Traitor to the Blood

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wynn sat on the floor of her room late the next morning, examining the drawings Leesil had brought her. She was still annoyed he had not shown them to her the night before. And there was something more he was keeping from her, of that much she was certain. She could not believe how obtuse Leesil acted regarding this entire situation. Or perhaps he did understand the implications and did not care.

"Byrd left these with you?" she asked. "After you searched through his belongings without his permission? He just handed them to you and said, 'Here, show your friends'?"

"Wynn-"

"Where is Magiere?"

Leesil sighed. "Downstairs with Chap and Byrd. Putting out breakfast, I believe."

"Get your cloak," Wynn said, and stood up, gathering the drawings. "And Magiere's. We need to speak alone."

"We don't need to go out. I'll call Magiere and Chap up-"

"No! I am not saying anything with one of Darmouth's spies nearby, who appears to have his own agenda. There is no telling what Byrd will do with any information he might overhear."

Leesil crossed his arms. Wynn stood there waiting until he realized she would not budge. He finally turned and opened the room's door.

"Meet me downstairs."

Wynn tucked the drawings under the bed. She put on her sheepskin coat and shouldered the pack. She felt something shift in her pocket and reached inside, remembering the cold lamp crystal she had placed there. Lifting it out, she examined it for a moment, feeling wistful for Domin Tilswith and the Guild of Sagecraft. Alchemists among the sages, artificers who practiced thaumaturgy, created the crystals. The stone glowed brightly when warmed by human hands. She sighed and slipped it back into her coat pocket.

She lifted Tomato and Potato from her bed and carried them downstairs. Byrd had placed a bowl of milk near the kitchen doorway, and she settled them there. Tomato began lapping milk immediately, but Potato sat on his brown rump, blinking sleepily. He noticed his sister's busy tongue and sniffed about until his squat nose led him to breakfast.

Magiere pulled aside the doorway curtain and stepped out from the kitchen, a ratty old hand towel over her shoulder. Her black hair hung down her back over a white linen shirt. Wynn noticed how seldom Magiere bound her hair back these days.

"Did you look at the drawings?" Magiere asked without a "good morning" or a "sleep well?"

Wynn did not answer. Leesil came down the stairs wearing his cloak and carrying Magiere's.

"We need to go out for supplies," Wynn said. "All four of us."

Magiere glanced at Leesil and back to Wynn. "What do we need that we don't have already?"

Wynn grasped Magiere's forearm. "We need to go out for supplies."

Magiere looked at her for a moment, then lowered her voice. "How long? Byrd's busy with a late breakfast."

"Tell him to keep it warm," Leesil said.

Magiere turned back around the bar's end, headed for the kitchen doorway.

A loud hiss and an angry snarl came from the kitchen. The doorway curtain snapped and curled up as something low to the floor raced under it. Tomato scrambled away through Wynn's legs, but the confused little Potato lost his footing and tumbled onto his face.

The white blur of Clover Roll boiled from around the bar, and Chap came through on the cat's heels, sending the milk bowl splashing off through the table legs in the common room. Clover Roll jumped for _a high table, and Chap charged after, sharp teeth snapping.

"Chap! Stop it!" Wynn rushed in before Leesil could move.

She wrapped her arms around the dog's chest, but he was much stronger than she. Her grip slid down to his haunches. His next lunge pulled her feet out from under her. Wynn landed on her rump as Chap got his front legs on the table. Clover Roll's back hunched almost as high as his belly hung low.

Byrd came running out with a bowl of eggs in his hands. "Clover! You flea-bitten bag of bile!"

Leesil grabbed Chap by the neck so Wynn could get up. Clover Roll hissed and spit, his wide belly swaying back and forth. Wynn saw that Chap's face was bleeding below his left eye.

"It's not the dog's fault," Byrd said. "Clover bushwhacked him from a cupboard. Must have been waiting there all morning for the chance. Swung down, hanging by one paw, and swiped your dog before he knew what was coming." He wagged a finger at Clover Roll. "You can quit this victim's act. You're the perpetrator here, and if that dog needs a healer, it's coming out of your share this month!"

Leesil pulled Chap down to the floor. Wynn rummaged in her pack for a jar of salve and applied some to the dog's face. The wound was minor, and certainly no healer was required.

"We need to go out for personal supplies," she said to Byrd, ignoring Chap's low grumble. "It will not take long."

Byrd cocked his head in puzzlement as he lifted Clover Roll off the table. "Dress warmly, as it's bitter out today. And Leesil, keep your face and hair covered, and put some gloves on those hands."

Wynn thought Leesil hardly needed reminding, but she let go of Chap to pull her own gloves on. The four companions left the inn and walked up the side street to the thoroughfare of the merchant district. Light snowflakes blew past them and twisted gently around the buildings in the breeze. Even Magiere, who seldom seemed to feel the cold, shivered briefly.

"Someone want to tell me what we're doing?" Magiere said, and looked directly at Wynn.

"Not yet," Wynn answered.

Chap was more settled, now that they were away from the cats, and trotted with his tail in the air, unmindful of the cold weather.

Wynn noticed that the mood and health of the people living within Venjetz. was a stark contrast to those of the villages. Shops and inns bustled with activity, though more subdued than the great city of Bela or even the dark streets of Keonsk, the capital of Droevinka. But unlike the villages of this province, here no one clung to their horses and goods in fear. There was no shortage of motley soldiers about. Armed guardsmen patrolled the streets in twos or threes at regular intervals, yet no one appeared fearful for their young sons helping in the market. Perhaps conscription was not allowed within the city walls.

The most notable oddity Wynn saw was the state of disrepair. Few streets outside Favor's Row were cobbled, but unlike the dirt streets of Keonsk, which were kept carefully grated and smoothed, Wynn found herself walking on frozen mud clumps and wheel ruts, as if the streets of Venjetz had not been tended in years. Some shops and stalls were falling apart, yet the people appeared industrious. Perhaps there were no woodsmen, lumber millers, or ironworkers left to make materials for repairs with so many conscripted for too long. Or were they being employed in other pursuits in a land where war might come at any time?

As they approached the open marketplace, Wynn caught the sound of hawkers' shouts and the smell of overspiced meats. Chap whined pathetically, and Wynn pointed to a small open-fronted stall with smoke rising through a clay chimney on its snow-dusted roof. Half of the place was open all the way to the back wall. Stools were ringed around small tables.

"In there," she said.

They took a table at the back corner. Leesil sat to one side, hood pulled forward around his face, and studied the other patrons. Wynn settled in at the back with Magiere to the other side. When customers left the nearest table, Leesil shoved the vacated furniture farther away with his foot to give them more privacy. The buzz of voices all around would help mask anything they said. Leesil called out an order for tea and porridge to a boy hauling away a tray of empty bowls.

Wynn leaned intently toward him. "You need to tell us what is going on."

Magiere pulled her hood back and shook out her hair. "What do you mean?"

"You saw the drawings," Wynn whispered. "And we know who. what kind of person Byrd spoke with last night. So what does this add up to?"

Magiere closed her eyes and sighed. Leesil rubbed his face and looked away.

"What?" Wynn looked at each of them in astonishment. "You know what he is involved in, and you did not bother to tell me?"

She was reluctant to say "Darmouth" or "assassination," even in a hushed voice.

"When could we, with Byrd hovering about?" Leesil returned irritably.

Magiere frowned at him before turning to Wynn. "Ordinary elves don't mingle with humans, and I'd guess the anmaglahk are even more reluctant. So how is it Byrd could get them involved in killing…" She did not say Darmouth's name either. "I know what it looks like, but I wonder if they're up to something of their own that Byrd isn't aware of. Some purpose that has nothing to do with his plans."

Leesil remained silent, head hanging, and Wynn found no denial in his cowl-shadowed face. He must have pieced together something from the drawings and talking alone with Byrd. His silence confirmed he had suspicions, but he clearly did not understand the repercussions of Darmouth's sudden death.

"We have to stop it," Wynn whispered.

Leesil lifted his head. Magiere's pale face grew astonished.

"Save a despot?" Magiere growled too loudly, then lowered her voice. "This has nothing to do with us. What new madness have you got running around in your head?"

Chap growled from under the table, his agreement clear.

"What happens once his death is known?" Wynn whispered back. "Every noble with armed forces will seek-"

"To take control of the province," Leesil finished. "It still has nothing to do with us. I came here to learn what happened to my parents, and Byrd has been little help."

Magiere's brow wrinkled and she sadly closed her eyes. Wynn could not spare anyone's feelings in this matter.

"We will not abandon the search," she said. "But think how many villages will be devastated by a civil war… how many people will die."

"Inside or out, it's the same," Leesil snapped. "Conscriptions are up. People flee for the border, as if military service were a certain death sentence. Why does Darmouth build up forces in such a reckless manner? Either he'll assault another province, or he's bracing for an invasion. Insurrection might come in either case. It doesn't matter how it happens-war is coming, from inside or outside or both. If he's dead in the mix, so much the better."

"Do you not see?" Wynn replied in a low voice. "Civil war breaks out in Droevinka. An anmaglahk was sent to Bela after you, Leesil. Now these elves assist humans to murder a warlord. It is beyond one more war for this region's namesake. It is not just happening in the Warlands. And Darmouth still holds this province together, no matter how vile he may be.'

Leesil turned slightly toward Wynn, and she saw his face-and his open disdain. Magiere sat back, dark eyes glancing about.

"Why would the anmaglahk get involved in this?" she asked.

"I don't know." Leesil remained silent a moment. "Perhaps that's not their only purpose here."

A dull-eyed serving maid in a filthy apron pressed through patrons to their table. She thunked down four small bowls and rough clay cups, and a tin pot of brown water that was presumably the tea. Unfortunately, Magiere paid the woman before she looked into the bowls and saw what passed for porridge. When they were alone again, Magiere glanced sidelong with concern at Leesil and took a deep breath.

"Do you think Wynn is right about Byrd's plan?"

"Yes," Leesil answered, and set his own bowl under the table for Chap. "You heard me question him last night. He didn't answer, and that told me enough."

"And why is he so willing to let us study the drawings?" Wynn put in.

Leesil shook his head. "Some nonsense that it might help in my search."

"He works for Darmouth, yet he plots against him," Wynn contin-ued. "He is supposedly the only friend of Leesil's father, yet he works with these elves who have imprisoned Nein'a. And giving his cat a share of the profits… indeed! His eccentric acts are just that-an act."

Magiere raised both pale hands. "All right, we hear you."

Chap let out a vicious snarl from under the table, and Wynn jumped in her seat.

Other patrons glanced toward them and then down beneath their table. A few quickly got up and left, and a half-breath later, Leesil jerked up a foot as if struck.

A pottery bowl shot across the dirt floor and bounced between table and stool legs, splattering porridge all about.

Leesil twisted away, ducking his face, as Magiere shrank down, casting glances about at the other patrons staring at them. She turned a glower downward to beneath the table.

Wynn's jangled nerves gave way, and she lightly kicked out the toe of her boot. It collided with something soft but firm, and Chap growled in response.

"I have seen you eat worse," she whispered harshly. "Now stop it!"

"Will we ever eat in public," Magiere whispered with bowed head, "without causing a spectacle?"

No one answered her.

"I say we keep looking into the fate of Leesil's parents," Magiere continued, "until we uncover more of Byrd's scheme… and how to stop it without getting hanged from the city walls."

"Yes, good," Wynn said, relieved that for once Magiere was clearly on her side. "Leesil?"

This time he remained silent for so long that Wynn's patience was about to run out, and then he simply nodded.

"Back to Byrd's," Magiere said. "No matter what else, at least he can cook."

No one smiled at her joke. She grasped Leesil's hand, and his fingers slowly gripped down on hers.

"We should purchase a few supplies," Wynn suggested. "It would look strange to return with nothing after our excuse of leaving."

They left the eatery, which was now half-emptied, thanks to Chap's tantrum, and headed back to the open market. Wynn's mind was not on purchasing supplies or taking note of Venjetz and its people. Her thoughts were filled with how to uncover the rest of the tangled web that Byrd had woven around himself.

Chane awoke that evening to Welstiel once again murmuring in his dormancy. He sat up and swung his legs over the bed. His robin drank from a small tin cup on its cage floor, the cage placed securely on the little table in the room.

The Ivy Vine inn was a far cry from the Bronze Bell in both decor and service, though the Bronze Bell, supposedly the best in Venjetz, barely matched the middle-class establishments of Bela. And Welstiel had rented the only room left with two beds. It was clean but shabby, with a chipped water pitcher and basin resting on an uneven table.

Chane did not care. It was still preferable to another day in their makeshift tent covered over with brambles and branches. He wondered where Wynn was on this evening, what she might be doing, and if she was safe. Welstiel murmured again, and Chane stepped closer to peer down at his self-righteous companion.

"In… the high… ice," Welstiel whispered. "Orb… never feed… again."

Chane's resentment wavered. For the first time since rising from his second death, he felt something besides rage or hunger or lingering fear- curiosity.

In their travels, he had occasionally caught a few words of Welstiel's dormant mumblings. Something assisted Welstiel in searching for whatever he sought. Chane knew little more, other than that Magiere was somehow essential. Never feed again? Did Welstiel seek something made for a Noble Dead? An "orb" to sustain him without a need to hunt and feed?

He crouched on the balls of his feet and stared at Welstiel's languid face. Would that be a desirable state? Never to feed again?

Welstiel rolled, and his eyelids half opened.

Chane backed away to his bed, picking up his vestment from where it draped over the footboard. Welstiel sat up.

"What now?" Chane asked, as if the previous night had never happened and this was but another monotonous night in their tagalong behind Magiere.

"For now, you do nothing," Welstiel answered, rubbing his face with both hands. "I have an audience with Lord Darmouth. If all goes well, I will turn you loose on the city. You can savage as much of it as you like. That will flush Magiere into the open, and perhaps give me an opportunity to end this wasteful search for the half-blood's past." He looked Chane over, inspecting him from head to toe. "We must alter your appearance to avoid anyone providing an accurate description of you. Oh, and I felt it safer to give myself a false name, so I used your family's. Do not forget."

Chane tensed. "You gave Andraso as your surname?"

"Yes, is that a problem? Has your little sage heard this name?"

"No… not that I remember."

Chane understood the need for secrecy. He did not know why Welstiel's use of his family's name bothered him.

Welstiel reached into his pack and took out a black knitted cap. When he put it on, it completely covered the white patches at his temples. He donned his cloak and fastened it at his throat, then glanced at Chane as he reached into the pack again.

"I bought something for you," he said, and pulled out fresh parchment, an ink bottle, and two quill pens. "You might document the people and land here, as I doubt much has been recorded on them. It might be of future value in trade with the Guild of Sagecraft. If that still interests you."

Chane stared at the parchment in Welstiel's hand. He did not reach for it. First, he was surprised that Welstiel made such an uncharacteristic gesture. Second, he was surprised that he had absolutely no interest in scribing a single word. Once such intellectual pursuits had been important to him.

"No," he said.

A flash of disappointment passed across Welstiel's face. He placed the items on Chane's bed. "I may be a few hours. Do not leave the room."

The thought of pacing and waiting in this shabby inn was almost more than Chane could bear. He nodded, and Welstiel pulled on his gloves and left.

Chane stood alone in the center of the room. Once contemplative about most anything, he now hated having time to think. His mind always slipped to the same moments.

Fighting Magiere in the wet Droevinkan forest, he stood above her with his sword in both hands, ready to run it through her chest. Wynn rushed forward to shield Magiere with her own body, begging Chane to stop. And he did.

Magiere rose up. Her blade bit through his throat, burning his flesh from the inside. The world blackened in his sight, and that darkness brought terror.

His next awareness was waking in a shallow open grave, covered in dead bodies. Their throats slit, blood spilling over him, soaking into him, saturating his clothing and flesh. Inside, he was drenched in his own fear. The pain still in his throat was so intense it made every muscle in his body spasm.

And from nearby he had heard Welstiel's voice. "Are you awake yet?"

Welstiel brought Chane back, but Chane had not come back the same. Too much of himself was still lying in that grave. And he couldn't even remember Wynn mourning for him.

Chane reached out and fingered one of the new quills Welstiel had left, wondering where Wynn was and if she was safe.

Darmouth walked into the council hall with Faris two steps behind him between two of Omasta's men. Darmouth had too many pressing matters and suspects to watch, and now Emel had begged an audience for some stranger. The baron was the last of his trusted ministers and rarely asked for anything. Dismissing the request out of hand would be rash, and somehow Hedi was involved. This was enough to convince Darmouth to agree.

The wall braziers were lit and fat candles glowed from the long table. Two heavy tapestries hung on the back wall, one depicting his family crest, and the other was a lone, faceless rider on a rearing horse against a black background. Darmouth cared little for art, but the rider appealed to him.

Emel stood waiting with a pale man in a knit cap. Darmouth crossed his thick arms and looked the stranger up and down.

"May I introduce Viscount Andraso," Emel said in a formal tone.

Darmouth offered neither his hand nor a curt nod. Andraso looked about forty years old, of medium height and build. His eyes were strange, nearly colorless, like worthless quartz, and a slight bump widened the bridge of his nose. His clothes were hidden beneath a knee-length cloak, but that was no concern, as Omasta's men would have searched him and removed any weapons.

"Why are you here?" Darmouth asked bluntly.

"Lady Progae was attacked last night," Emel said, "by a man with misshapen teeth. He bit her throat, but she is all right. We need to track down this creature, and the viscount believes he can help."

"What do you mean 'bit her'?" Darmouth demanded. Being confused wasn't something he liked.

Viscount Andraso held up a gloved hand. "Baron Milea is still distraught by the events of last night. I assure you that Lady Progae is well, her wound minor and attended. The baron's men intervened quickly, but she was attacked by a vampire."

Andraso spoke with a distinct accent, and Darmouth forgot his confusion. He distrusted foreigners almost as much as his own nobles. "You're an outlander. Where are you from and why are you here?"

"Droevinka,' Andraso answered politely. "Merely passing this way while searching for a friend."

Emel pushed a lock of thinning hair back and stepped closer to Darmouth. "Please, my lord, hear him out."

"He's mad," Darmouth answered. "Vampires? I'm no addle-minded peasant! Throw him out."

"No, please, my lord," Emel said. "The… creature… that attacked Hedi was not a normal man, and I tended what was clearly a bite on her throat. Several of my men saw him-saw his teeth."

Darmouth frowned. Emel possessed no imagination, which was largely why he remained trustworthy. He was not given to overstatement or nonsense. Faris stepped closer to listen, his slender fingers intertwined.

"I know something of such creatures," Andraso said, "as they've been seen in my homeland. A hunter of the dead, a dhampir, is needed to track one down and destroy it."

Darmouth glanced at Faris, who backed away, and then turned to ask, "And you're such a hunter?"

Andraso shook his head. "No."

"Then why waste my time? If such a beast exists, my soldiers can deal with it."

Even in concern for his future bride, Darmouth wearied of this stranger's prattle. He cared nothing for some madman loose in the city, as sooner or later his soldiers always found and eliminated any troublemaker.

Andraso stepped closer, his eyes moving from Darmouth's face to his breastplate and back up again. "How many noblewomen live in the city at present?"

Darmouth's frown deepened. "Why are you asking?"

"By legend and folklore, some undead develop habits… specific tastes. This one tried to take a noblewoman behind the finest inn in the city. How will your nobles react if their women are threatened? Unless their lord takes action."

Darmouth felt his own face grow hot at the insinuation. Who was this foreigner to try intimidating him?

Emel stepped between them. "My lord, this man says a hunter named Magiere is here in the city. If you were to… to use official methods to locate her, we could retain her services quietly. If she's half what the viscount claims, she may track the beast down before word spreads, and this entire affair will be quickly over."

Darmouth looked into Emel's narrow face and his stifled rage subsided. Emel might be weak and unimaginative, but he often provided sensible counsel. Nodding slowly, Darmouth turned to one of his bodyguards. "Get Omasta in here now!"

As the bodyguard hurried out, Darmouth turned on Faris and didn't care if his dislike for the man showed. Vagabond trash that he was, the Mondyalitko and his wife had their uses-and talents. "Locate this hunter, Magiere. I want her found tonight."

Lieutenant Omasta strode through the council hall archway, a clot of gravy caught in his blond beard. "My lord?"

"Take a small contingency to the Bronze Bell," Darmouth instructed "Bring Lady Progae to the keep for protection." He paused at Emel's shocked expression. "For her safety, until this is settled."

Emel nodded and stepped back to escort his guest out. For an instant, no more than that, Darmouth was puzzled. Had something… threatening flickered across the baron's plain features?