Thief of Lives

Chapter 7

Past dusk the following evening, Leesil and Magiere finished another grueling day of wandering the length and breadth of Bela, speaking to as many people from Chetnik's reports as they could find. For all their efforts, they learned nothing new nor came any closer to beginning the hunt. Leesil's dark contentment faded shortly before lunch.

Magiere's concern over the price of coaches, mixed with his reluctance to ride on horseback, had resulted in a great deal of walking. Chap limped slightly, his paws obviously aching from the city's cobblestone streets. But even more frustrating to Leesil was their lack of progress.

Back at the Burdock, they sat in the common room in their dusty clothes, mildly relieved that the hard wooden stools let them get off their feet. Leesil took off his scarf and scratched his head freely, shaking out his white-blond hair.

"Are you having supper tonight?" asked Milous, the innkeeper. "We've a nice mutton stew and fresh bread. A few barrels of Droevinkan ale just arrived yesterday. It's the best."

"You are my hero," Leesil replied with a weak smile. "Stew and bread all around. Any spiced tea?"

"I'll see. And for you, mistress, the same?"

"Yes, spiced tea," Magiere answered tiredly.

"I'll bring it directly," Milous assured, and glanced down at Chap lying exhausted on the floor. "Hmmm, when you say ‘all'…"

"Just find a large bowl and pour some in for him," Leesil answered. "A bowl of water as well."

The stocky innkeeper sighed, shaking his head, and went off to fetch their meal.

A small hearth lit the room with a soft glow. The place was comfortable and clean, but like the innkeeper's face, merely pleasant and not truly noteworthy. There were only two other patrons. Old men sat near the front door, smoking their clay pipes as they talked in low voices, while young Vatz brought them tin tankards on an old wooden tray.

Leesil found himself thinking of their double-sided stone fireplace set in the center of the Sea Lion's common room. He thought of his faro table, and Chap circling the hearth with sharp eyes, and Magiere in her leather vest-or perhaps her blue dress-behind the long polished bar.

"This place doesn't compare, does it?" Magiere said.

Leesil looked up to find her watching him intently. Apparently he'd slipped up, his thoughts obvious to read on his face.

"No, I suppose nothing would," he answered. "Who'd ever think I'd be homesick?"

There was long moment's silence before she replied.

"Home remains a long way off, if today is any measure. We should ask Chetnik to call for us when another attack is reported. If we can get Chap there quickly, he might pick up a trail."

Leesil frowned. Chetnik was the last person he wanted involved.

"You mean another attack is reported, and there are two undeads out there, by our best guess. Lanjov's grief and arrogance are eating up his patience, so if it's about getting paid, we need to find the nobleman from your vision first, and quickly. We've no clues, and what little we've found points to this roaming female."

"So what do you propose?"

"I don't know." Leesil shook his head. "But I've been thinking about the fight eventually to come and preparations to make. Also, we're on our own. No townsfolk to organize, so we can't particularly lay a trap and draw them in. That means hunting them down while remaining undetected."

"We already know this," she argued. "What about your little excursion to a weaponsmith?"

"It's more than just the hunt," Leesil answered, shaking his head. "And you'll see-I hope soon-what's coming from the smithy."

Magiere appeared about to press with more questions, but Leesil continued before she could get in a word.

"We have to get to these creatures while they're unaware and off guard. If they're working together, we need to take them separately. I want the advantage, and I want them outnumbered. That means quick changes in tactics and proper supplies."

Magiere stared at him silently from across the small table. The hearth's light painted her white skin with amber, and set off crimson glimmers in her black hair. In the moment's distraction, Leesil didn't quite catch the suspicion growing in her eyes. Her face, drawn and fatigued, was still beautiful.

"Just like your old times, yes?" she said, but with no warmth in her voice.

Leesil stiffened. "What?"

"You've done this before."

Leesil assumed she was jesting with him. "We both have done this-"

"No," she cut him off.

He was completely confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I never realized how cunning-even sly-you were until Miiska," she began. "You've always been nimble, and I've seen you take down someone twice your size. But there's more to it, isn't there? Maybe something to do with all those mornings you disappeared into the woods."

Leesil's nerves hummed with tension. Now wasn't the time to explain things she wouldn't want to know.

"And lately, you've been…" She stopped, and he saw determination settle on her face. "Leesil, were you just a thief before we met?"

She'd never asked him this, never even come close to it. The crux of their life on the road had been to leave the past well enough alone. There was only the day at present and perhaps the day ahead, and nothing else had mattered.

"I was someone else living another life. Someone you wouldn't want to know," he said finally. "Now I'm someone who needs to find a good crossbow."

Magiere slumped on her stool.

"All right. We'll try to pick one up tomorrow." She gazed vacantly toward the fire. "We prepare what we can and, once we locate the undeads, if possible, we do exactly what we did before: track them down and take them before sunset. It would have worked last time had we found them more quickly."

Leesil felt his tension ebb but not completely. There were only so many times he could evade her, and he was using them up.

"Yes, if we do this right," he offered, "there may not even be much of a fight."

"Or need to burn anything down," she snapped without looking at him.

Her tone wasn't truly accusing, but even if it had been, it wouldn't have mattered. She'd been unconscious and bleeding to death with her throat slashed open. Rashed was after them, and there was no other option. So he'd burned Miiska's largest warehouse down-and he'd do it again without a second thought. There was no argument as to what came first as he sat there watching her.

Leesil folded his hands on the table and looked down at the scar of teeth marks on his tanned wrist.

"If there's a fight, if you're cut again," he said, trying to reassure her, "I'll be there for you. I know what to do now."

When he raised his head, Magiere glared at him, eyes wide. Her words came out in a hiss of breath.

"Don't ever say that to me again."

Her hands pressed hard into the table, and Leesil thought he heard a creak from the wood. Teeth clenched, her expression was caught between fear and anger, and she looked at him as if he were an undead.

"Magiere, I just meant-"

"I know what you meant."

She pushed back from the table. Leesil saw her anger fade, to be replaced by something painful in her blinking eyes.

"I'm tired," she whispered. "I'm going up to sleep."

"You need to eat. I was trying to offer assurance. This isn't the old game. I just wanted you to know I will be with you, no matter what it takes."

"Don't be such a dolt," she said, and her voice returned to its familiar, bad-tempered tone. "I could never do any of this without you-and Chap."

Leesil's heart pounded in his chest as he nodded. He was uncertain what had just happened, but now was obviously not the time to press for answers.

"I have an idea," he said. "Bela's a large city, the biggest port on this end of the continent, and all we've done is work. Let's forget the mutton stew and find a bit of something special. There's bound to be a high-class inn or an exotic eatery around here. We can't do anything else until tomorrow, so why not enjoy ourselves?"

"Aren't you tired?" she asked in mild disbelief.

"Exhausted. My feet are going to fall off any moment." He grinned. "But let's go anyway."

He watched her expression relax, and though he rarely tried to charm her as he did with others, he knew his expressive moods were infectious.

"We don't know how long we'll be here." She shook her head. "Our coins have to last. I think we've enough to keep us for a while if we're careful."

Leesil collapsed upon the table with an audible groan.

"All right, enough dramatics," she said. "You said you bartered for whatever that smith is making, and there are still the coins you took back on the schooner. So I suppose we can afford what you have leftover."

Leesil's breath caught in his throat, and he tried not to let his checks flush as he raised his head with an innocent look. "Oh, didn't I tell you? I-"

"Did you lose it?" she asked. "Not all of it? To those sailors?"

"Well, I had to pay for my share of their grog, and then I lost a few hands of Jack o‘ Knives, just to be polite. I was about to start winning when Chap sounded the alarm and-"

"You were too drunk to fight!" Magiere shouted, and slammed her hand down so hard that the table bounced. "I've seen you fight with your face slashed open, but you're a second-rate gambler even when you're sober."

"I am not!"

"I can't believe you didn't tell me this sooner," she continued. "You lost it all to a bunch of drunken deckhands?"

"I think there are a few pennies left," he offered.

Magiere tried to utter words that simply wouldn't come out, and then she stood up too quickly, knocking her stool over. As she headed for the stairs, she didn't even look back.

"Then you have enough for your evening out," she snarled. "Next time, trust me enough to confess before you're pressed to it."

Magiere took the stairs two at a time, and Leesil heard a door slam. He looked at Chap.

"Oh, yes, I should trust her because she responds with such kind understanding," he said sarcastically.

Chap rumbled at him. Before Leesil could guess at the hound's complaint, Chap got up and gingerly trotted up the stairs as well.

Leesil stared up the stairs in bewilderment. He should have told her, but she would have shouted at him no matter when he'd chosen to speak up. Well, let her pass on the wonders of Bela's nightlife. Now more than before, he deserved a respite.

The innkeeper came back with their tea.

"The stew is coming," he said, and looked around. "Where's your woman and dog?"

Leesil grunted, refraining from any unpleasant explanation.

"Have supper sent to her room. I won't be eating here tonight. Can you recommend someplace in the city that shouldn't be missed?"

The innkeeper frowned. "I suppose maybe the Rowan-wood. They've one of the largest gaming rooms in Bela."

"Perfect," Leesil said.

Chane waited upon the steps, his satchel bulging with acquisitions, as Toret unlocked the front door of their house. It had been a tedious evening, with his master's constant complaints still ringing in his ears.

They had wandered the lower markets and shops after dusk, as Chane judiciously acquired what he would need. All the while, Toret continued with the same irritable questions. Why had Chane left all of this to the last possible moment? Why hadn't he gone by himself and left his master at home in comfort? Why hadn't Chane ordered the materials ahead of time to be delivered or picked up as needed?

Each time, Chane patiently-or less so-explained it again. Some of the acquisitions needed to be fresh, while others required that he gauge appropriateness by feel, hence the necessity of Toret's presence.

The first reason was true enough. In addition, it was best to acquire supplies in short order from diverse sources, leaving no obvious trail to find or connection to make. Some apothecaries might become suspicious if asked for certain combinations of goods. Conjury was not outlawed like sorcery, but it was not as welcome as thaumaturgy or as revered as theurgy.

The second reason was, of course, a lie. In truth, Chane did not need Toret's presence, but the subterfuge served a purpose. Still uncertain as to precisely how, Chane intended to find his way free of his maker's control. It was worthwhile to stretch Toret's nerves and keep him off balance, and feed the puzzling disquiet growing in him ever since that night the mysterious note had arrived. Chane was still exasperated that he had not eavesdropped on Toret that evening. Something happened after he'd left to escort Sapphire. Upon Chane's return before dawn, Toret was waiting for him in a frenzied state, though he would not speak directly of the cause. Instead, he gave Chane two tasks: to plan for this evening's work, and to use his resources to hunt for two people-a woman of black hair and pallid skin, and her half-blood companion.

Additionally, this evening's outing, however stressful and tiresome, served Chane's future options. A later mention of another such venture would be enough for Toret to quickly give him leave to go alone.

Chane followed Toret into the foyer of their home. As they removed their cloaks, a piercing squeal of delight scraped across Chane's nerves. He looked up and choked.

Descending the stairs was Sapphire, a vicious spark in her overadorned eyes above an unrestrained smile of white teeth between wine-colored lips. But it was not her face that held attention for long.

"Am I not delicious!" she exclaimed.

The gown she "wore"-for Chane did not care to speculate how it stayed on-was charcoal velvet trimmed in scarlet lace, the whole of it fitted smoothly to her ample form. The skirt dropped from her hips to the floor in wrapped layers hanging loosely around her legs. Strapless, the bodice rose in two points to just below her collarbone on either side of her throat, and its center split down to her sternum, passing between her breasts. As she descended the last step with an extended leg, the skirt's folds rolled apart like an ebbing black tide to expose a slender death-white ankle and calf.

With an obvious undulation of her torso, she stepped up to Toret, draping her arms across his shoulders.

"Well, tell me how much you love my new dress," she said.

"You…" Toret answered with a swallow, "are not going out in that."

For a moment, Chane was stunned. Could it be that his slow-witted master understood that she looked like a trolling prostitute?

Sapphire's expression altered to a glower.

"You don't appreciate anything I do for you," she snapped at him. "I've been stuck in this place all day and all evening, while you wander about just so Chane can get his smelly little its and bits for… whatever. I'm bored… bored! What good is a new dress if no one appreciates it?"

"I'm not letting you out like that," Toret repeated. "There's a limit to how much attention we can risk. Now go change into something less… obvious."

In place of jealousy's ire, Toret now spoke sensibly-too sensibly, and Chane began to wonder. Since the night Toret had received the note, he had become wary and agitated. Perhaps someone already had taken notice of them, and that was why Toret wanted to move quickly ahead with tonight's task.

Sapphire spun about and headed upstairs. At the first landing, she cast a sullen glare over her shoulder before continuing upward.

Chane kept silent as Toret ran a hand over his face, for anything he might say on the matter would simply make him the alternative outlet for his master's frustration. It was more useful to let Toret seethe.

A flutter of wings passed through Chane's consciousness, casting a false impression of shadow across his vision. He stepped through the parlor and straight to the front window.

"What is it?" Toret asked, following him.

"Tihko," Chane replied.

Toret's voice became urgent. "Has it found something?"

"In a moment, we will know."

Pulling aside the curtain, Chane flipped the latch and the two halves of the window opened inward like the doors of a portal. He opened the outer shutters as well and, right before him, a large black raven landed upon the windowsill.

Shifting from foot to foot, flexing its wings, it tilted its head. Chane reached out the back of his hand, and the raven hopped onto his wrist.

"What did it see?" Toret asked.

"One moment, master, if you please." Chane turned his full attention upon the bird.

Its name meant "silence." With Tihko close, Chane felt tingling warmth from the small brass urn hanging upon its chain beneath his shirt. He closed his eyes, blotting out all awareness as he cleared his thoughts. Tihko's return signified that his familiar had accomplished something of the task given to it.

The bird's feet tightened on Chane's wrist.

Chane felt the air rush around him, and in the dark of his closed eyes, a slowly moving vision came into sight. He forced Tihko's small mind to focus until a glimmer in the shadows of its memory began to appear.

Seeing through Tihko's eyes was still novel, though a bird's memory was not particularly organized or clear. Bela always looked so small from above. Soaring over the night-shrouded rooftops, Chane watched the empty roads and streets through Tihko's vision. There were few people about, and even so, he looked down from a great height that rendered them as little more than isolated spots of color and movement among the pools of light from street lanterns.

Recognition…

The city lunged upward toward Chane and his stomach lurched.

He floated in the soft breeze at twice the height of the tallest building. In his mind, Chane saw the central castle walls upslope and to his left. It was enough for him to know he glided over a lower-southside merchant district inside the middle ring wall.

From above, he saw pale hair, too pale for that of most humans. Chane's field of vision passed above the figure striding down the street. There was a golden tint to the figure's skin, and it was male. The man lifted his hands and began tying something around his head that hid his hair from view.

The vision lurched, and Chane's view pointed briefly toward the starlit night sky before leveling off again into the northern distance of the city. This was all Tihko had seen and why the bird had returned.

Chane opened his eyes, and Tihko shifted fitfully on his arm.

"Well?" Toret asked. "Did it find anything or not?"

"Perhaps," Chane said quietly. "It may be the half-elf, or perhaps another full-blood. Their kind are scarce in the land, but there is an elven ship moored on the harbor's far side. Perhaps this one came with it. Nothing is certain, other than that it was a male with elven blood."

"Where was he?" Toret insisted. "What was he wearing? What was he doing?"

Chane shrugged. "In the lower-southside merchant district. The man was walking down a main street. I did not see where he came from or was going, or what he was wearing. He tied something around his head, perhaps a scarf, and that was all Tihko saw."

Chane watched Toret walk aimlessly about the room, the brow of his slightly wide head furrowed. He suddenly stopped and passed one hand lightly over the side of his chest as if feeling for something.

"It has to be," Toret muttered. "That damn half-breed… but how did they know I was here?"

"How did who know?" Chane asked.

For a moment, Toret seemed not to hear, and then he looked up at Chane.

"I'll explain," Toret answered. "But right now, get that bird back out there before dawn, and have it find where that half-blood is sleeping."

Chane opened the window again and settled Tihko on the ledge. The bird cocked its head, watching him with one eye. Chane focused his thoughts into its mind, reinforcing the image of the white-haired man and urging the bird out again to find and, this time, watch until dawn drew near.

Tihko lifted from the ledge in a black flutter of feathers. Chane barely resecured the window when the clop of pouting footsteps came from the parlor's archway.

"Well, I'm changed," Sapphire exclaimed. "Now will you take me out of here?"

She now wore lavender silk of a plainer cut, and though the bodice was not cleaved quite as severely as before, there was still an ample display of elevated flesh. Toret hesitated as if he could not tell whether the change was an improvement.

"That's better," he finally announced. "But you'll have to wait. Chane and I have work to do, and neither of us can escort you right now."

Sapphire's mouth dropped open. Before she could screech another word, Chane cut in.

"Perhaps if I acquire a coach," he suggested, "to take her directly to a chosen place, Mistress Sapphire could take her ease." Chane turned a firm glance toward Sapphire. "Provided she does not leave the establishment until we join her later."

Toret appeared about to disagree.

"We must focus on the task at hand," Chane interjected. "And the mistress cannot assist us."

He raised one eyebrow with intent, hoping his master had enough wits to take the hint.

Toret looked confused for a moment and then hesitantly nodded. "Yes, I suppose that's all right."

Sapphire lunged across the room to drape herself around Toret, but she cast Chane a coy glance.

"The Rowanwood. I want to go to the Rowanwood," she said as she bit gently on Toret's ear, though her gaze never left Chane.

Chane returned a curt bow of his head. One dull wit at a time was enough to deal with.

As Toret sat upon the cellar's dirt floor holding the palm-sized brass urn Chane had placed in his hands, a constant, subtle shiver ran through his small frame. It wasn't the cold, nor the large gray wolf that lay muzzled, bound, and chained to the floor in front of him, nor even the impending spell, ritual, or whatever Chane would perform upon him and the animal. Clinging to his own new existence made him quake.

Somewhere in the city were the half-breed and that pasty-skinned bitch of a dhampir.

He was certain of this, regardless that Chane's familiar hadn't gotten a clear look at the white-haired man. But what could have possibly led them to Bela to hunt him down? He'd been careful, though Sapphire was sometimes hard to restrain. She was still young in this afterlife and would learn in time. He was sure of it. And Chane was far too exacting and elitist to have done anything to attract attention. Now the hunter and her companion had come to track him down and send him into dust and ashes with Teesha and Rashed.

He wouldn't run again, as he had from Miiska. He had too much to lose. It'd been over two moons since his last fight with the half-elf, and still he felt the lingering bite of a broken stiletto blade cutting away at his insides.

One good turn for another.

Toret remembered the sharp thrust of thin metal at both his sides, as the half-blood's blades jammed up into his chest cavity. He felt and heard the snap of his own ribs, as both weapons were wrenched downward and the right one broke off inside his body.

"One good turn for another," Toret whispered.

"What was that?" Chane asked. He was grinding something with a mortar and pestle.

"Nothing," Toret answered. "Let's finish this. We have more preparations to make."

After Sapphire's departure, Toret had explained to him the nature of these people for which the raven now searched. Chane listened carefully to every word. Toret tried to impress upon him the dhampir's strength, the dog's savage nature, and the cunning of this half-blood with his hidden blades.

The cellar was as wide and almost as long as the house above it. To one side were stone steps leading up, and the opposite supported the weapons rack for training. Beside this, they'd removed masonry and excavated a passage directly into the city's sewers. At the cellar's back wall behind him was the door to Chane's private room. Toret's tall servant preferred this lower, dark and dank quarters to either of the free rooms on the second floor.

Toret had little interest or even liking for the magical arts, though Chane's skills proved useful. He'd seen a few thaumaturges in his time, from an eclectic hedge mage to a blithering old alchemist still chasing after the secret for creating gold. Conjury, however, was a different matter. He knew nothing of it.

"Time to begin," Chane said, and he crouched before Toret with a bone-handled silver dagger in his hand.

Toret looked down at the tiny brass urn clutched in his hands. "What do I do?"

"Exactly what I tell you," Chane answered. He turned toward the wolf, dropping to one knee. "Nothing more or less."

He grabbed the scruff of the wolf's neck. The animal jerked and thrashed, snarling through the leather thongs binding its muzzle. Chane thrust the dagger point into the furred skin clenched in his hand and withdrew the tip slowly. He held the blade flat and level, careful not to spill the blood pooled on its tip, and turned back to Toret.

"Give me your wrist," he ordered.

Toret held out one arm. Without tilting the blade, Chane drew the tip's edge along Toret's wrist, cutting into the skin. Black fluid seeped from the shallow wound to touch the red already on the blade. As the fluids mingled, Chane tilted the tip slightly so the mixture seeped partially back into the cut. Toret felt the tiniest tingle of life creeping up his arm.

"With the living, this would be enough for the binding ritual," Chane said. "But our existence would merely consume the animal's spirit instead of holding the part of it I will conjure. That is why we must use the urn as container and conduit. Lose the urn, and you will lose the familiar."

He leveled the blade again, lifting it, and then dipped its point into the mouth of Toret's tiny urn. The mixed fluids dripped from the blade into the vessel.

Chane stepped back to his crate table and picked up the lit candle there. He carried it to Toret and held it over the urn to let wax drip until it welled to the vessel's top. As he replaced the candle, he retrieved the pestle he'd been working with and a narrow-necked bottle of glass too dark to see through.

With the silver blade, Chane cut a double-bordered triangle in the dirt floor around Toret. Between its borders he carved tangled strings of symbols and characters, which he filled with a viscous, olive green fluid poured from the bottle. The liquid soaked in, making the marks swell into raised, glistening ebony lines. He stepped back and cut a wide double circle and more markings in the floor around himself and the wolf, and dusted them with the powder mixed in the pestle.

Chane picked up the candle and settled cross-legged on the floor with the wolf between himself and Toret.

"Do not move from the space marked around you," he said, and stretched out his arms, resting them upon his knees with palms up. His gaze focused upon Toret's eyes.

Toret remained still. He felt his own body rigid with the exertion not to move. Chane's eyes were still upon him, unblinking, as Toret saw the barest movement of Chane's lips in a silent but continuous chant.

Toret began to ache inside, as if half the night had passed, until the tall undead's eyelids drooped closed.

The wolf began to struggle.

The animal thrashed, chains rattling as it growled. It wrestled as if to escape some torment beneath its own skin. Saliva leaked through its muzzle onto the floor as its head rolled sideways.

Chane's hands slapped together, enveloping and smothering the candle's wick, and the sound hammered through Toret's bones. He clenched the urn.

Its metal burned hot, but Toret's attention was now on… the wolf's open eyes staring back at him… his own open eyes staring back…

The room flickered before him. He saw both ends of it at the same time. He felt the still air around him, and the press of chains wrapped tightly across his body. He opened his mouth freely, but felt the press and smell of wet leather binding his jaws.

"It is done," Chane stated.

Toret looked down at the wolf. Its eyes looked back at him, and his vision began to spin and flicker. He looked at the wolf and through its eyes-at himself. His head throbbed. Nausea overwhelmed him, until he collapsed.

Prone upon the floor, he found himself looking up into Chane's wry, smiling face.

"Never watch yourself watching your familiar through its eyes," he said. "Contact of gaze in such a state is most disorienting. It is the first lesson we all learn the hard way."

Toret sat up and looked for the urn. Chane handed it to him, and he hung it around his neck. The wax was dried and sealed solid within it.

"Do not lose the urn," Chane admonished, "or you lose control of the familiar. And if the urn is out of your possession for too long, the familiar may break free permanently. Also be aware that the death of the familiar can be dangerous to its master."

Nodding in comprehension, Toret climbed to his feet.

The wolf was already unbound and stood shifting upon its paws as if uncertain of its own actions. Toret tried a brief attempt to will it to sit, but nothing happened. Chane seemed to guess what he was attempting.

"Exerting control comes with time and practice," he explained. "Think of it more as a suggestion rather than a command, and remember the sensation of being inside the creature's awareness yet not linked to its senses. Do not overcontrol a familiar, or its resistance will grow, making it more, rather than less, difficult to deal with over time."

"Enough for now," Toret said. "We have other servants to acquire."

"Not yet; you are already taxed from the bonding. You need to feed."

"No," Toret answered. He needed to feed, but he must continue to fast for the moment to come. "I must be able to absorb a life quickly enough to drag my victim beyond death."

"As you wish." Chane collected his equipment from the makeshift table. "Then perhaps we should go to join your lady."

He headed toward the door to his chamber with his belongings in hand.

Toret slowly placed a hand on the wolf's head, the first of his new minions yet to come. The animal growled low in its throat but did not resist. When Toret found the half-blood and his white-skinned dhampir, they wouldn't believe what they faced. The final days in Miiska would be a tavern brawl by comparison.