Of Truth and Beasts

Chapter 6

Thirteen days later, Wynn stood at the starboard rail as the sun nearly touched the ocean’s distant horizon. A sailor suddenly stepped in beside her and pointed to the other side, down the coast.

“Drist ahead, miss. You can’t see the port yet, but there are ships harbored out from it.”

Wynn stepped to the port side, and he followed, trying to stay away from Shade.

“Yes, I see them,” she said. “How long?”

“Shortly after the day’s final bell, so you might as well pack up.” He paused, looking at her. “Watch out for yourself, miss. It’s a pitiless place. Most of us don’t even get off there ... except for exchanging cargo.”

She only nodded her thanks at his warning, and then brushed Shade’s ear with a fingertip.

“Come on, girl. We’re going below.”

The journey from Chathburh had been unpleasant at best. Ore-Locks had stayed in his cabin much of the time—not that Wynn minded his absence. Maybe it was the typical dwarven dislike of the sea. But his self-imposed isolation made the tension even thicker when he came out for meals. They both ate in silence. He often stared straight ahead, his dark eyes focused on nothing, as if he spent much of his time living in a world no one else could see.

And worse, she spent the first six days wondering if Chane suffered from some form of seasickness. He hadn’t come out for two nights. When he did, he looked awful—pale even for him.

He was anxious, twitchy, and distracted, often sharp and short in his replies. He showed no interest in cards or any other pastime. She once bluntly asked him what was wrong. To her surprise, he told her to leave him alone. As he turned to go, he’d had difficulty opening her cabin door. His hand shook visibly.

Over the following nights, he slowly returned to his old self. Wynn never thought she’d be relieved to have him return to the brooding, cold state he’d adopted in his days at the guild. But last night, they’d played two kings nearly till dawn. All seemed back to normal, so to speak.

No, she wasn’t sorry to see this particular voyage end, and she would certainly be choosier about their accommodations next time—if she could afford better. Heading belowdecks, she knocked at Ore-Locks’s door.

“We’re almost to port,” she called. “Get packed. We’ll disembark as soon as Chane wakes.”

Time passed quickly while Wynn readied for what came next. Unable to squelch her curiosity about the notorious free port of Drist, she thought of High-Tower’s fuming shock, if and when he learned she’d ignored his warning. Then someone rapped softly upon the cabin door.

“Wynn?” Chane rasped.

She peeked through the porthole and saw that dusk had come, but the dimming light outside wasn’t completely gone. Somehow he’d come early again. Before this trip, he never roused on his own until full darkness.

“Yes, come in.”

He stuck his head in.

“Grab the chest,” Wynn said. “We’ve made port.”

Not long after night’s first bell, Chane fidgeted anxiously on deck. The harbor was so crowded that the crew had to wait their turn to even dock the ship.

“Ah, dead deities in seven hells,” Wynn muttered under her breath.

Chane frowned at her language, but he could not argue with the sentiment. And he still felt wrong inside. Whatever side effects he suffered from Welstiel’s concoction had faded to lingering, nagging nervousness. At least now that the fluid had been tested, he knew its purpose.

It would keep him from falling dormant.

A fervor of deck activity pulled him from his thoughts. The crew’s demeanor had changed drastically. Half the men strapped on cutlasses, while others began hauling cargo on deck before any signal that the ship could dock. One sailor climbed to the crow’s nest with a large crossbow and a case of quarrels strapped to his back.

Chane grew more uncertain about Wynn’s chosen destination.

By the light of massive pole braziers, six long piers jutted from the port far out into the water. A vessel filled nearly every available space, except for the largest ships, which anchored offshore.

Looking over the piers, Chane could not help his rising trepidation.

Too many people, uncomfortable numbers, filled the port even at nightfall. Dockworkers and sailors clambered everywhere, hauling cargo to and from ships, handling mooring and rigging, and shouting over the general din. A medium-sized schooner pulled away from the nearest dock and finally drifted past, out beyond their ship’s prow.

“Weigh anchor! Gentle to port!” their captain shouted.

Their smaller vessel drifted inward and soon settled in an open slot. Chane, along with his companions, stayed clear as sailors threw mooring lines to dockhands below. Once the ramp was lowered, four armed sailors sprang forward. Two ran down to stand post at the ramp’s bottom, while the other pair took stations at the top, watching all activity below.

Chane looked about and saw similar safeguards on other vessels. He had never seen sailors behave in such a fashion in Calm Seatt or the king’s city of Bela in his country. Perhaps High-Tower’s warning to Wynn had been legitimate. What kind of business did their ship’s captain have in this place?

“I do not like this,” he whispered.

The city loomed before them, couched between dark, high hills cresting above the shore to the north and south. Buildings of mixed sizes and shapes, dingy and worn by coastal weather, were so closely mashed together that only a few vertical roads showed between them. Warehouses lined the shore, and the air was tainted with myriad scents, from fish to oiled wood, salt brine to people and livestock. The stench of burning wood, coal, and oil from the immense braziers tainted all other smells.

“Look at all of them,” Wynn whispered, but she was not looking into the city.

A wild array of people hurried about the docks and milled around the large bay doors of warehouses. Every color and form of attire that Chane could imagine was scattered among them.

Caramel-skinned Sumans in colorful garb led goats harnessed in a line. A group of even darker-skinned people he had never seen, with tightly curled black hair, were dressed in one-piece shifts of cloth, or pantaloons and waist wraps of strong colors with ink black patterns. They tried to navigate a cart of cloth bolts, perhaps silk, around a cluster of garishly armored men. Another band in hides and furs leaped off a thick-hulled vessel with many oars raised upright around its one square sail. This group shoved their way down the dock with shields and broadswords in hand, as if waiting for someone to challenge them. They had to be Northlanders, a people Wynn had mentioned a few times.

The number of Numans was almost overwhelming. Some dressed like vagabonds, while others wore finery beneath voluminous wool cloaks.

“Go ahead,” the captain barked.

Startled to awareness, Chane turned.

The captain waved them forward. “The ramp’s secure.... Off with you all.”

Chane had his new sword strapped on, but he picked up his old one that had been left leaning against the chest. Couched in its cropped sheath, he strapped it over his other hip. Ore-Locks appeared no more pleased than Chane at the sea of people below. The dwarf wore his broadsword, and his grip tightened on his iron staff. Shade let out a quiet rumble. The dog hated crowds in general, and this crowd hardly qualified as general. Only Wynn seemed undaunted, with a tense eagerness on her face.

“I will lead,” Ore-Locks said.

With his own bulky bag lashed to his back, he hefted the chest onto his shoulder, keeping one hand free for his staff. Chane waved Wynn and Shade onward, and brought up the rear as they descended the ramp. Ore-Locks’s bulk proved useful in clearing the way up the dock.

Once they approached the shore, Chane spotted a floating walkway along the rock wall beneath the piers. Between every other pier post were switchback ramps and stairs leading upward from the lower floating platforms for small boats.

“Vanâkst Bäynœ,” Ore-Locks growled.

Chane looked up to find the dwarf had stopped and was scraping his boot on the shorefront’s cobble. There was a line of dung left by the passing of the Sumans’ goats. Passersby gave it no notice.

“This place is a giant gutter,” Ore-Locks said quietly, shoving on through the crowd.

With little choice, they made their way through the throngs. Chane kept close behind Wynn, ready to jerk her back in an instant.

“Ore-Locks is not wrong,” he said. “This place appears to be little more than a haven for pirates and smugglers.”

“That’s because it is,” Wynn replied without looking back. “Keep moving.”

Chane slowed. She had known this and still gone to secret lengths to bring them here?

“Wynn!” he rasped. “How could you—?”

“Look over there,” she interrupted, pointing. “That might be a row of inns.”

“Inns?” he repeated.

“There is no guild annex here. We’ll have to fend for ourselves.”

They entered the city’s edge beyond the waterfront, and Chane grew more irritated by the moment. Wynn had willingly walked them into a lawless port, and now nosed about for an inn like some traveler on holiday?

“You cannot stay here,” he said. “This place is not safe.”

She turned to face him. “I’m in the company of a majay-hì, an armed dwarf, and ... and you. I could hardly be safer.”

Ore-Locks waited on them, his expression flat. Shade ceased growling and pressed up against Wynn’s leg and hip. Chane was speechless, aghast at Wynn’s nonchalance.

“We can’t just stand here arguing,” she told him.

He clenched his jaw, finding his voice. “Fine ... where is this row of inns?”

“That way,” she answered with a flick of her hand.

The gesture almost made Chane heave her over his shoulder to toss her back on the ship.

Again Ore-Locks led, and Chane brought up the rear, watching anyone who came too close. But the farther they went, the more the crowds thinned. In a block and a half down a poorly cobbled street, they soon passed only hard-looking, worn women in faded, low-cut gowns, sailors swilling from clay bottles, and a mix of what might have been merchants, both prosperous and shabby. Everyone kept to his or her business or pleasure, as if expecting others to do the same.

Chane passed a small shop of rough-cut planks. A simple sign above the door had one word written in four different languages: the first said “Apothecary” in Numanese. He slowed as notions rose in his thoughts.

“What?” Wynn asked. She had stopped a few paces ahead.

“Nothing,” he answered, but he noted the shop’s location.

Ore-Locks occasionally drifted to either side of the street, examining eateries, taverns, or inns along the way. Chane could tell nothing from the fronts of these bland, almost neutral establishments. He guessed at the gambling, coin bending, and other illicit endeavors that went on behind their closed doors.

He would not have Wynn sleeping in any such place.

But as naive as she could be at times, she was no fool. As he watched, her brow wrinkled every time Ore-Locks cast a quizzical glance her way before some establishment. When she shook her head, they moved on.

“What about that one?” she said suddenly.

Chane followed her gaze.

At the street’s end stood a large, well-situated, three-story building nearly half a block wide. Constructed of thick planking with not too badly cracked sky blue paint, its white shutters were stained by city smoke and filth. The building sported a sweeping, ground-level veranda with two armed guards standing by the front columns.

As Chane followed Wynn, he was uncertain whether the iron grates over the windows were a good sign. The guards were relaxed but watchful as Ore-Locks stepped between them to the front door. Guards could also be a good or bad indication. A white sign above the door held one gilded word in only Numanese: DELILAH’S.

Wynn hurried up to the nearest guard, a stout man, cleanly shaven though rough featured. As Ore-Locks peered through the open front door, both guards eyed Wynn. The closest nodded respectfully.

“Commander Molnun, at your service,” he said. “Welcome.”

“Does this establishment offer rooms?” she asked.

“The finest in Drist.”

“And secure?” Chane asked.

The “commander” looked Chane up and down with only his eyes, never moving his head.

“Yes, sir ... the best to be had.”

Chane looked the man over in turn. His outer leather tunic did not hide hints of a chain shirt beneath it, likely with quilt padding under that. Though properly closed, the tunic was a loose fit; the commander valued mobility over show. His sword hung low rather than being cinched against his belt like some preening noble wanting to look dashing would wear it. This one had to be ex-military.

If the establishment hired standing mercenaries, it would not be cheap.

Wynn seemed to realize this, too, and cast Chane a troubled glance.

“I will pay,” Ore-Locks cut in, perhaps guessing the problem. “We should stay here.”

Chane warmed with discomfort but did not argue. He should have procured more money by now. The commander nodded to Ore-Locks.

“Be certain you carry a lodger’s voucher whenever you plan to leave and still return.”

Chane nodded and reluctantly ushered Wynn in.

As Wynn followed Ore-Locks through the weatherworn, hand-carved front door, she tried to stifle her growing annoyance with Chane. Much as she was accustomed to his overprotective nature, tonight he was dangerously close to overbearing. He’d known from the start that this journey would hold surprises. True, Drist was worse than even she’d expected, but they were here. They—he—had better make the best of it. But once inside, she stopped thinking about Chane at all.

A huge oval rug of deep brown with a circular pattern of white flowers and light green, leafy vines was spread under her feet. The foyer walls were stained a rich shade of cream, with amber curtains on the windows from the high ceiling to the polished wood floor. From somewhere unseen, the soft, resonant tones of a skillfully played wooden flute filled the air, which was scented lightly with sandalwood.

“Oh ... no,” she said softly.

Unlike the old guild hotel in Chathburh, the interior here was in its prime. This was going to cost more than she’d first feared.

She half turned left to see a solid walnut counter with gold inlay. The young man behind it was well dressed in a white linen shirt and black satin vestment. His face was oval, and his skin was as olive toned as hers. His hair and eyes were both light brown, like hers.

Chane stared at him.

“May I help you?” the young man asked politely, and his gaze dropped briefly to Shade. “I am Mechaela. What do you seek this evening?”

The question seemed odd. What would weary travelers seek besides lodging?

Two men, dressed similarly to this host, walked past Wynn and into a wide parlor on the right. Neither was armed, and Wynn took a few steps, peering after them.

Low couches of plush padding filled that room. Small tables held crystal vases loaded with fresh flowers, though where such came from in late autumn, she couldn’t guess. Seascape oil paintings of unimaginable clarity graced the walls.

She spotted an archway at the far side that led into another room of similar decor. Three men sat playing cards at a polished obsidian table. Their finery might have marked them as nobility, if this had been any city but Drist. A willowy girl appeared from out of sight and poured wine for the gentlemen. Her gown of overlaid gauze was a bit revealing.

To the far left of the nearer room was a tall set of closed doors. Closer still was a curving staircase that stretched upward. What kind of place was this?

“Three rooms,” Ore-Locks said.

Wynn turned back to find him at the counter with the young host. He was already untying a lanyard strung with punched dwarven coins, or slugs.

“Two rooms,” Chane corrected, and looked down at her. “You are not staying here alone. I will sleep on the floor.”

Wynn bit the inside of her lip, not wishing to make a scene.

Mechaela raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, though he did glance at Chane’s and Ore-Locks’s sheathed blades. He reached out with one finger to tap the long iron staff leaning against the counter.

“Of course, you’ll need to relinquish your weapons. You can retrieve and return them upon coming and going.”

Chane blinked. “No.”

Ore-Locks appeared equally surprised.

Shade rumbled, perhaps sensing the sudden tension.

“Chane!” Wynn whispered. Would he ever stop being so difficult?

“No,” he repeated.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” said a smooth voice from behind them.

Wynn spun around.

A slender woman stepped out of the parlor. Delicately built, she was far taller than Wynn. Her teal silk gown, embroidered with curling vines of white blossoms, was so smoothly fitted that it moved with her, revealing her subtle curves. Shining black hair hung in long, faint waves that sparkled in the foyer’s lamplight, though her bangs were held back with a band of polished silver.

She had skin the shade of soft ivory, perhaps a bit warmer, and eyes so deep blue, they mesmerized Wynn at first. Her lashes were long, and her eyelids were powdered to match her gown.

She was ... unreal. Even Ore-Locks appeared stunned at the sight of her.

“Is there some confusion?” she asked.

Her tone didn’t imply a true question, but her voice was almost a breathy echo of the flute’s resonance. This was a woman who could stop almost any man in his tracks at twenty paces—maybe fifty.

Unfortunately, Chane was not one of those men.

“I will not relinquish my swords,” he said.

“I am Delilah, owner of this establishment,” she answered, and her gaze passed over Ore-Locks with polite interest.

Wynn felt Chane’s hand settle on her shoulder.

“I do apologize,” Delilah went on, “but all patrons, regardless of what they come for, must leave their weapons before entering. Do not be concerned. Your safety—your needs—are secured and assured by my staff.”

Wynn glanced nervously about. Their needs? Shouldn’t that be obvious?

“How,” Chane challenged, “when your interior guards do not carry weapons?”

“Mechaela requires no weapon,” Delilah answered.

Her eyes traced a smooth path from one newcomer to the next, perhaps assessing who truly made the decisions, and a smile spread across her small mouth.

“And what needs bring you to us ... sage?”

Wynn was a bit stunned. She wore only her short robe over her elven travel clothes, yet this woman knew what she was, and that she was supposedly in charge. Wynn glanced through the parlor arch at the lounging furniture, and into the room beyond that, and at the other woman in the revealing gauze dress....

Chane sucked in an audible breath and exhaled. “Domvolyné!”

Before his meaning sank in, Wynn felt his fingers clench her cloak’s shoulder and tunic. He jerked her backward toward the front door.

“We are leaving,” he said.

“Oh ... oh ...” she stammered, flushing red in the face.

A domvolyné was a house of leisure in Chane’s country. Wynn had just walked them all into a high-line brothel in the middle of a pit called Drist.

“What is wrong now?” Ore-Locks asked, and stared blankly at Chane.

There were no brothels among the dwarves.

“Oh, please, please,” Delilah called, suppressing a brief laugh with delicate fingers. “Forgive me. I meant no offense—only a playful jest. We can accommodate you.... We care well for all our patrons, by their own needs.”

Behind the counter, even Mechaela was hard-pressed not to smile.

Wynn grabbed the doorframe before Chane could haul her into the street.

“Chane, stop it. It could be the same—probably worse—everywhere here.”

“Yes, there is worse,” Delilah added, no longer amused. “Mechaela, they will need the quieter and more peaceful of our accommodations.”

He nodded. “I will place them properly in the east side of the second floor.”

“But,” Delilah added, “you must leave your weapons.”

Wynn looked to Ore-Locks, hating to turn to him for support. He sighed and handed over his iron staff before beginning to unbuckle his sword. A startled Mechaela fumbled a bit under the weight of the staff. Wynn looked back and up to Chane, his expression curled in a silent snarl.

“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 this 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.