Thief of Lives

Chapter 16

Toret sat alone in the parlor, waiting for Chane to return with a mortal for him to feed on. His ruptured eye socket had closed up. He'd shut out any pain from his chest wound but loss of fluid had drained him, and he felt empty in more ways than simple hunger. In each passing moment he found the illusion of "Toret" more and more a ridiculous joke, and the reality of "Ratboy" welled up inside him.

The previous night's fight played out in Toret's mind, again and again, as disquiet crept into his thoughts. He was stronger than the half-blood, yet for all Chane's sword training, the mongrel had still outclassed him.

Tibor walked into the parlor, his appearance severing Toret's thoughts.

"Pardon, master, but there's a man here to see you."

The sailor's throat wound had closed, but the flesh around the hole was still seared. His undead existence made his gaunt, hawklike features stand out. His skin looked weathered and tight but was losing its dark, ruddy tan in his undead state. His brown eyes seemed distant and sad.

"Sestmir was your friend for a long time?" Toret asked.

"My brother." Tibor paused. "I suppose he was my friend too."

A brother? Toret should have realized. The two looked so much alike.

"Who is at the door?" he asked. He wasn't in the proper condition to conduct any type of business.

"Fancy gentleman," Tibor answered.

Toret tensed slightly. "Dark hair with white patches at his temples?"

"Yes, master, that's the one."

The last person Toret wanted to see now was this stranger who kept appearing from nowhere with warnings about the dhampir.

"Tell him I'm not here."

Tibor turned to go back to the door, and a cold voice rose audibly from the foyer.

"I think you should see me."

The stranger entered, impeccably dressed in a long black cloak and well-fitting gloves. Toret felt a small flare of righteous resentment.

"This is my home," he said. "I'm not well and wish to be alone."

"Yes," the stranger responded in the same cold tone. "From what I understand, you were wounded by the half-elf. That is hardly befitting someone of your station."

His station? A sickly, humorous comment. Toret looked at Tibor.

"Wait in the dining room. This won't take long."

Tibor nodded and left, and Toret stood up.

"Where are the dhampir and her half-elf now?" the stranger asked. "Even with my resources, I cannot locate them."

Toret wondered about the man's age, though he looked to be in his mid-forties. He also appeared a bit haggard and tired, perhaps from a lack of sleep-quite different from his last visit. Why was he so interested in the dhampir, and why did he expend all this effort with warnings? Suddenly the answers didn't matter.

"I've no idea, and I don't care. I am taking my family away from here tomorrow."

"Away?" The stranger appeared stunned. "Where? Destroying her is the only way to ensure your survival."

Toret almost smiled, but not quite. "I once knew someone who thought like that. His bones are dust under the dhampir’s tavern. Vengeance is expensive."

Open anger slipped into the stranger's voice. "The guards now lock up the city at dusk. No one gets in or out. Even the sewer gates into the bay are sealed both day and night. And scaling all the city's walls would be difficult at best."

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

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

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

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

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

"As you wish."

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

"Tibor!"

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toret ducked as it shattered on the wall behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She grunted and left.

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

To my dear friend:

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

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

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

I remain your humble friend.

Alexi Lanjov

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He walked up to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chane grabbed her upper arm.

She didn't scream but quickly lifted one leg to jerk a fish knife from her boot. Slashing across the back of his hand, she surprised Chane into releasing her. But when she turned toward the door, it was already closed. Tibor stood silently in front of it.

Chane snatched the back of her neck with one hand. Though he'd fed earlier, the slash on his hand drove him to salivate. She swung back blindly at him with the blade, and he grabbed her thin wrist as well. Sheer will kept him from setting his teeth to her throat.

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

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

"Yes… of course," he answered.

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

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

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

Such a waste.

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

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

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

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

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

"Pack?" Chane asked.

"We're leaving."

"The house?"

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

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

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

Then he stopped and turned.

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

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

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

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

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

Something had to be done. But what?

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

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

"Who's there?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The kitchens are far?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

She dropped her gaze in sadness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wynn straightened, possibly embarrassed by her brief outpouring.

"Of course. You are most kind."

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

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

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

"I assumed it was experience."

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

How close the little sage was to what she sought.

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

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

"These might be the best," he said.

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

"Look at them…" he said intently.

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

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

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

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

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

"Wynn, look at me," he said evenly.

The young woman's eyes drifted up.

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

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

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

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

"What are you smirking at?" Leesil asked.

Magiere hadn't been aware of her expression. He looked ridiculous in the torn-off surcoat, though it had certainly made it easy to follow him in the dark.

"We need to find you a shirt tomorrow. Maybe something more as well."

"Oh, not the clothes again," he said. "This will do just fine. But I could use some boots, and hopefully my second blade is finished by now."

Yes, he'd left his boots in the fire at the Burdock, but had thought enough to grab the chest with his toolbox inside. Magiere wondered about his priorities.

"Besides such exciting errands," Leesil asked, "what is our plan for tomorrow?"

"Wynn has a stack of deeds for houses we'll look at. Hopefully one of them will be what we're looking for."

Chap whined loudly at the mention of more houses.

"These aren't members of the council," she added.

He barked and struggled in Leesil's grasp, his voice excited and eager.

"We'll have a fight soon enough," she added. "We handle it the same as in Miiska. Enter in daylight and take them before they know what's happening-and without burning anything down."

At that, Leesil shot her a belligerent scowl. "I'm not the one setting fires in Bela."

"Small miracle," she answered, and crouched down next to him and Chap.

In spite of her mocking him, Leesil remained serious.

"I had no choice back in Miiska. You were dying, and I had to cut off all pursuit." He reached out to touch the bone amulet dangling below her throat. "I would have died after the cave-in if you hadn't breathed air back into me, and once we were out, you would have died if I hadn't fed you."

For once, his words didn't trouble her so much. Extreme actions had been required of them both over this past season of their lives. She understood his intention, even if he still neither comprehended the full meaning of his own words or the consequences of his actions.

She didn't pull back or take the amulet from his hand. Her concern was that he seemed to live for extreme actions, and she saw them merely as a necessary misfortune.

"When this is over, Leesil, what do you want?"

"To go home. What kind of a question is that?"

The fire from the kitchen hearth burned cheerfully, and under the soft scent of wood smoke was the aroma of dried herbs hanging beside pots and cookware. Beneath that, she could smell Leesil. He needed a bath, but then so did she, and his thick, musty scent wasn't unpleasant.

"And you'll be happy? Living in Miiska and running the tavern? That will be enough for you?"

Magiere felt the bone amulet bounce against her shirt. Leesil dropped cross-legged on the floor.

"Is that what you're worried about? That I'll get restless?"

"Among other things," she said carefully.

"Listen to me," he said with equal caution. "We're sitting in a strange kitchen in a sage's guild and sleeping in an old barracks. This is most likely going to be our life. We'll have quiet seasons, possibly years at the Sea Lion if we're lucky, but this won't be the last time we're called."

She wasn't certain of his meaning.

"I'm bound to you," he continued, "as you are to this path. If we try to deny or avoid it, it will catch us unaware. Why do you think I was in the woods all those mornings outside of Miiska? To stay sharp. Of course I want a life at the Sea Lion, but it's never going to be that simple."

She let his words sink in. He was right, though she wished it otherwise.

Whatever hope she had to live a quiet and secluded life had been taken away, bit by bit. If their exploits in Miiska caused their current call to service in Bela, how much more would she lose of the life she wanted once they were done here?

Magiere felt a small shame for part of her judgment of Leesil. He'd been willing to settle with her in the tavern but knew they couldn't. Not with the consequences of the path they now traveled. In Miiska, when she'd received the letter from Bela, she'd tried to hide from it, but he had not. He'd already known what was coming, and he was still here with her.

"The path I walk seems to narrow every day," she whispered, "and so little would matter if you weren't here to share it."

"It's the same for me," he said.

Magiere felt her mouth go dry. "But once we're in the hunt, I fear what could happen to you."

Because of me, and because of you, she thought.

At first he said nothing. Magiere felt an old, chill fear within the lingering salt memory of his blood in her mouth, his flesh in her teeth, his life seeping away into her.

"Nothing's going to happen to me," he said. "I'm not that easy to kill."

They sat in silence a long time by the fire. Chap licked the singed fur on his haunch.

"I think he's got a little more than scorched fur there," Leesil said.

The change of subject brought no relief. "Do we still have any of Tilswith's salve?"

Leesil climbed to his feet. "I should check on Vatz anyway. When I put him to bed, he was still hopping mad at you for ordering him to stay behind."

"Isn't his uncle worried about him?" Magiere asked. "Have you asked him anything about his family?"

"I don't think Milous cares where he is. I assumed his parents were dead or otherwise long gone. Vatz is strong. He can take care of himself."

Magiere wondered, if such were true, then why was Leesil tucking him in and checking on him?

"I'll be back," he said, and headed out the kitchen door.

Magiere had become fond of this odd tenderness in him, strange as it was when mixed with the cold-blooded nature of his past. She petted Chap's head and suddenly realized the dog was watching her intently, ears perked up.

He'd been listening to every word and yipped softly before butting his head against her side.

Leesil strolled back to their room trying to fathom what had-and had not-just happened. Magiere assumed he was unsatisfied with their life in Miiska. It was true he enjoyed being out and about, but mostly because he wouldn't let her face the future alone. Between the two of them, he better understood the consequences of their actions and the future that lay ahead. In this, at least, now she was perhaps more at ease, but there was more to her distance than the fear that he might want to leave. In fact, knowing he clearly wished to stay seemed to distress her as much as the alternative. The whole thing was worse than a hangover.

Down the hall came a glimmer of light from the open door of their room. He'd heated up the cold lamp's crystal before leaving Vatz to sleep. The boy acted tough enough, but he was still just a boy in the midst of nightmares come to life.

A softer light came from a doorway two openings closer than their room, and Leesil slowed his pace, curious as to who was there. It might be just another guild apprentice. He peered inside.

It was much like the room they'd been given: two sets of bunks on either side, with a small table and stools at the far back, but with no bedding or blankets. Instead of a cold lamp, a single, stubby candle was placed on the table's edge and burned dimly.

Leesil stepped in. Then he remembered.

The sages were terrified of open flame anywhere in the building. No sage would have lit a candle here, let alone without a holder.

A glinting line flashed down past his eyes and weight slammed against his shoulders.

Two knees struck his lower back, and he felt feet kick in behind his knees. He crumpled facedown on the wooden floor, and a wire cinched about his throat before he could get one of his hands inside of it.

As he curled his left hand to release a stiletto, something struck his elbow, and his hand went numb. Before he could try again with his right, the same blow landed again, and both his hands lay limp.

The wire closed tightly enough to press against his throat without constricting his breath.

A garrote wire.

"Cantasij tu aiche so aovarf"

The voice behind him was muffled. Leesil had heard this rhythm enough to recognize the words if not their meaning.

"I don't understand," he answered. "I don't speak your language."

The wire cinched slightly tighter, and a long silence followed.

"Tell me why you are here… in Bela," the man asked more softly this time.

Leesil felt knees press down his upper arms just above the elbows, pinning them to his sides. Feet hooked across his thighs, the man's weight evenly distributed. It was a very familiar arrangement, though he'd never fallen prey to it himself. He'd used it only to subdue others. There was a scent about his attacker-a strange mix of wild grass, pine needles, and sea salt. Leesil realized what if not who now held him at this severe disadvantage.

An elf-and assassin, trained as his mother had taught him.

Feeling began returning to his hands. As much as Leesil believed he could dislodge his captor with some effort, he couldn't escape the wire around his neck. If he told the truth, would this man even believe him?

"Hunting undeads," he answered.

The wire jerked tighter around his throat.

"You lie!" the elf hissed. "And what would the majay-hi want with the company of a traitor?"

"What… are you talking about?" Leesil managed to choke out. Traitor? And how did Chap fit into this? "Ask the hound yourself. He's not telling me much."

A familiar thrum sounded from the wire as it whipped free from Leesil's neck, leaving a hot, burning line. All weight lifted instantly from his back.

Leesil spun over and reached for the stiletto he'd lost, but it wasn't on the floor. When he scrambled to his feet, a dark figure stood beyond the doorway in the hall.

From cowl to cloak, hauberk to boots, and shirt and pants beneath, the figure was colored between char and forest green. The cloak's lower corners were tied around his waist, and his cowled face was masked below the eyes with a scarf or wrap. Beneath high, feathery eyebrows of dusty blond, two large and slanted amber eyes stared back at Leesil.

The elf held Leesil's stiletto in one hand, the handles of the garrote gripped in the other. When Leesil freed his remaining stiletto, the elf didn't even blink.

"Who taught you our ways?" the elf asked.

"First, tell me what you mean," Leesil replied. "Whose ways? The elves?"

For an answer, the elf flicked his wrist, and the stiletto spun through the air.

Leesil sidestepped and snatched the handle midflight. Before he'd righted the blade in his hand, the cloaked figure leaped through the door at him. He slashed crosswise with both blades to ward off his attacker. But the elf instantly ducked and rose up inside the arcs, palm striking out toward Leesil's face.

Leesil collapsed to the floor, and his right leg shot along the left of the elf's feet. He swirled his arms over himself, blocking the elf's descending fist, and slashing with the blades. Something lashed sharply across his right hand, tangled around the stiletto, and ripped it from his grasp. Leesil hooked his right foot behind the elf's ankle as his other leg shot up.

There was no impact.

Though Leesil's foot connected, it was more a touch than a strike, and the elf merely arced backward into the hallway. He landed, watching Leesil intently. The same stiletto he'd thrown a moment ago was now snared in the garrote wire's loops between his fingers.

"Who taught you Map am'a Fiar?" he asked flatly.

On his guard, Leesil stared blankly at him. "What?"

"Cat-in-the-Grass," he said. "The ground fighting."

"My mother," Leesil replied cautiously. "And my father. But I don't know what you're talking about."

The elf slowly pulled Leesil's stiletto from the wire loops.

"You mother is a traitor. No outsider is taught the ways of an anmaglahk."

Leesil stiffened. Before anger came, the word settled in his mind.

"What does that mean?" he asked. "What is anmaglahk?"

The elf's eyes widened, and Leesil saw puzzled suspicion in that gaze. The elf then relaxed upon the realization Leesil truly didn't understand the word.

"You are no more than a renegade who cannot even speak his own language. Finish your task and leave here."

"Leesil?"

Magiere's voice came from down the hallway. And with it was the low, rumbling growl of Chap. Leesil had been gone too long, and they'd come looking for him. He inched forward toward the figure beyond the doorway.

"Touch them, and I'll gut you right here," he warned. "Whatever it takes."

With but a side glance, the elf bolted down the hall, and Leesil ducked out the door behind him.

A flash of metal flew toward his legs.

Leesil threw himself toward the hallway's far wall as his own stiletto, snatched from him by the elf's garrote, struck home into the doorjamb. Chap lunged forward, snarling. The elf merely leaped over the dog and against the right wall.

For a blink, the man seemed to cling there like a spider, hands and feet flat against the surface with his head near the ceiling. He pushed off into air and arced to the floor behind Magiere, who whipped around to follow his movement.

Chap tried to reverse and Leesil grabbed him and held fast, arms slipping around the dog's chest.

"Shhhh," he said. "Stop it."

Chap's struggles ceased, but he continued growling. Down the hallway past Magiere, the "visitor" had vanished. Magiere looked back and forth in confusion and then dropped to Leesil's side.

"What's going on?" she asked. "Was that an elf? Your neck-did he attack you?"

Leesil instinctively touched his throat, still burning from the wire's slip.

"The wire in his hand…" Magiere added more calmly. She looked at the blade stuck in the door frame, and recognition that it was Leesil's spread across her face. "And he moved like you."

Leesil dropped his gaze.

"He's a hired killer, like you were. Isn't he?" she insisted.

Leesil hesitated. "Anmaglahk," he whispered toward Chap.

The dog looked down the hallway, and his growl became a low rumble. As he looked back to Leesil, he yipped once.

"That's a ‘yes, " Magiere said, hard and angry. "Why does a supposed Fay react viciously to an elf, if they're supposed to be related? And what's that word?"

Leesil felt her eyes upon him now.

"That word, Leesil," she repeated. "Assassin?"

When Leesil couldn't even understand the word, the elf had seemed astonished at his ignorance. He had called Leesil a traitor, then the same for his mother. One could only be a traitor to a service, a cause, a nation, or a people. The fact that the elf hadn't killed him because he wasn't acting as part of the man's own people meant that fealty wasn't the issue. That ruled out nation or people. This was about the skills his mother had taught him-for which she'd been marked as a traitor? Skills of an assassin and spy not to be taught except to an anmaglahk.

"I think it's a caste," he said quietly. "The anmaglahk are some caste among the elves. And my mother was a part of it."

Magiere shifted around in front of him. He saw on her face the pieces coming together, and like everything else in their lives, the revelation brought more questions than answers.

"Why would elves have a caste of assassins?" she asked. "And even so, why did one come after you? We have nothing to do with them."

Leesil had no answer for her.

His mother had taught him their ways, but nothing of their kind, made him one of them but wholly apart from them. She'd kept all other aspects of her people a secret, down to the very language they spoke. The elf's judgment of her had been a broad statement, condemning her for all time, even though she was now dead.

But the anmaglahk had said his mother was a traitor. Not had been, but was.

Sgaile watched the old barracks from a rooftop across the street. He had let the half-blood live. He had questioned the wisdom of his elders and Aoishenis-Ahare, Most Aged Father. To take the life of one of their own people was forbidden, and a half-blood, though polluted, was still part of them in a twisted way. To break their law meant a grave and serious issue was at stake.

It was true this one had been trained in their ways, though not as well as most. Still, the half-blood knew nothing of his kind, not even the language of his mother's people. How and why could this be?

Aoishenis-Ahare foresaw so much, so why had he not spoken of the majay-hi? Did he not know? The Fay so seldom appeared anymore, even to his own people, so why here and now to this misbegotten child of a traitor? It had taken flesh in one of the old forms not seen since ancient times, as told to Sgaile in the tales of his grandmother.

The majay-hi's presence troubled Sgaile as deeply as his own failure to obey, and he sat upon the roof long into the night, watching.