“Chane?”
With a seething, unintelligible rasp, he released her and headed for the counter. He unlashed the shorter, ground-down sword, then did the same with the new dwarven blade.
“This is everything?” Mechaela asked politely, eyeing the sheathed end of Wynn’s staff.
She pulled off the sheath, displaying its long crystal, and Delilah nodded approval. After a brief hesitation, Wynn pulled Magiere’s old battle dagger out from behind her back, as well. Delilah watched in interest as Ore-Locks began tugging steel and copper slugs off his lanyard.
Much to Wynn’s relief, neither Mechaela nor Delilah balked at payment in dwarven slugs, and Wynn tried to count her own mixed blessings. At least she’d reached Drist and found safe, if questionable, accommodations.
Now if she could just get Chane to calm down.
Entering the lavish rooms, Chane thought that, aside from the fact that it was no place for Wynn, the whole interior smelled wrong. The room itself stank of too much perfume. On their way up, they had passed three young women and an effeminate young man of exceptional beauty, who were obviously not patrons. But they met no one else as Mechaela led them northward down a long corridor of sumptuous carpets on the second floor.
Ore-Locks’s room was across the hall, but he followed them inside their own room, looking about. He set the chest down, shut the door, and then dropped his bulky sack. It clattered strangely. Then he walked to the bed covered in quilted raw silk of varied violet hues, pressing his hand down until it sank through the puffy bedding to the soft mattress.
“Like sleeping in a sinkhole,” he said.
Chane wanted to go out by himself, but he was uncertain how to broach the subject. How long did Wynn intend to stay in Drist before heading inland?
“What now?” he asked. “Winter is so close that we will find few caravans on the move. I should try to procure a wagon.”
Wynn glanced away nervously.
“Wynn?” he asked.
After a slow breath, she answered, “We’re not headed inland . . . just yet.”
Ore-Locks’s complexion flushed, and he beat Chane to the obvious. “What?”
Wynn rolled a shoulder, fidgeting in sudden discomfort. She swung her pack onto the bed and began digging through it, finally pulling out a journal Chane had not seen before. She paged through it and flattened it open.
“Look at this. I copied a map I found in the archives.”
Why did she keep everything from him until the last moment?
“We’re here,” she said, pointing to one inked dot on the coastline. “If we take another ship south, all the way to the port of Soráno in the Romagrae Commonwealth, we’ll—”
“Another ship?” Ore-Locks cut in. “I have no quarrel with a good walk.”
“And I want to reach the Lhoin’na as quickly as possible,” she countered. “Soráno is nearer to our destination. This is the fastest way.”
Ore-Locks sighed but otherwise remained silent.
“Instead of going inland, south by southwest,” Wynn continued, “and all the way through Lhoin’na lands, we’ll come in below and take the shorter route directly east. By the time we reach their forest, we’ll be on top of a’Ghràihlôn’na, the one great elven city, and their branch of the guild. For a slightly longer sea voyage, we’ll cut our journey time in half, and keep us in . . . civilized areas a bit longer.”
Chane glanced at Shade, who was watching him, but he shook his head, incredulous.
“Then why did we stop here at all?” he asked. “We have no business in Drist.”
“To throw the guild off my trail.”
Chane did not understand. Wynn looked up at him, a bitter anger in her eyes that he had not seen there until recent times.
“High-Tower laid out my route,” she answered, “not only to waste my time, but to track me. Think about it. Our funding was barely adequate, and I was commissioned to make two stops, both at guild locations. Whatever was in that letter to the Chathburh annex, someone might have checked if I booked passage anywhere else. By landing here, all they can report is that I went to Drist.”
She tilted her head. “If . . . when High-Tower hears of it, he’ll think my trail ends here, only to be picked up once I reach the Lhoin’na, but I’ll be there long before he expects. And there’s no one here to report that I booked passage farther south.”
Chane crossed his arms. Every day there was something more about Wynn and her guild that became tarnished in his view. Besides her, the guild was the only thing in this world he had ever believed held value.
“As you said,” Chane countered, “we were not given enough money for another voyage.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Chane lost all patience with more surprises. “Wynn, how are—?”
“It’s taken care of.”
“What have you done?”
She bit her lower lip but did not answer. Instead, she reached into her pack. When she withdrew her hand, she opened it, exposing a cold lamp crystal.
Chane was still baffled. He had seen her crystal many times and even used it once or twice himself. Then she put her other hand into her short robe’s pocket and pulled out two more.
“These are spares,” she said quietly.
Chane began growing suspicious. Only journeyors and above were given a crystal as a mark of status and accomplishment. Such were nearly sacred among sages. So how had Wynn acquired a second, let alone a third?
Before Chane said a word, again Ore-Locks beat him to it.
“Did you steal those?”
For once, his expression was completely unguarded. Ore-Locks knew the implications as well as Chane.
“No!” Wynn answered.
“Wynn?” Chane warned.
“Premin Hawes gave them to me . . . when I told her that I’d lost mine.”
So she had lied to get them.
“No one is hurt by this,” Wynn said. “I knew we’d need more money and wouldn’t get it.”
What she intended was now clear.
“Even just one of these will bring more than we need,” she went on heatedly, almost daring either of them to argue. “We simply trade it to someone who has no wish to reveal where or how it was gained.”
Chane remained silent. He had seen Wynn give in to questionable—sometimes dark—rationales to justify her endeavors, not that the effects mattered to him. He had done worse for far less and more self-serving motivations. But he had never thought her capable of lying to her own for this kind of purpose, or to barter away something so honored. The act was so . . . premeditated.
Ore-Locks was quiet as well, but any ethical considerations on his part seemed to vanish.
“One of those is worth a good deal more than a sea voyage,” he said.
Wynn looked at him. For a brief moment, she spoke to him as a companion.
“So much the better, if it buys silence, as well, from whoever takes it in exchange for the fastest passage.”
The dwarf studied her for the span of two breaths, and then held out his thick hand.
“I can exchange one for what it is worth.”
Wynn hesitated.
“Can you barter better than a dwarf?” he challenged.
Chane knew Ore-Locks was right, though it did not make Wynn’s plan more palatable. Wynn slowly dropped a crystal in Ore-Locks’s large hand.
Still, Chane said nothing, and that made Wynn glance sidelong at him.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she said, as if needing to defend her actions. “There was nothing else small enough to carry but worth enough in trade or sale.”
Chane looked away. He should have found a way to gain more coin. She should not have been cornered into doing this.
“Everyone should eat and retire,” he said, changing the subject. He had his own agenda for the night, and he wanted Wynn locked safely away. “But a meal could be expensive here.”
“We will have enough,” Ore-Locks said, “once I trade thi
s to cover it.”
He rolled the crystal in his large hand, watching the motion trigger the tiniest glow within its prisms.
As casually as he could, Chane said, “All right. While Ore-Locks settles into his room, I will go down and order food.”
The dwarf looked at him for a long moment, finally nodded, and stepped out. As soon as he was gone, Chane turned to Wynn.
“I need to go out.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I know.”
Sau’ilahk hovered in an alley across from the large inn. His quarry appeared to have settled for the night. He pondered conjuring another servitor of Air to slip inside and function as his ears. But the place appeared too active. Indoors, within lit, contained areas—possibly with low ceilings—his creation might be spotted before it located Wynn.
Chane suddenly stepped out the front door.
Sau’ilahk lost his train of thought. Chane was no match for Sau’ilahk’s conjury, but this enigmatic undead had exhibited some arcane skill. It would be prudent to know exactly what he was up to, as Sau’ilahk had never been fond of surprises.
He blinked to the next corner, watching Chane stride back toward port.
Chane did not like deceiving Wynn. She assumed that he needed to feed, and he had chosen not to correct her. Between the brass cup’s draught and the still-lingering influence of Welstiel’s violet concoction, he did not feel hungry. By now, he should. But not even a twinge of hunger had come since Chathburh. Chane had other needs this night, new ones only beginning to nag at him.
He had not been prepared for what Welstiel’s concoction would do to him. Even in knowing, the thought of consuming it again left him frightened. Suffering through those days in his cabin had been horrible. But soon enough, Wynn would leave civilization.
There might come a time when he would need to remain conscious, whether it was day or night. He had only one more dose of the violet concoction. And worse, he had not told Wynn that he had taken their pouch of guild-funded coins from their travel chest. But tonight he needed the money.
With his cloak’s hood pulled forward, he ignored passersby. He made his way back to the shops inward from the port, to find the shabby multilingual sign above a door: APOTHECARY.
Late as it was, he reached for the latch but stopped short, staring at Welstiel’s ring on his third finger. It hid his nature from unnatural detection but also dulled his awareness more and more the longer he wore it. He could still sense some deceptions when spoken, but that ability and his senses were more acute without the ring.
Chane slipped off the ring and tucked it into the coin pouch.
The night world instantly took on a bizarre shimmer, like the air in summer heat. It passed, and the night grew bright in his eyes. He heard a rat in a nearby alley fussing with some piece of discarded paper, and the soft lap of water on the floating walkways below the piers another block away.
Grasping the door handle, Chane pressed down—and it opened. Upon entering, he was instantly assaulted by musty air wrapped in too many scents to separate them.
Small lanterns sat on faded tables or hung from low rafters, illuminating walls lined with close-spaced shelves laden with hundreds of glass, clay, wood, and tin vessels of all sizes. The counter to the right supported a long box tilted so customers could see into it. In its little divided cubicles were powders and flake substances beneath cheap, poorly cast glass lids.
“I’m just closing up,” a scratchy voice said.
Chane started slightly and turned.
An old woman stood in an archway to a back room filled with small tables and strange apparatus. Wild, steel gray hair hung in straggles over her face, which had one missing eye. She didn’t wear a patch, but had inserted a polished orb of jet or obsidian with a red dot in place of an iris. Two large moles decorated the left side of her nose, and her hooded robe might have once been red. She leaned on a gnarled cane.
“I need several components,” he said. “One in particular.”
She looked him up and down. “Why would the likes of you come here for such a . . . component, as you call it?”
Her mockery of the term suggested she knew he was after something more important—more expensive and perhaps questionable—than was on display in the shop. It was also to probe to see if he was willing and able to pay for it.
“Because it is . . . very rare,” he answered.
CHAPTER 7
After Chane left, Wynn took advantage of the privacy and the rare luxury of the inn. She stripped down to her shift, then lifted the pearl-glazed pitcher and basin and fresh towels off the dresser and settled down on the floor. Before she’d even finished pouring water in the basin, Shade stuck her face in the bowl and started lapping. Wynn let her drink, for the water wasn’t soapy yet. The dog was probably hungry, as well.
“We’ll have supper soon,” she said.
She took her time washing. She’d barely finished and pulled on her short robe when a soft, triple knock came. Shade’s nose rose in the air, along with her ears, as she sniffed repeatedly, and Wynn didn’t need to guess as she opened the door.
A slender woman in a lavender gown stood outside, holding a huge tray with three covered plates.
“Your dinner, miss.”
“Thank you . . .” Wynn trailed off.
Should she pay the girl now? How much would this cost? The girl was watching her and offered a demure smile.
“Mechaela will settle accounts upon your departure.”
“Thank you,” Wynn said, taking the tray, which was heavier than it looked. After a brief nod, the girl vanished down hall.
Wynn shut the door with her hip and hauled the tray to a small table. When she lifted one plate cover, she found a grilled salmon fillet, steamed green beans, and roasted potatoes—and the same under the other two covers. After so much time on a ship, the food probably smelled more exquisite than it truly was. But where had the staff found fresh green beans at this time of year?
Obviously, Chane had ordered a plate for Shade, who already fidgeted at Wynn’s side. Wynn set one plate down and had barely taken her hand back before Shade was halfway done. She shook her head at the sight and sighed, but the third plate gave her pause. It couldn’t be for Chane.
Reluctantly, she picked up the plate, opened the door, and knocked on the one across the hall. “Ore-Locks, supper.”
He opened the door almost immediately, but he looked past her, into her room.
“Where is Chane?” he asked.
“Out,” she said, offering the plate.
He didn’t take it. “How long?”
“He’s just getting supplies,” she said.
“Again . . . at this time of night?”
Why would it matter to Ore-Locks where Chane went or what he did? The dwarf looked at her, the barest crease forming on his brow and between his eyes.
“Is not his purpose to protect you?” he asked. “Leaving you at a guild annex was one thing. Not the same as . . . here, and without even telling me.”
Wynn blinked. Ore-Locks was angry that Chane had left her unguarded?
“I will stay with you until he returns,” he said, taking a step.
“No—I’m fine,” she said, shoving the plate out into his chest. “Shade is with me . . . and I’m just across the hall.”
Ore-Locks’s jaw muscles bulged. “You will stay inside your room?”
“Yes,” she answered, uncertainly, wondering if he had some genuine concern for her.
“Bäalâle Seatt is our purpose,” he added. “At present, you are the one best suited to find it.”
Uncertainty vanished as Wynn stiffened. This was the Ore-Locks she knew.
He would never let her come to harm as long as his only path was to follow her. Another realization hit her: this was the same reason he hadn’t pressed her regarding Chane’s strange habits. From the first moment Ore-Locks had met Chane in the Chamber of the Fallen in the Stonewalkers’ underworld, Chane had proven himself more than adequate
at protecting Wynn. That made him useful, and the dwarf would turn a blind eye as long as Chane remained so.
Ore-Locks didn’t care about anything but his own end goal—whatever that was.
Wynn pushed the plate into his chest again and let go of it. She spun around as he huffed and staggered, likely fumbling to grab the plate.
She walked directly into her own room and closed the door.
Sau’ilahk felt an undead presence suddenly manifest in his awareness.
Chane had paused before an apothecary’s shop, his right hand moving to his left. Then he slipped something into a small pouch.
Sau’ilahk quickly blinked into the deep night shadows under an awning half a block farther on. He had felt this same sudden change before in the underworld of Dhredze Seatt. Although Chane somehow hid his nature, there were moments when he seemed to unmask himself, and, once revealed, he appeared to be no more than any mundane vampire.
Sau’ilahk watched as Chane entered the apothecary’s shop, and he desperately wanted to know what was happening in there. But if he could sense Chane’s true nature, he might be sensed in turn if he drew too near.
Sau’ilahk needed a spy.
He focused inward, expending excessive energy in his rush. In his mind’s eye, he shaped a glowing circle for Spirit in the air, the size of a splayed hand. Within this, he formed the square of Air, stroked glowing sigils in the spaces between the nested shapes, and then fixated upon the grand seal as if seeing it hanging before him. Part of his will bled away in a wave of exhaustion.
A silent breeze rushed through Sau’ilahk, though it rustled neither his cloak nor his robe. He ignored this side effect and called the air into the seal. The pattern’s empty center undulated like the heated air above a smokeless fire. That barely visible distortion held its place—a servitor of Air with a hint of consciousness.
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