Thief of Lives

Chapter 11

That night, Chane climbed the stairs to Sapphire's room shortly after a message was delivered for Toret. Feeling some trepidation about entering her room, he knocked on the door.

"What is it?" Toret called from inside.

Chane cautiously opened the door but remained in the hallway. Toret sat on the satin-covered bed next to his beloved, along with a half dozen shimmering nightgowns of varied hue he'd ordered, so she would have choices of attire for her convalescence. Sapphire reclined against a mountain of pillows in a sea-foam-green dressing gown.

"I can't do my own hair like this," she complained. "You must hire me a girl."

"That's not safe, my sweet," Toret replied, as if to a child.

"But my curls are fading. Just look at my curls."

Indeed, Chane noted without sympathy that her sculpted ringlets hung half-coiled in a dark-blond mass down her shoulders.

"A message was delivered," Chane said. "Do you wish me to read it to you?"

Toret's neck craned around and then he reached out. "No, I'll take it."

Unfortunately, this required Chane to actually enter the room and hand it to him.

"Are you listening to me?" Sapphire demanded.

Toret opened the message, looked at it for several moments, and then folded it again.

"Chane, stay and entertain your lady awhile."

"In here?" Chane asked.

"Of course in here. You and I are going out later, and I don't want her alone all night. See to her wishes but stay out of the parlor. I need some time to myself."

Toret left, closing the door, and Chane fought down his revulsion as he looked at Sapphire. He had been reduced to a houseboy.

Sapphire smiled with the wide, glassy eyes of a cat spotting a mouse. "What can you devise for my amusement?" she asked.

Chane wondered if snapping her neck would qualify as a suitable diversion.

"I'm bored," she said. "And my ribs hurt, and Toret promised to bring me a pretty girl to satisfy me. You make sure he remembers that."

"Yes, some nobleman's daughter. A trifle, I'm sure. Where should we look for such a treat, my lady?" He bit off the last two words. "Young people from proper families are safely ensconced in their homes at night."

"Toret and I found you, didn't we?" Her smile widened. "Not so proper then, are you?"

Her bright eyes dropped to his half-open shirt. When the message arrived, he'd been alone in his cellar room, preparing to change clothes for Toret's errand later this evening.

"And not proper at all tonight," Sapphire added.

Revulsion turned to mild fear. If he walked out, she would begin screeching. Toret would come up and simply order him to stay-or worse if he suspected something illicit had occurred. It would be his fault either way.

"What about a game of cards?" he suggested quickly.

She blinked, honest surprise washing over her round features.

"You would play cards with me? Really? I haven't played cards in a long time." She pointed at something in the corner. "We can use that little white tray if you set it on the bed."

"I must find a deck," he said. "Unless you have one?"

This was a gamble, but the chance of Sapphire's having a deck of cards in her room was minimal.

"No, I… don't think I do," she answered.

"I have one in my room that I use for scrying experiments. It is old, but will do. If you give me a moment-"

"How long will you be?" she asked, slightly suspicious now.

"Not long, but it may take me a few moments to find my cards." He handed her a pewter comb and picked up the small mirror next to her. "Best comb your hair and put it up. Fallen curls do not become you."

At those words, she grabbed the mirror and gazed into it with serious concern. "Oh, my. Go find those cards."

Chane slipped quietly out as Sapphire fussed with her curls.

He could not use the main stairs for fear Toret might hear him, so he walked quietly to the hall's end and the staircase landing. He pressed down with his booted toe against the corner of the floor, and the wall pivoted outward just enough to grab its edge. He opened it and slipped inside the wall. At times he wondered why the original owner had wanted this parallel passage between all four levels of the house. Closing the hidden door behind him, he crept downward. There wasn't enough light even for his eyes in this narrow space. At the bottom of three steep flights, he pressed against the wall until it grated open, and he stepped into the cellar.

He liked to keep this outer area sparse. Slim long swords, small bucklers and shields, and one short sword lined the opposite wall. This was where he and Toret did most of their training, and he practiced by himself if time allowed. A sharp mind with a dull body was useless. He hurried to his own room.

"Sparse" would hardly describe it. Rows of books lined the walls inside of old shelves. The narrow iron bed with a thin mattress and no blankets seemed to be an afterthought. The focal point of the room was his desk, covered in feather quills, faded parchments, crystal orbs, tiny wooden boxes, and whatever tome he happened to be studying. At the back of the desk was a cage with a large rat.

Chane opened the cage, hoping Sapphire still worked on her second or third curl. Whisking up the rat, he carried it to the bottom of the main stairs and focused his mind, absently touching the small urn around his neck as he did so.

He felt the animal's scattered thoughts at the edge of his awareness. He would need to guide it, but it would not hurt to implant an impression in its thoughts first. The small creature wriggled its long whiskers and stretched. Chane took it to the top of the cellar stairs, pushed the door slightly ajar, and set it down. The sleek rat slipped out.

Chane shut out his awareness until only the rat's senses filled his mind. It scurried past the kitchen and dining room, along the short hallway toward the edge of the parlor. Two sets of booted feet stood in the room. The rat darted quickly under and to the forward edge of a divan.

"She drove a stake through my mate's heart! I will take this fight to her."

Toret's voice was the first that Chane heard through the rat's ears. But to whom was he speaking?

Chane turned the small creature's attention upward.

A stranger stood across from Toret. Middle-aged, dressed like a gentleman in well-fitted clothes, the man had a dignified bearing, except that his crafted high boots were dull and scuffed as if well traveled. Dark brown hair, combed carefully back, was marked with a stark white patch at each temple.

"Of course," the stranger agreed. "That is why I warned you."

"Why would you care?" Toret retorted.

"It's merely fortunate-for you-that our objectives are compatible. How would this play out if you were unaware she was even here?"

Toret stepped closer, and Chane now saw both men through his familiar's eyes. How ridiculous Toret appeared next to his visitor. He was small and lowborn, and his deep purple tunic and black polished boots made him look like a houseboy playing dress-up.

"Very well, what do you suggest?" Toret asked finally, relenting.

"She and her partner stay at the Burdock in the southern merchant district. You know she can stand against a swordsman. Rashed was skilled and strong, but to no avail. She's never fought magic, and she dealt with Rashed one-on-one. Force her to deal with your conjuror. Increase your numbers. Give her more than one opponent to face."

Toret nodded. "I've already been preparing for this."

Chane wasn't sure how he felt about greater numbers in the household. He wanted to be free of Toret but remembered how weak his master had been in Chane's early nights as an undead. Making more than one new minion might weaken or disorient Toret enough for Chane to take advantage.

It appeared the conversation would soon come to a close. As much as Chane wished to hear all that was said, he needed time to reach the third floor before Toret returned there. He pulled his awareness back and summoned the rat. When it reached the cellar door, he carried it back to his room and its cage.

He rummaged through his belongings, opening small boxes and satchels until he found a deck of cards. Once back at the cellar's hidden entry, he slipped into the wall and up the narrow hidden passage to the third floor.

Why did Toret not further question this stranger's willing assistance? The man had hinted at an agenda. Were Chane in his master's place, he would take no advice, follow no suggestions, until he was certain what this man stood to gain. Toret behaved as if he were more accustomed to taking orders than giving them.

Chane slipped out onto the third floor and moved down the hall to Sapphire's room. As he entered and closed the door, she was still combing out her curls and looked at him expectantly.

"Did you find some?"

He held up the deck, and she clapped her hands.

"What should we play?" she asked.

"Two Kings. And I deal."

Welstiel sped by coach from Toret's house directly to a modest but respectable inn called Calabar's inside the second ring wall. Lanjov had sent for him, and he did not wish to keep his acquaintance waiting. He found the councilman sitting at their usual table, but Lanjov's face had changed much in recent weeks. Lines around the man's eyes made him appear weary.

But more seemed to weigh upon the councilman tonight, for Welstiel noted a strange apprehension in the man. He fidgeted, glancing about as if not wishing to be discovered. Then his eyes focused on Welstiel.

"Your message sounded urgent," Welstiel said in a calm voice.

Lanjov offered a half smile tinged with relief, followed by a look of reluctance. "Yes, my friend, please sit and have a drink with me."

Welstiel settled quietly across from him. "What troubles you?" he asked.

Lanjov signaled to the innkeeper for two tankards of wine before answering.

"Tomorrow, I will dismiss the dhampir. I wanted to tell you first. You were so helpful to me in finding her, and I did not want you to mistake this as ingratitude."

"Dismiss her?" Welstiel leaned back, surprised by this sudden turn. "You have given up on bringing Chesna's killer to justice?"

"No, of course not. But the dhampir has some mad idea the killer is a nobleman who… who knew Chesna. It is ridiculous that such a creature could pass for one of us."

Welstiel folded his hands upon the table. "What brought her to this conclusion?"

"Some vision she apparently experienced while she and that half-blood were at my home." Lanjov paused and shuddered with apparent revulsion. "The point is, she is not only incorrect but invading the privacy of our best citizens. Only last night, there was a distasteful scene at the Rowanwood, and now the council must pay for the damages. Today, she came to my bank, stood in the lobby, and demanded to see me. I was thankful there were no patrons of note present. Lord Au'shiyn was with me, and we had no choice but to take her into my office. She plans to question any dignitary or council member who had contact with Chesna, and demanded a list of names! Lord Au'shiyn was supportive in this matter, and I hope you, too, see the need to stop this nonsense." Lanjov became almost manic in the moment. "This cannot happen. I would lose my place on the council."

A serving girl brought their tankards and set them on the table. Lanjov paid her quickly and waved her off.

"If you dismiss the dhampir, who will destroy the creature at large?" Welstiel asked.

"Please," Lanjov continued. "We cannot have council members questioned in this manner. It is pointless and only creates outrage and disarray. Captain Chetnik understands how these things work. He may not be a dhampir, but at least he'll search in the right places."

"And what happens if he finds it?" Welstiel asked. "Can he fight an undead? Can any of the city guard? If you dismiss the dhampir, it could further endanger Bela's citizens."

Lanjov ran a hand over his face, and then held it over his mouth. He leaned closer across the table.

"Councilman Batak is our legal adviser," he whispered through his fingers. "His wife is niece to the queen, but Batak keeps a mistress. If he was with the woman on the night of Chesna's death, how could he provide an alibi? Councilman Amrogovitz is a sixth-generation lord of a southern province, but he has also lost much of his fortunes in the gaming rooms, and few beside myself know this. It does not hinder his voice on the council, but we have no wish for his… pastime to become public knowledge."

Welstiel stared at him, and Lanjov shifted again in his seat.

"If you dismiss the dhampir," Welstiel said, "you are a fool, and more will die. What does it matter if a few men are embarrassed in comparison to the safety of your city?"

Lanjov tensed, and his voice hardened in return. "I explain my reasons out of respect for your kind efforts thus far. Lord Au'shiyn's counsel to dismiss her is the correct course of action, whether you agree or not."

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.

The first time with Sapphire had been horrifying, experiencing death again. What would have happened if he'd given in, sinking to the bottom of the darkness? Would he have truly died?

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.