the conjuror as well. Her training must proceed.

  A stout woman with graying hair came up to his table.

  "Are you Master Welstiel?" she asked. "A boy just delivered a message."

  When he nodded, she held out a small folded paper, and he took it. His own name was addressed upon it. The woman glanced at his missing finger.

  "Thank you," he said, not taking his eyes off of her as he waited.

  She grunted and left.

  Welstiel turned over the paper. A wax seal held it closed, and he split it, opening the letter.

  To my dear friend:

  I regret not joining you tonight at our favorite inn. Events in Bela demanding my attention grow ever more pressing. I fear my own time has become so limited I will have the leisure to meet you at neither the Knight's House nor Calabar's inn.

  By now, you may have learned of Lord Au'Shiyn's death. I have reconsidered your counsel and retained the dhampir's services, so there is no need for us to discuss this matter further in my offices.

  Rest assured she has both the services of the city guard and the sages to assist her. Thank you again for your guidance. I do not know when we will be able to meet again.

  I remain your humble friend.

  Alexi Lanjov

  Welstiel read the note again, though every word was clear the first time.

  In the polite manner of a gentleman, Lanjov had just informed him that he was no longer welcome at the council hall, and any relationship outside of there had also ended. Lanjov had severed their acquaintance.

  The calm in Welstiel's mind withered. He read the note again, this time pausing at the mention of the sages. Lanjov had spoken of them ensconced in a decommissioned barracks.

  Welstiel placed a silver penny on the table, not waiting to have his change returned. He stepped into the street and hailed a passing coach.

  "Do you know of the new sages and their location?" he asked the coachman. "Take me there, now."

  * * * *

  Chane emerged from a sewer grate somewhere in the city's second ring. He had lost the dhampir back at the sages' barracks, but much still troubled him. Wynn, as well as Tilswith, would now know what he was.

  He had emerged in one of the poor districts west of the moderate merchant area and still needed blood for Toret. A trio of prostitutes hung together upon one street corner near a tavern, but Chane never chose anyone from a group. Across the way stood one lone young woman outside an alley. She was small, with limp, dirty hair. Her muslin dress was threadbare but mended. Her eyes were clear and unclouded by ale.

  He walked up to her.

  "Lookin‘ for company?" she asked. Her voice was defeated and cheerless, and she was missing several teeth.

  "Yes, but not here. Come home with me?"

  She hesitated and took in the cut of his cloak and boots. Men dressed like Chane did not often patronize the poor side of the lower merchant district.

  "I got a room. Not far from here," she suggested.

  He held out his purse. "I'll pay for the entire night."

  She wavered, captivated by the click of coins and yet still wary. She moved closer to him, nervous but determined, and slipped her arm into his.

  Finding a coach was difficult in this part of the city, so it was several side streets later before he called one to a stop. To Chane's relief, the girl neither offered nor expected conversation during the ride. When it ended, they walked to the house together, and Chane was surprised to find the front door bolted.

  He knocked, and Tibor cracked it and looked out. At the sight of Chane, he opened it fully and stepped back.

  Chane motioned his companion in and said to Tibor, "Tell the master I'm home."

  The sound of Sapphire screeching and glass objects shattering floated down from upstairs. The woman looked up and glanced warily at Chane.

  "You got a master? I thought you was the master?"

  Chane didn't answer, and she began backing toward the door.

  "I changed my mind," she said. "I'll just walk back. You don't owe me nothin‘."

  Chane grabbed her upper arm.

  She didn't scream but quickly lifted one leg to jerk a fish knife from her boot. Slashing across the back of his hand, she surprised Chane into releasing her. But when she turned toward the door, it was already closed. Tibor stood silently in front of it.
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  Chane snatched the back of her neck with one hand. Though he'd fed earlier, the slash on his hand drove him to salivate. She swung back blindly at him with the blade, and he grabbed her thin wrist as well. Sheer will kept him from setting his teeth to her throat.

  "Is that for me?" came Toret's voice from behind.

  Pulling his captive toward the stairs, Chane saw his pale little master descend the last steps, his one good eye fixed on the woman.

  "Yes… of course," he answered.

  He was loath to offer such a delight to Toret. This woman, as tiny as she was, brimmed with life and survival instinct. It was like serving a vintage wine to a drunkard gone too long without ale.

  Chane held her out like a gift as she struggled. He closed his hand on her wrist until the muffled crack of bone was heard. She dropped the knife in a whimper of pain.

  Toret enveloped the woman in his thin arms and bit into her throat so rapidly that Chane lost his grip on her neck. He let her arm drop, as he suppressed a sneer of disgust.

  Such a waste.

  Above in the house, a door banged open or closed, followed by hammering footfalls on the upper stairs. Sapphire shortly appeared at the top of the stairs to the foyer. Her normally perfect curls were disheveled, and she appeared beyond one of her usual tantrums.

  "Don't you walk away from me, you little rodent!" she shouted. "I'm not going anywhere, do you hear me? Anywhere!"

  Toret dropped the dead girl and opened his tunic. The gaping rent in his chest was closing. The sunken eye socket was now full, and when he opened it, a clouded orb filled it. He turned toward the staircase.

  "Close your mouth," he ordered Sapphire. "Go and pack, now."

  Sapphire's mouth snapped shut as she twitched, one hand coming to her head as if a sudden pain struck her behind the eyes. She turned around to shuffle back up to her room.

  "Pack?" Chane asked.

  "We're leaving."

  "The house?"

  "The city. We're going home, to my home. We'll bribe smugglers to get us off the docks tomorrow evening and sail south to the Suman Empire. It's been too long since I've been home." He paused. "If we stay, the dhampir will find us. We survive only if we leave. You'll like the desert—it's clean."

  Toret climbed the stairs, leaving the prostitute's body on foyer floor.

  "If a man with dark hair and white temples comes," he added, "don't let him in."

  Then he stopped and turned.

  "It's a slim chance in a city this size that the dhampir will find this place before we leave, but we should take no chances. There's one more day to get through. Set up a ward or a trap, or something, in case anyone breaks in. Anything simple that will slow her down and warn us."

  Holding his composure, Chane nodded obediently. "Leaving Tihko and your wolf loose on the main floor should provide warning, and I will arrange another suitable deterrent."

  "Nothing with a tripwire," Toret said. "Use your craft. I think that half-blood can spot a trigger from a league away."

  "Very well," Chane replied. So much for simplicity.

  This turn of events was disturbing. If Toret's new plan came to fruition, they would all be bound for the Suman Empire by the following night, living among camels, nomads, and who knew what else. It could take years or decades before he found or arranged another opportunity such as this dhampir offered.

  Something had to be done. But what?

  * * * *

  Although Welstiel had never visited the sages, he had met several through Lanjov at the council hall. The aging Domin Tilswith showed up at odd times to badger the councilman about improving their arrangements. Seeing the barracks firsthand, he better understood the domin's perspective. One intact and weather-aged building was not large enough for a library, as well as housing a handful of sages.

  He knocked on the door. A female voice called from the other side.

  "Who's there?"

  "My name is Welstiel Massing. I believe some of your people know me. I have assisted Councilman Lanjov on occasion."

  The door cracked open, and a young woman in a gray robe with a long braid peered out.

  "Young Wynn, isn't it?" he asked. "Do you remember me? We met once in the council hall."

  "Yes, I remember you, but it is quite late." Her oval face was marred with worry, and she glanced furtively in both directions along the street. "Do you have a message of some kind?"

  "No," he said reassuringly. "But after speaking with the council chairman, I thought to offer you my assistance. I have some experience with the dhampir's current pursuits, and I understand you are working with her."

  She paused in consideration, and then stepped back so he could enter.

  "Please come in. I am sorry if I seem overly cautious, but we have had an eventful evening."

  He stepped into the entry way and offered a polite bow of thanks.

  She led him to what appeared to be an old officer's chamber. It had been transformed into a common study room, complete with all the trappings and Fixtures of sequestered scholars.

  "Have you seen the dhampir of late?" he asked. "I assume she found new lodging for herself and her companion. Councilman Lanjov was concerned."

  "Oh," Wynn said. "He has not heard? I meant to send word but so much has happened. I thought Domin Tilswith had informed him, but if not, please tell the councilman that Magiere and Leesil are safely housed with us."

  Welstiel stopped. "She's here? Now?"

  "Yes, would you like to see her?" she asked. "I believe she and Leesil are tending to Chap in the kitchen. He is fine but received a few burns earlier."

  Welstiel did not wish for Magiere to see him yet. That would create even more complications than he already faced.

  "The kitchens are far?" he asked.

  "At the back of the building." She pointed toward a side entrance in the study.

  "Then do not bother her. How was the dog burned?"

  Again she did not speak, and he suspected that whatever weighed secretly upon this young sage was connected to Magiere. Focusing his will, he gently poured a suggestion into her thoughts.

  He was a kind older man, like-minded and knowledgeable. A good listener to whom she could talk.

  She dropped her gaze in sadness.

  "I have a friend," she whispered. "Also a friend to Domin Tilswith, with whom we have spent many hours in study here. He was trusted and… his name is Chane. And when he came tonight, the dhampir's hound exposed him as a Noble Dead."

  The news of Toret's conjuror frequenting the sages' guild did not surprise him. But it was quite curious how preoccupied Wynn was with Toret's vassal.

  "He ran…" she continued, "and Chap chased him. But he threw fire at Chap and vanished into the sewers."

  Welstiel patiently watched a scatter of emotions play across her delicate face.

  "He is polite, well educated, considerate…" Her voice broke. "If you knew him, you would not believe what has been uncovered. I can barely accept it myself."

  How intriguing. Still, if Magiere was nearby, Welstiel could not stay any longer.

  "I am sorry, my dear," he said. "But if some mistake has been made, the truth will come out. We should focus on assisting the dhampir to find this truth."

  Wynn straightened, possibly embarrassed by her brief outpouring.

  "Of course. You are most kind."

  She walked to a table and showed him a stack of unrolled parchments.

  "Leesil believes at least one of the Noble Dead purchased a three-story house. But this one is female, and I found no dwelling recently deeded to a woman. That means little, though, as he also says they tend to live in groups."

  Welstiel's eyebrows arched. "What makes him think that?"

  "I assumed it was experience."

  Welstiel sifted through the parchments one by one. At the fifth he tucked his finger into the stack above it and kept paging at an even pace. That one deed had been for a three-story stone dwelling near the inner wall ring purchased two moons ago
. The signature at the bottom read Toret min ‘Sharref.

  How close the little sage was to what she sought.

  "Well, I assume," he said, "you'll begin looking at the most likely possibilities in person."

  As Welstiel reversed his paging through the stack, he began pulling out selected parchments. When a dozen or more were in his other hand, he slipped the one he'd marked to the bottom of the stack and handed her the selections.

  "These might be the best," he said.

  She took the parchments. "On what basis did these seem best?"

  "Look at them…" he said intently.

  Westiel let his voice drop low, and focused upon its sound, its vibration. It became a thrum in the young sage's ears. "See the connections. Think of what you know of all that has happened."

  Wynn stared into his eyes a moment, and then her gaze dropped to the parchments.

  Welstiel kept the hum of his voice steadily slipping into the back of her awareness.

  "They are within a reasonable distance of the most recent deaths and disappearances. It will take all day to work through them, the last to be approached near dusk. You will go with the dhampir tomorrow and visit all of them. She will need your counsel, no matter how much she objects."

  Wynn's gaze remained on the parchments without blinking. Her breath came slowly and evenly. She was lost in his words, his voice, and if not for her open eyes, she might have merely been asleep on her feet.

  "Wynn, look at me," he said evenly.

  The young woman's eyes drifted up.

  "Forget what you now see," he said, voice still steady in the silence of the room. "Forget I was here. And remember only what is in your hands, what you must do. Visit the last house at dusk."

  He stepped from the study and left the barracks, in control once again.

  * * * *

  "You're lucky I got there in time," Leesil growled at Chap. "Or you'd have been scorched bald as a plucked goose."

  Magiere stood in the kitchen doorway watching her partner examine the dog once again. A tuft of his tail and some spots of fur were singed, but Chap was otherwise sound. Now knowing the hound understood language, she had words for him about these stupid, headlong rushes at undeads before help arrived. And Leesil, ready to dive into the dark sewer, wasn't much better. Such a pair these two had become.