Thief of Lives

Chapter 5

Magiere stood near the schooner's prow in black breeches and worn leather hauberk, with her falchion on her hip, and watched sunlit shimmers flit across the water. This morning, they would reach Bela. Strands of her hair had loosened in the autumn wind, so she retied the tail of black hair. The thong's tension aggravated the ache in her head, but the pain had decreased overnight, her body recovering quickly.

The assault in her cabin was common knowledge, and she noticed the crew pausing in their duties to stare at her, at her hair and skin. Glancing back along the deck, she spotted the captain standing beside the helm watching her as well.

Magiere faked as much indifference as she could and looked out beyond the prow. Despite Leesil's distinct features, she was now as much an oddity as him. In their backwoods travels through Stravina, her appearance hadn't been so noticeable. Thickly treed, spotted with bogs and marshes, the damp forest filtered the sunlight through its canopy on clear days. But under a cloudless morning sky at sea, she could imagine the bloodred shimmers visible in her black hair. And more.

She tugged back her left shirtsleeve to expose her forearm. Recently she'd noticed a strange sensation, neither pleasant nor distasteful, and only when she was exposed to the open sun for prolonged periods. A subtle tingle ran across her white skin. She'd always assumed it held its severe pallor because of night travels and the dim Stravinan forests. When she and Leesil had first hit the open coastline on their way to Miiska, she hadn't noticed anything. But after months in town and days at sea under the autumn sun, it became obvious that her skin didn't tan at all. Standing next to Leesil's darker elven tint, she must look as pallid as the dead. Another reminder of her tainted heritage.

Blood-marked, raven-haired, corpse-colored, and now with night assassins with slit throats in her cabin. Who wouldn't stare at such a creature from a safe distance? Magiere wanted to order the ship about, as if that were possible, and return to Miiska, where she wouldn't have to become some half-thing again, no matter the compensation.

Light footsteps approached her from behind. No one else might have noticed such a soft sound, but she'd grown accustomed to it. She sent a cold glare over her shoulder.

Leesil stood rubbing his arms and hands in the crisp wind's chill. A once-green paisley scarf was wrapped around his head and held his hair tucked back. His clothes were wrinkled and creased, as were hers, from being slept in all night. Once the fight was over, he'd settled her in bed with a cold rag on the back of her head. She'd turned away from him as he sat silently on the floor, refreshing the rag now and then from a pan of water. Neither of them spoke. When she'd awoken the next morning, Leesil was in the upper bunk, snoring like a drunk.

The ship took a sudden swell, rolled slightly, and Leesil grabbed the rail, eyes scrunched shut until the ship leveled out. He was still discolored from seasickness and hadn't eaten in more than a day. Added to this, his eyes were now bloodshot and, even in the open air, Magiere still caught the thin, lingering odor of stale grog or whatever he'd been drinking the night before.

"How much longer… farther?" Leesil asked. It would have sounded exasperated, except it was clear he lacked the strength for his usual dramatics.

"Not far," she answered. "Soon." And she turned her attention to the coastline.

"Magiere…" Leesil began. "Listen, I'm-"

"I don't want to hear it. If Chap hadn't been there…"

"I know-"

"No, you don't!" Magiere turned long enough for her gaze to pass once over his disheveled appearance. "Not now, or last night."

There was nothing he could say that would justify his behavior. Three assassins had entered her room, and he was out drinking again. If it hadn't been for Chap…

She suddenly wondered where the hound was, now that both she and Leesil were out of the cabin. She spotted him midship, perched upon a stack of crates lashed in cargo netting. Fur rustled by the wind, he watched the sailors, who in turn gave him a wide berth. Word had spread as well about how the hound had mauled a large, armed man into submission.

"There, look!" Leesil said, a bit more strength in his voice. He pushed in close to Magiere and pointed ahead of the ship.

The coastline curved inland out of sight. In the far distance, Magiere could see where it turned outward again to continue north. The southern point of the Outward Bay was finally in view, and her ire with Leesil subsided for the moment to be replaced by a rising edge of anxiety.

Although they'd passed through large cities in their travels, they'd rarely stayed long. It'd been many months since their last and final visit to Bela, when Magiere collected the tavern's deed on their way to Miiska. Over the years, they'd briefly stopped in the capital, where she'd stored away funds, little by little, at one of the less notable moneylending and changing establishments near the southern land-side gate. Venturing farther into the city's business district for an upper-class bank would have attracted too much attention for an armed woman on the move.

The king's city of Bela rested at the base of an immense peninsula reaching over thirty leagues into the ocean from the northwest corner of Belaski. On each side of the peninsula's base were two large bays with mouths some eight to ten leagues wide. They were known respectively as Vonkayshae u Vntitorna Zaliva, the Outward and Inward Bays, the former on the peninsula's ocean side while the latter faced northeast into the Gulf of Belaski. Bela was situated at the innermost point of the Outward Bay.

"Oh, grateful praise!" Leesil muttered. "Dry land again. Maybe tonight I get to keep the food I eat."

Returning ire quickly snuffed Magiere's pang of sympathy. The schooner aimed for port.

She knew nothing of sea vessels, but all sizes and makes were anchored throughout the bay's expanse. Some were as small as the schooner, but many were twice its bulk or more. Several were of unimaginable size. Passing near one hulking monstrosity, she watched its crew scurry over it like ants on the branches of a leafless bush, its six masts a maze of cables and ropes crisscrossing through the sky.

Vessels dotted the water all the way to the port ahead. Then a shimmer from the corner of Magiere's vision drew her attention. It came from the north.

At first, she couldn't be certain it was more than a glint on the water. It sparked like polished metal, but the light wavered, as if what reflected the sun fluttered in the wind or rolled on the ocean. It was a vessel, riding smoothly, perhaps even a bit high, as it skimmed across the top of the water. The shimmer came from its sails, iridescent as white satin. Magiere squinted and shaded her eyes.

Long and sleek, the bow reached out to a point like a spear. The hull gleamed sun-tinted green one moment and rich golden tan the next, and its lip appeared delicately curved like a holly leaf's edge.

Leesil pointed to it and called to a nearby sailor on deck. "What's that over there?"

A young, sandy-haired man paused from coiling his rope to glance across the bay. "Elven," he answered shortly, "from the far north, on the east side of the cape."

"Never heard of them having ships."

"Never heard…?" The sailor looked at the half-elf as if he were a half-wit.

"Too bad we can't get a closer look," Leesil added.

At that, the sailor took one step toward Leesil and Magiere.

"I'd sooner sail a dingy into a winter squall!" He tossed the rope aside and walked quickly away.

Magiere didn't understand the sailor's caution, but she wouldn't forget it either. The elven people were so reclusive that she'd seen only a handful in her lifetime. If Loni back in Miiska was unusual for his kind, having settled away from his homeland, she wondered what these all-but-hidden people were truly like.

"How is it you know so little about your own people?" Magiere asked, still reluctant to exchange words with him.

"They're not my people," Leesil corrected. "They're my mother's, and I know nothing more of them than what I'd seen in her… and that was long ago."

He finished more quietly than he began. Magiere left the subject alone, at least for now.

"Oh, please, please let us dock directly." Leesil looked longingly toward the shore, his words nearly a prayer. "I don't even want to ride a skiff in from anchor after all this."

"Enough whining," Magiere retorted.

The land at the bay's back was a massive, rising slope that extended all along the shore. At its center was Bela, the king's capital city. More than three centuries past, before Belaski was so named or known as a country, Bela had been a small walled keep settled at the slope's crest. Over time it grew, until now it was a visible behemoth of white granite.

Villages closest to the castle spread into a town, and a defense wall had been erected around all. But the town, eager to become a city, wouldn't be contained. The population grew, new structures sprang up, the castle expanding as well, and the capital sprawled ever farther along and down the slope. A second fortification was erected around Bela, as it came to be called. Mixed buildings hid this wall's base from sight like unkempt, wild foliage against a stone cottage. Given more years, the city still wouldn't be confined.

Now, a third ring wall with regularly spaced towers existed, which reached almost down to the shore and the expansive docks that supported moorage for scores of ships.

"I don't remember it being this big," Leesil muttered.

"Because we always came from the flat, land side," Magiere added, "and never ventured far into it."

Magiere felt even more uneasy. Foolishly, she'd not considered Bela's size, a further argument against accepting the city council's manipulative offer. In Miiska, out of necessity rather than choice, they'd hunted three Noble Dead who'd already exposed their presence. Bela was at least twenty times the size of the little coastal town. Within its three ring walls, they must now find one undead-if an undead it was-with no clue but a girl's corpse.

As the schooner drew near the docks, the slope filled Magiere's view and the outer ring wall obscured the inner city from sight. Buildings of mixed size, make, and color were mashed together so closely she made out only a few vertical roads running outward like wheel spokes from the city's center. Each such passed through the third wall via a towering, fortified gatehouse with raised iron portcullis. Trails of smoke like a thinned gray forest in the air curled upward from chimneys all about the city. Warehouses lined the shore, and the air was suddenly tainted with a myriad of scents from fish to oiled wood, salt water to people and livestock.

A noxious breeze blew across the deck, and Magiere wrinkled her nose. Down the right coast at the city's edge was a building the size of two or three warehouses. On its bayside, massive wooden sluices dribbled water into the bay, while on the structure's side towering wheels turned, carrying seawater up and into wide troughs running into the building.

"Salt mill," Leesil choked out. "They're harvesting salt from the sea."

The smell clearly affected him the most, and his face turned pale and sallow before Magiere's eyes.

There were people everywhere. Uncomfortable numbers of them. Dockworkers and sailors clambered over the piers' upper and lower levels, moving cargo to and from vessels, handling mooring and rigging, and shouting to each other over the general din.

"This is impossible," Magiere said under her breath. Her gaze panned across the sprawling city. "How are we to find anything in all of this?"

"One step at a time," Leesil replied.

As they drew near a lower dock, the schooner's crew was in the rigging, taking in the last of the sails. Several sailors tossed out lines to men waiting to moor the ship, and the schooner settled to a stop.

Chap barked repeatedly, until Magiere's and Leesil's attention turned his way. He leaped from his perch of lashed crates and trotted toward the ship's dockside, where a boarding plank was being lowered.

"Come on. Time to get started," Leesil said.

He was off at a trot toward their cabin to gather their belongings. Magiere followed in silence, sharing little of her companion's desperate hurry. As they reached the hatched stairway, the captain was waiting for them.

"No need to go below," he said, dour and stiff, as if he disliked having to speak with them at all. He shoved a folded parchment into Leesil's hand. "Your baggage is gathered and being offloaded. You can turn over the billing to the council's secretary."

"Well, that's very kind," Leesil responded with an elevated politeness his expression didn't match. "And our thanks for the passage."

The captain looked briefly at Magiere and then turned a hard stare toward Leesil.

"Get off my ship, before I have anything more to explain to the port officials." He turned and walked away.

Magiere was puzzled by the last remark. The one dead assailant had been tossed overboard at sea, and another had managed to jump of his own accord. There was the third locked in the cargo hold, but the captain had questioned him and learned no useful information.

"What was that about?" she asked Leesil.

"Likely nothing," Leesil offered, and rubbed his head before walking around to the ship's dockside. "I think it's definitely time to disembark."

When they walked down the lowered boarding ramp, Chap already stood waiting on the floating dock. Beside the hound sat their packs and chest, and Magiere looked to the main pier overhead, uncertain as to how they were to get both dog and luggage up to the city level.

"This way," Leesil said. Grabbing his pack and one end of the chest, he waited as Magiere did the same.

Following him toward the docks' shore end, Magiere saw another floating walkway along the shoreline's rock wall beneath the overhead piers. At intervals spaced between every other pier were switchback ramps and stairs leading to the city level. Along the stone wall of the shoreline, she spotted archways to the sewers beneath the city that drained brackish water into the bay.

They headed upward, hauling their belongings. Chap ran ahead, stopping now and then at turns in the walkway to look back and be sure they were following. When they reached the city level, Magiere's anxiety peaked.

Every five or six steps, they were forced to maneuver around hurrying dockworkers, milling passengers, and wandering vendors and porters hawking their goods and services. At one point, a rolling cook's cart with dangling racks of smoke-cured beef came out of nowhere, almost running them over. Magiere stopped, dropping her end of the chest and causing Leesil to stumble.

"Valhachkasej'a," he muttered. "Give me some warning next time!"

"This is insane." Magiere looked about, but all she could see were crowds and warehouses everywhere. "We haven't got the slightest idea where we're going."

"Well, perhaps we should find someplace to put this stuff," Leesil added sarcastically. "Nearer the castle grounds, where we're supposed to go in the first place?"

"I know where we need to go," Magiere answered in a threatening tone. "Near the castle is too costly. We need an inn that's close enough but isn't going to eat up all of our coin. I have no idea where that is! Do you?"

Leesil crossed his arms. "All right, men we find someone who does."

Magiere looked through the crowd. Even the hawkers seemed unable to pause long enough for a short conversation.

"Hey, sir, help with the luggage?" a high-pitched voice wailed out.

Standing nearby, head craning to see around passersby, was a boy no taller than Leesil's stomach. His frayed hair was plastered down on top and in need of a wash, and his secondhand muslin shirt and pants were too large for his frame. He pointed at Leesil.

"Yea, you, sir," he said, ducking between the taller bodies in his way. "Help with the luggage? Best porters on the piers, right here." The boy's tapered, dirty face was as serious as that of any journeyman hawking his services.

Magiere let out a deep sigh as Leesil cast her a sidelong glance, something between a frown and a snicker. She scowled at him with a slight shake of her head.

Leesil rolled his eyes and looked down at the lad. "And what do you charge, sir, for your services?"

"We'll take you anywhere in the city," the boy answered, folding his arms firmly across his narrow chest, "for two copper pennies."

"What?" Magiere took a threatening step toward the boy, but he didn't budge. "That's a day's wage for the strongest dockworkers, not some runt. Leesil, no!"

Chap shoved his head between Magiere and Leesil to peer at the young newcomer. The boy remained standing firm, chin up. His attention passed briefly to the hound in casual appraisal before returning to his prospective customers.

"Nice mutt," he said.

A low growl rumbled from Chap. Leesil raised one eyebrow at the dog, shook his head, and turned back to the boy.

"Who's this we you keep mentioning?" he asked.

The dour little pier boy put two fingers to his pursed lips, and Leesil visibly cringed at the shrill whistle that followed.

Weaving varied paths from out of the crowd came four more boys in equal disarray. Two carried wooden poles and worn straps over their shoulders. They ganged themselves up around the first, and a fifth appeared directly from behind their leader.

This last member was barely half the spokesman's size, with cropped blond hair and a fat-cheeked face of freckles above his spindly little body. He gave Magiere a smile that scrunched his eyes almost closed. His two front teeth were missing.

"Leesil, I said no," Magiere repeated.

In answer, Leesil simply dropped his pack on the chest. "Give me the purse."

"I already gave you coins back on the ship."

"I… I don't have any copper. Just give me the purse."

Magiere hesitated. After everything she'd put up with in the last day and night, she had an insatiable urge to clout him upside the head, hangover or not. She pulled the coin pouch out and handed it over.

"What's your name?" Leesil asked of the leader as he fished in the purse.

"Vatz," the boy answered, and he hooked a thumb toward the freckled companion peering around his side. "This is Pint. And that'll be payment in advance."

Leesil pulled his fingers from the pouch and reached out to the boy. One copper penny fell into Vatz's open palm.

"That'll be a down payment," Leesil said, and with thumb and forefinger, he fanned out three more copper pennies like tiny cards. "The rest when services are complete. And I need guidance to a weaponsmith of a particular kind."

Vatz eyed Leesil, but his attention kept slipping to the three coins.

"Done," he said, tucking away his one penny, and he waved his crew forward.

They descended upon the luggage with many an "Excuse me" and "Step aside, ma'am," and Magiere found herself caught between backing out of their way and swatting them aside like pestering flies. Before she could decide, two boys lowered their poles to either trunk side while their counterparts slipped leather straps through the trunk's end handles, synching the trunk between the poles. All four boys positioned themselves at the poles' ends, ready to lift and haul the moment the word was given.

"So where to?" asked Vatz.

"Wait-Leesil…" Magiere grabbed her companion by the arm, pulling him aside. "What are you doing? Why do you need a smith?"

Leesil licked his lips and looked her straight in the eyes.

"I can't help you with a couple of stilettos, or…"-he took a breath and lowered his voice-"any of the other gear I'm accustomed to."

"Yes… your other gear," Magiere repeated quietly, but it wasn't the time or place for what she imagined would be a long tale best told in private. "Then we'll get you a sword, a short saber, or anything manageable."

Leesil shook his head. "I don't have time to learn a sword, and it doesn't fit my ways. I've something planned I think will work, but I need a weapon maker who's skilled and fast. Hopefully one with apprentices or journeymen to work on it all at once."

"We don't have that kind of money," Magiere insisted.

"I don't need money." He handed her back the pouch, minus the copper to pay their porters.

"Leesil-" Magiere began.

"I've some things I can barter with," he rebuked. "It'll all be perfectly aboveboard."

Magiere already imagined ways he might procure funding for the purchase, but she was too eager to get away from the throngs of people.

"Get it done and catch up to me before… Where are we going?"

Leesil turned about. "Vatz, we need an inn that's clean, cheap, out of the way, but fairly close to the castle grounds."

The boy didn't hesitate. "Easy enough. The Burdock. My boys know the way."

"And you're coming with me," Leesil added, then looked to Magiere. "I'll meet you in time, before we go to the council-promise." With that, he waved Vatz to follow and hurried off.

Alone amid the milling dock crowds, Magiere felt exposed. Whatever Leesil needed to arm himself for the coming days wasn't anything she could try to deny him. Hopefully it wouldn't end with some outraged smith pounding on their door with the city guard in tow. There was little left to do but get to the inn and wait for him.

The pier boys were ready but stood suppressing snickering laughter for some reason. She looked about for her own pack.

Out ahead was Pint, or what she could see of him, her pack hoisted up like a bearer. As he teetered blindly back and forth under its bulk, his head had disappeared in the sagging mass that dropped down to his shoulders.

"Give me that!" She snatched the pack off of him. "And get moving."

Pint wobbled as his burden suddenly vanished, and spun completely around before his short legs righted themselves. He grinned, all fat cheeks and scrunching eyes, and scurried off to lead the way.

"Four copper pennies," Magiere muttered, as she followed, "to be a nursemaid."

Leesil harbored doubts whether what he had planned could be accomplished in an absurdly short time. As he stood in the smith's outer timber stall, with Vatz leaning impatiently against the entry, he peered through the archways to the work area of the smithy. What he saw gave him hope.

Rear doors at the room's back were opened for light, but most illumination came from the glowing forges, casting the interior and its occupants in a sweltering glow. The place was big enough to house Miiska's own smithy in the forge room alone. A half dozen men and women worked forges and fire pits. Benches and tools and materials were spread everywhere, and the air was baked with the smell of metal and coal.

Leesil turned toward the back stalls. Through a door, he saw several more people at a table polishing, sharpening, and finishing spear-and arrowheads, swords, and other armaments. Vatz had more than adequately filled his request for a particular kind of weapon maker. Leesil fished in his shirt and withdrew a folded parchment and an old scarf wrapped around an object the length of his forearm.

Out of the workroom came a man who barely fit through the archway, a solid column of flesh with legs and arms like ship beams. Between smears of soot, sweat glistened across his skin. Even his long leather apron seemed to perspire.

"Master Balgavi at your service," the man pronounced with a heavy, rolling voice as he wiped his hands on an over-smudged rag. "What can I do you for today?"

"I have job for you, something unique, and I need it fast," Leesil said. "Can you handle it?"

The smith shrugged. "If you make it worth putting aside other work, as I don't lose business just to do new business. If I put enough of my people on it, we can make most any steel weapon. In as little as a few weeks, you'll-"

"No, not weeks," Leesil cut in. "Days."

Balgavi's mouth slackened as his singed brows wrinkled, and for a moment Leesil wondered if he was about to be tossed into the street.

"You haven't got that much coin," the smith growled.

"I've got something worth that, and more," Leesil replied. "Can you do it?"

"What's it you want?" Balgavi asked suspiciously. "It had best not be any nonsense."

Leesil tucked the scarf bundle under his arm, and carefully unfolded the crinkled parchment sheet.

In the woods outside of Miiska, he spent his time scribbling, rubbing out, and redrawing, until the image fit his vision. If it could actually be made, he had faith he could stand with Magiere against whatever they fought.

Its forward end was shaped like a flattened spade, tapering smoothly from the point in arcs to both sides. At the base between those arcs was a crosswise handle to be gripped in the fist so the tip could be thrust with a punch. However, one side arc of blade did not stop at the handle. It continued in an extended, more gradual curve that would run along on the outside of the forearm, ending just beyond the elbow.

"Hmm… intriguing, sure enough," the smith said, taking the parchment from Leesil to inspect it more closely. "And fortunately for you, not as complicated as I'd expected. The grip can be made by cutting an oval in the base of the head, making a handle to be wrapped like a hilt. Better than forging on a crosspiece, and it'll give some strength. And we've some similar curves of metal that could be adapted for this outside wing. That'll save some time."

"I need two of them," Leesil corrected. "Mirrored. One for each hand."

Balgavi sighed deeply. "You'd better have something well worth this."

"And I'll need custom sheaths to fit that will hang from a belt, with lashings to strap above the knee and hold them to the thighs."

At that, the smith grunted. "Go to the scabbarder. Down the road, two blocks."

"I don't have time," Leesil retorted. "And for what I'm paying, you can send one of your apprentices with the drawing, easy enough."

The smith folded the parchment in his fist.

"Let's see this oh-so-grand compensation you've been clucking about."

As he unrolled the scarf, Leesil was careful to watch the smith's eyes. This was the moment he'd feared the most. The bulky giant was clearly intrigued, and both his irritation over the rushed work and his mild curiosity concerning the drawing meant he was likely able and willing to fulfill the request. If Leesil gambled correctly on the value of his barter, he'd know the moment the smith saw what was in the scarf.

The scarf's folds parted, dropping around his hand, and in his palm lay the elven stiletto and the extra hilt.

Balgavi's eyes blinked twice. Leesil tried not to smile.

"Where'd you get this?" the smith asked quietly, as he reached out to touch the white metal.

"An inheritance, of sorts," Leesil answered. "But now I need something more suitable."

The smith hadn't taken his eyes or fingers off the stiletto. For that matter, Vatz now craned his neck to see, and for the first time, he lost his affected stony expression in awe.

As Balgavi lifted the stiletto, it caught light from the forge room. Rose highlights shivered along its silver-white metal and sparked along its clean and perfect edge.

"Done," the smith said simply. "But be warned ahead. This kind of hurried work… I won't stand behind it. You'll get the best that can be done in the time, and that's all."

"Fair enough," Leesil agreed. "Either I or someone I send will check back to see how the work goes."

With that, Balgavf nodded, took the spare handle as well, and walked back into the forge room, shouting to his people.

Leesil headed out into the street, Vatz trotting by his side. The boy looked at him with irritation.

"Forget it. You get paid when your work is done," Leesil said.

"That's not what I'm thinking about," Vatz said with grumbling dissatisfaction.

"Then what?"

"I'm thinking I should have charged you more."

Wynn disliked visiting the Bela council hall on the castle grounds, and she often wished Master Tilswith spoke the local language well enough to handle these meetings by himself. Now, the old domin sat beside her as she patiently waited to translate or supply any words he could not remember.

Directly in front of her, seated behind a large, cherry-wood desk in his office chamber, Count Alexi Lanjov closed his eyes and rubbed his left temple in mild frustration. He wore a perfectly pressed white shirt, black tunic, and black breeches. Wynn and her master were dressed as always in their simple gray robes.

"I understand point, Alexi," Domin Tilswith said, "but you admit old barracks not… suitable… our needs."

Wynn noticed that the twinge pulsing in Lanjov's left temple became more acute as the domin went on in his broken speech, describing inadequate facilities for ancient scrolls, new volumes and books, and materials and instruments necessary for their work.

Lanjov opened his eyes to look again at the two sages seated across from him.

At the moment, it seemed the councilman had little time for the complaints of scholars, and Wynn had more understanding of his position than her master did. Lanjov spent half of his time handling the city's treasury funds at Bela's largest bank and the other half making decisions as chairman of the city council.

He was a tall man, and though he was nearing fifty years of age, his square face was unlined and adorned by a straight, slightly large nose. His hair was steel gray, short, and neatly combed.

"Your council invite us here," Domin Tilswith said, "start new branch our guild, serve city, kingdom, people. First on your continent, but you not…" He paused and, once again, Wynn leaned to whisper in his ear. "Value?" he said aloud with puzzlement, and Wynn nodded. "You not value us."

Lanjov placed his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers, and rested his chin on them.

"Domin," Lanjov said in audible frustration. "Tilswith-you know we do value your presence here. I understand the barracks are inadequate, but there is simply no place to move the guild at this time. The city is growing at an unfathomable rate, and there is no building or grounds currently not in use that is large enough for what you plan. We must wait until suitable open ground is allocated to build an entirely new structure."

Wynn had to translate parts of the councilman's response, but when she had finished, Tilswith's green eyes glittered. Wynn almost smiled in relief, hoping this would be enough for her superior. Perhaps Lanjov truly would assist them.

"Yes, yes," Tilswith said, "best solution! When?"

Lanjov sighed. "I will see that the council takes the opportunity to address your concerns. But at the moment there are simply no funds available for a project of this size."

Wynn glanced about the office, as did Tilswith, and she couldn't help a suspicious frown. Lanjov shifted uncomfortably.

Deep blue tapestries trimmed in soft cream covered the walls. On one wall hung a portrait of Chesna, his daughter, and on the opposite a portrait of the king. The imported Suman rug was thick enough to sleep on, and a porcelain tea service, with matching pitcher and washbasin, rested on a cherrywood stand by the chamber's side door. Lanjov's inkwell and the tip of his crystal-handled quill were crafted in matching silver.

"Yes," Tilswith said. "We see problem… with money."

Wynn felt her previous hope fade as Lanjov's expression turned from polite frustration to one of dismissal.

"I respect your presence here, and am personally glad of it," he said seriously, "but truly, Tilswith, we have more pressing matters. No-don't look at me as if I'm deaf. There are other matters… criminal matters which require the council's attention."

These words the domin understood, and he paused in silence.

"I sorry your daughter," Tilswith said. "She kind girl… in… innocent."

Wynn, too, felt sympathy. Lanjov was a private man, and the recent murder of his daughter-on the front porch of their home, no less-weighed heavily upon him. She had heard little in detail, but the brief descriptions of the body were more than she cared to know.

"I help if can," Tilswith added.

Lanjov nodded stiffly. "Yes, I know you would. We are doing what we can to find her killer. The council has sent to Miiska for a dhampir." He then paused. "Do you know of such?"

Both sages stared at him for a moment. Tilswith frowned in confusion and then leaned closer to Wynn, seeking an explanation.

Wynn looked back to Lanjov. "What is a dhampir?"

"A hunter of the dead-or the undead," he answered. "Yes, yes, I know it's distasteful and superstitious-sounding, but…" He stopped, clear discomfort rising in his eyes. "An unnatural creature murdered my daughter. I have no doubt of this, and the city needs an equally unusual agent to hunt it down."

"But what is a dhampir?" Wynn repeated.

Lanjov sighed again. "From what I've been told, legend has it that such a person is the offspring of a vampire and a mortal and, by nature, capable of exterminating these creatures."

Wynn paused, uncertain of what she heard, and then translated. Domin Tilswith scoffed.

"Child tales," he said. "We have like in stories call ar-dadesbarn."

"You would say ‘dead's child, " Wynn explained, "though it is the offspring of a revenant, not your vampires. How much did you pay this… dhampir?"

"Tales of this person drifted along the coast," Lanjov said, ignoring the issue of payment. "It seems those stories are true to a point, as much as any rumor holds some grain of truth. She and her companion hunted down at least three undeads in Miiska. That she has killed at least three is verified by Miiska's town council." Lanjov shook his head slowly. "Undeads… the mere thought that such things are more than peasant superstitions…"

Tilswith shook his head sympathetically and scoffed again, but Wynn was curiously intrigued. A half-undead?

Domin Tilswith appeared on the verge of returning to the issue of new guild quarters, when a knock sounded at the side door.

"Come in," Lanjov called out, sounding rather eager.

Crias Doviak, council secretary, put his head around the door.

"She's arrived, sir," Doviak said. "The council is gathering in the main chamber now."

Lanjov quickly rose. "Thank you. I will be in directly."

Doviak nodded respectfully and left.

"I apologize," Lanjov said to Tilswith, stepping briskly around the desk. "Duty calls me away."

Tilswith sputtered, but Lanjov nearly lifted him out of the chair while shaking his hand in farewell. He placed a hand on Wynn's shoulder as well, propelling them toward the main chamber door.

"We will continue addressing your concerns as soon as possible."

Surprised by this sudden rush out of Lanjov's office, Wynn instinctively tried to plant her heels in the floor, but the councilman's large hand slipped down the center of her back with a quick shove. Before she could offer a polite good-bye, the door closed in their faces.

"H'neaw hornunznu!" Tilswith spit back at the closed door.

Wynn was relieved she did not have to translate such an utterance.

Leesil slowed his step as they approached the council hall, overwhelmed by its sheer size. The lengthy, three-story building also served as the city's central courthouse and hall of justice. It was bound to be more than the back room of the Velvet Rose used by Miiska's own council-but this he hadn't expected. The entrance doors were wide enough to pass through with arms outstretched. When he stepped inside, Leesil felt an anxious spasm for every questionable act he'd ever committed in his entire life.

Once inside the cathedral-like entryway, he, Magiere, and Chap waited as an interior guard sent a youthful attendant to fetch their escort, Crias Doviak, secretary of the council. The paned window arch above the doors spilled light across stone walls stained in soft green to complement a marble floor with veins the color of jade. Above them, raised into the domed ceiling, hung an iron chandelier with polished brass fittings that held at least two dozen oil-lamp receptacles in glass globes.

Leesil adjusted the faded scarf on his head and surveyed his attire in somber dismay. He felt like a dolt who'd walked home through the town market not realizing he'd sat in cattle droppings. Normally, he didn't care what anyone thought of his appearance, but this was a whole other world. They were here to play hunters of the dead-for real this time.

Magiere was oblivious, pacing in short steps back and forth around the polished floor. After Leesil left her to find a weaponsmith, she'd gone with the pier boys to a moderate inn called the Burdock in the lower-class merchant district. The inn turned out to be owned and run by Vatz's uncle but was suitable in all other respects. When Leesil caught up with Magiere, they'd barely had time for soup before leaving to meet with Bela's council.

"Don't worry," he said to her. "All we do is find out about the death of this councilman's daughter, get an idea where to start looking, and Chap can take us from there. Just like in Miiska."

"I'm not worried," she answered.

Chap whined and pushed his nose into her palm as she passed him in her pacing.

"Stop it," she said, pushing the dog's muzzle aside. She gave Leesil a disdainful look. "I've dealt with enough village elders back when we were on the game. I know how this is played."

Yes, Leesil thought, but we're not in a Stravinan village.

These weren't superstitious peasants awed by floating powders, clanging urns, and a half-elf dusted in flour. They were in the king's city, and this wasn't a game anymore.

He simply nodded and said nothing.

Magiere's attire was less disheveled than his own. She wore her black breeches, a loose shirt that needed a wash, and a leather vest. Her hair was pulled back in its usual tail, and her falchion rested comfortably on her hip. She appeared relaxed-except for the constant pacing.

Down a side hall came a short, well-tailored man at a brisk trot, his heels clicking on the floor. Leesil assumed this to be Crias Doviak, the council secretary. Two armed guards accompanied him, and their longer legs made their steps seem slower and more deliberate.

"The council has gathered and awaits you in the main hall," Doviak said with a slightly affected lisp. His light brown hair was purposefully curled into small, uniform ringlets.

"We're ready," Leesil answered.

"As a formality, you must turn over all weapons to our guards." The diminutive secretary paused with an apologetic expression on his face. "Who will, of course, take proper care and return them upon your departure."

Magiere stared at him. "Why?"

Clearly not accustomed to confrontation, Doviak stammered for a moment.

"I assure you, it is standard policy for security." He proffered a short bow of his head. "Though in your case, dhampir, it would simply be a courtesy on your part."

"Oh, give them your sword," Leesil blurted out. "I doubt you'll have need of it here."

Magiere scowled but began unbelting her scabbard.

"And where," Doviak began in a cautious tone, "will the mistress be leaving her dog?"

"He stays with us," Leesil said flatly.

Doviak opened his mouth to argue and then closed it.

Magiere surrendered her falchion to one guard, who in turn asked, "Anything else?"

"That's all," she answered sharply.

The guard nodded. Leesil still wore his two "everyday" stilettos inside of his shirtsleeves, but he saw no need to mention them.

They were ushered down a wide corridor, Doviak leading the way, and the guards following behind. They turned into another wide hallway headed for huge double doors of carved dark wood. Along the passage were smaller side doors, and standing before one were an elderly man and a young woman, both wearing simple gray robes. Even in their plain attire, Leesil found them mildly curious and then outright unsettling as they stared back, looking him over as if he were some strange animal that had managed to get into the building unnoticed.

The young woman paused from chatting with her elder companion and absorbed the sight of Leesil, then Magiere, and finally Chap. Her face was smooth and oval, and she didn't blink once as she looked over the trio, particularly Chap. She offered a mild smile in greeting and spoke directly to Leesil.

"Majaye tudg bithva annaseach esh dille! Sheorsde a'bithva?"

He didn't understand it, but felt an uncomfortable tickle of familiarity with the sounds. The woman was speaking Elvish to him, though something was different compared to the few words he had heard in the past from his mother.

"I'm sorry," Leesil replied. "I don't speak…"

"Oh." She appeared embarrassed and confused at the same time. "I apologize… I did not realize."

Leesil looked away, avoiding the situation altogether, then noticed Chap's attention fixed upon the woman. His tail was wagging. At that, Leesil couldn't help looking back as well.

The woman gazed at the hound with eyes narrowed in puzzlement. Then, as if the moment never happened, Chap turned and loped to catch up. The huge doors opened, and Doviak ushered all three of them into the adjoining chamber.

Leesil found himself standing between Magiere and Chap in a cavernous room buzzing with hushed activity. Guards stood at all four corners, and attendants unobtrusively poured tea, took cloaks, and refilled inkwells on the immense table. Life-size portraits of unsmiling, conservatively dressed, middle-aged men hung at intervals on all four walls between cobalt curtains trimmed in white. And the table…

He couldn't imagine a mahogany tree large enough to provide that solid, singular piece of wood. Its oblong surface stretched over half the room's length, from door to the far wall, in all its refined glory. At least thirty men of various ages sat around it in high-backed mahogany chairs and stared at the new arrivals.

Magiere didn't appear impressed by the scene before them. She stepped up to the table's rear end, following Doviak, and the little man stopped to announce them.

"Mistress Magiere and…" Doviak paused, looking uncomfortably at Chap and Leesil. "And party."

At the table's far end, in the position of central authority, one man stood up. He was unusually tall, with broad shoulders and steel-gray hair, and everything he wore from collar to cuffs was impeccable. Again, Leesil wished he'd at least taken time to wash his shirt.

"I am Alexi Lanjov, chairman of the council for Bela," the man said. He hesitated, looking her over with uncertainty. "You are Magiere? The hunter from Miiska?"

Leesil sensed that Lanjov was usually skilled at guarding his thoughts, but there was no hiding the shock in his eyes. Magiere was clearly not what he expected.

Magiere looked straight at Lanjov without notice of anyone or anything else in the room.

"Yes, I'm the hunter you requested."

Several council members whispered to each other in low tones. An old man dressed entirely in black pointed at Chap.

"Animals are not allowed in the council chamber. They are not even allowed in the building."

Leesil put his hand on Chap's back and felt the dog tense, as if Chap knew he'd become the object of attention. Magiere's gaze shifted to the old man, resting upon him for the span of a breath. Without comment, she returned her attention to Lanjov.

"Your offer has been accepted," she said. "All we need now are the details. Your letter said a girl was killed on her own doorstep. We need the location and a piece of her clothing, and we will start from there."

Lanjov's face grew pale, and he breathed in audibly. The whispers grew into muttering until a strong voice with a vaguely familiar accent rose above them.

"And what, exactly, are you planning to start?"

Leesil followed the voice to an unusual man with shoulder-length black-brown hair, a close-trimmed beard, and pockmarked ginger-colored skin. He wore a silk robe of dark amber and exuded visible arrogance.

Lanjov raised one hand in the air. "Lord Au'shiyn… we addressed your concerns before, and the matter was settled."

Au'shiyn. Leesil repeated the name in his mind. It wasn't Stravinan or Belaskian. He wondered if the man was from the deep parts of Droevinka, but the accent didn't match and his name didn't sound of that country or language. Then Leesil recognized where he'd heard such an accent before.

Au'shiyn spoke like Rashed, the warrior undead Magiere had fought in Miiska. And Rashed had been Suman in his living days. What was a man from the Suman Empire doing on the Bela city council?

"It was not adequately settled," Au'shiyn answered coldly, and he turned on Magiere again. "What exactly do you believe you are to hunt?"

For the first time since entering the council chambers, Magiere's expression grew uncertain.

"Your council sent for me," she said directly to Lanjov. "The letter was very clear."

"Yes, yes," answered a young man with reddish-blond hair sitting at Lanjov's side. He appeared earnest but distressed at the dissension. "Please understand, our offer is genuine. It is Councilman's Lanjov's daughter who was murdered at his own home. This is difficult for him to discuss."

Lanjov nodded but looked no less troubled.

One word the younger man at Lanjov's side had used now stuck in Leesil's thoughts: murdered.

He'd read the letter sent to Miiska's council mentioning a girl killed, but he'd never heard the term "murder" in connection to vampires. "Killed" or "slaughtered," or a number of more disturbing terms. This young man's tone was different.

Lord Au'shiyn picked up on the word as well. "Indeed, the poor girl was murdered, so I would like to know why our own city guard has not tracked down her killer."

"Because the killer isn't natural!" the young man burst out. "It is an undead that feeds on blood. For that, we need a dhampir. The city guard has tried and failed."

Au'shiyn burst out laughing. "Yes, a dhampir." With amusement, he appraised Magiere. "One of your parents is of these predatory corpses-a vampire? Which one? Mother or father?"

Magiere's expression turned cold. Leesil eyed the four guards around the room and was particularly glad she'd been disarmed before entering. Even the doubtful men around Au'shiyn had the good taste to look embarrassed.

"Really," the man next to him murmured. "Is that necessary?"

"Enough!" Councilman Lanjov ordered. "The dhampir has come to help us. She deserves our thanks and cooperation"-he nodded to Magiere, briefly lowering his eyes-"and common courtesy as well. Suitable rooms have been reserved for you at one of Bela's finest inns. I'll have guards escort you immediately. Come to my office in the morning, and I can give you the few details that I have."

Magiere stepped back, taking in the entire scene. Leesil knew her well enough to realize this moment was crucial. She'd either tell them to burn the offer and where they could stuff the ashes, or she'd put forth the effort to gain control of the situation.

Chap whined and put his nose in her palm. She looked down at him, and Leesil watched them lock into a long gaze. Magiere gave Chap a rueful smile and stroked his head. She turned her dark, determined eyes back upon the council and walked slowly around the long, oval table.

"One of your members lost a child in a way that frightened the lot of you enough to send for me. If she died with her throat torn open, then you either have an inhuman predator or a sick madman on your hands. I'll assume your guards can handle a madman, so it's obvious why I'm here." At that, her gaze passed over Au'shiyn but didn't pause. "If it's an undead, then you need me-and them." She pointed at Leesil and Chap. "The only reason we're here is because you offered us enough money to save Miiska from ruin. The offer has been made and accepted. Now, all you need to do is answer our requests and stay out of our way."

When Magiere finally stopped at Lanjov's side, even Au'shiyn remained silent. Leesil suppressed a grin. None of these men were accustomed to such blunt words.

"We've our own rooms," she informed Lanjov. "It won't do to have guards parade us into some upscale inn. We don't need that kind of attention."

Lanjov's shock at having lost control increased. "The arrangements are already made."

"Then get your money back," she said. "And tomorrow morning is too late. The trail is already cold as is. We'll visit your home tonight."

"My home?"

Lanjov faltered. Clearly, he never considered the idea, but then he nodded as he realized the oversight. Mystery still surrounded Magiere, and he probably thought she had some supernatural method for tracking.

"This evening," Magiere said firmly. "We'll need the location. We don't want an escort."

The chairman sat down and resumed his calm but dominating demeanor.

"Of course," he said. "My aide will provide directions."

At that, Magiere turned on her heel and headed for the doors, past the openmouthed Doviak, with Leesil and Chap stepping in beside her. She stopped briefly before the guard at the door.

"My sword," she said.

The man handed it to her, and she continued, not even pausing until they were outside on the council hall's terrace. Only then did she close her eyes, lean on the stone rail, and let out a deep breath.

"Just like village leaders." She didn't sound confident in the comparison. "No matter how angry, on the inside, they're frightened. They want someone else to fight their battle."

"Do you think it really is an undead?" Leesil asked.

"I don't know. You know as much as I do about that. But for Miiska's sake, we'd better hope so."

"Sad thought," he added, and then straightened in dramatic determination. "Well, you dealt with the wolves once today, so wait here. I'll get directions to Lanjov's house."

"Yes," she said. "Then we're on the hunt."

He looked over her pale features, her hair, mouth, and her eyes staring blankly out into the courtyard, lost in thoughts he couldn't touch. At least she'd finally committed herself. He would see to it she reached the end and made it home again, no matter what else might pass between them.

"On the hunt," Leesil agreed.

Welstiel Massing waited in the side corner of Councilman Lanjov's office. He knew the meeting taking place would soon end, and Lanjov always returned directly to his private chamber. Finally, the door opened.

Lanjov appeared drained and tense. Moving to his desk, he sank into the chair and pulled a velvet cord hanging against the wall.

Doviak poked his head in the door. "Yes, sir?"

"I wish to dismiss the hunter and have a note immediately delivered wherever she is staying."

Doviak nodded in approval with a quick breath of relief. "I'll get a parchment and be in directly."

Lanjov buried his face in his hands as the door closed.

"You would be wrong to dismiss the dhampir," Welstiel said as he stepped out.

Lanjov started slightly and turned in his chair.

"Welstiel?" he said, regaining his composure. "How did you…? What are you doing in here?"

"Your aide showed me in a short while ago. I've been in the cellar archives all day doing research. I heard the dhampir had arrived and came up to wait for you."

"I did not notice you," Lanjov answered. He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his eyes. "You should have announced your presence."

"The audience did not go well?"

Welstiel stepped to the front of the desk, fingers laced with his hands hanging down to rest on his belt. Lanjov's attention fell briefly on the partially missing little finger. Welstiel often wore gloves to hide the slight disfigurement, but now his hands were bare.

"A disaster," Lanjov answered. "You told me she was a professional."

"She is," Welstiel answered. "Do not allow her appearance and manner to fool you. Only moons ago, she destroyed a trained undead warrior nearly twice her weight. She is a dhampir."

Lanjov shook his head with uncertainty.

Welstiel had met him for the first time a month ago at the Knight's House, an establishment for the elite of Bela. Then-polite acquaintance quickly grew to casual companionship, and with the exception of Domin Tilswith, Welstiel was the only friend of Lanjov's to express open sympathy at Chesna's death. Lanjov wanted justice, so he called it. Welstiel offered to help him reason through what had happened and suggested a possible solution.

"If there is a vampire in Bela, she will find it," Welstiel continued. "I've seen firsthand how undead beasts kill. Your daughter was taken by such."

A brisk knock on the door sounded, and Doviak walked in.

Lanjov hesitated, and Welstiel understood his concerns. If the dhampir failed, he would be disgraced. If he sent her away now, he would look like a fool after all the pressure he had put on the council-and there would be no justice for Chesna.

"Never mind, Doviak," Lanjov whispered. "We will stay on our current course for now."

Doviak glanced briefly at Welstiel and frowned, his small mouth pursed. "Are you certain?" he asked Lanjov.

"Stay strong in this," Welstiel encouraged. "And let the hunt begin."

Lanjov took a deep long breath. "Let the hunt begin."