The God Catcher

TWO

Veron Angalen had entered Waterdeep by the South Gate, tired and hungry, irritated by the furtive, worried looks he gathered-better, he admitted, than the outright looks of disgust a half-orc walking down the street got in some places, but smugger for their sheen of tolerance. He had been so frustrated that he'd nearly missed the dark-haired woman standing in the middle of the chaos of the gate and looking up at the towers of Waterdeep. A woman he'd been hunting for the last fourteen months.

That had been a day and a half earlier. Sitting in the corner of a hearth-house, cooling his heels and picking the last strings of meat from the bones of his dinner, Veron walked himself through what had gone wrong at the gate and what could easily go wrong when he found her again.

He pushed his plate back, and picked the saltcellar up from the table. If he was the saltcellar, then she had been as close as the knot in the wood grain of the table-in reality, perhaps the length of three carts. There had been plenty of carts to measure against-he laid several squab bones out to represent those. His knife he laid on the edge of the table-the South Gate he'd entered by.

He shifted the saltcellar. He had ducked behind a passing cart and watched her, hardly believing his eyes. The same features, the same height and build. If he called out her name, there was no doubt in his mind she would turn. He had expected she was in Waterdeep, but not that he'd find her as soon as he crossed into the city gates. City of Splendors indeed. She was distracted, staring up at the towers-he could capture her and take her back to Cormyr, collect his payment and move on.

He slid the saltcellar around the knob of a leg bone so that it stood partially shielded by the rib-cage water wagon. Behind the knot that stood for the woman by a bare inch. It had been perhaps five feet. It would have been so simple.

But he had hesitated. The gate had been crowded with scores of hawkers, farmers, pickpockets, servants, and patrolmen. There was nothing on his plate or in his pockets that he could use to represent all the people who had been milling between him and the woman and giving him sideways glances that said they trusted a murderer over a half-orc.

In Cormyr, Veron had seen the body-the wizard on the floor with his throat cut in a jagged line. Not by a knife. A shard of glass the size of his palm with a trim of dried blood lay discarded and cracked beside the dead man. Pieces of arcane equipment had been smashed to pieces. Scorch marks marred a floor littered with the pages of thrown-open tomes.

The servants all attested that the woman had been invited into the wizard Ardusk Nagaenil's study and that he'd asked not to be disturbed. They had been there for the better part of an hour.

Brace, the older hunter who employed Veron, hadn't believed it. "Servants will say a lot of things when their master's dead," he'd said.

But if they had been telling the truth, they had called for the war wizards when they heard their master shouting. Which meant the chaos that had ended with another man dead had taken all of a few minutes.

If she snapped in a crowd of people, who knew how many would end up dead.

Veron was inclined to believe the servants. He'd found the wizard's notes. Ardusk had been interested in her. Spellscarred, the wizard had posited. Loss of memory. Erratic behaviors. Possibly violent.

And thinks she's a dragon of all things, Veron added, studying the knot in the wood. The woman was madder than a mouther, he knew that much.

Veron didn't know why she'd cut the wizard's throat or why the wizard hadn't managed to stop her. He didn't know why the wizard had brought the woman up into his study in the first place-all of which bothered him.

"Don't ask too many questions," Brace had told him. "You aren't a judge, and you aren't the one hiring a hunter. What you don't know doesn't matter."

What Veron did know was that she was dangerous. That if he didn't capture her, his reputation would crumble. That he was very tired of hunting the woman, who had managed for the past year to be a village ahead, a kingdom away. Easier than catching the murderer unawares would be killing her and calling it done with. But the wizard's family wanted her captured alive, and he had agreed.

He'd slipped out from behind the cart intending to trail her until they were out of the rush of the gate. But by then she was gone. He'd missed his chance.

So he had spent the better part of two days wandering the city and looking for a sign of her. Nothing. Everywhere he looked, the crowds offered up dark-haired, tawny-skinned women, none of them the killer from Cormyr.

He dropped the pigeon bones one by one back onto the plate and recognized there was nothing he could do but wait a little longer, listen a little closer.

Verori had toyed with the idea of going to the Watch shortly after he'd lost her. But no. No. It would be a waste of time. As soon as he said, "I'm looking for a woman who thinks she's a dragon," they'd be laughing. Maybe even before. He knew the wizard's family doubted him, eyeing his olive skin and under-bite. He'd had a string of lucky captures-easily attributed to Tymora's blessing instead of his skill-and when he'd heard about the wizard's murder, he'd seen a chance to increase his renown if he could just convince them he was smart enough to do it. With enough of Brace's praise and a careful scrutiny of his cool manners, the Nagaenils-and the war wizards besides-had come around and hired him. No doubt in addition to half a dozen other hunters.

But as far as Veron could tell, no one had tracked her so far or so long.

In the last year of pursuing her, Veron had learned a great deal about the woman, but important questions-Why did she kill the wizard? What might provoke her to lash out again? — still troubled him. He sipped his ale.

When he found her again, he would have to be cautious. Careful. But confident. He would need help, that was certain.

Down by the water, where the dank reek of Mistshore hung heavily on the air and the occasional body in the alley languished until it started to smell, a well-appointed carriage had been sitting in the street for the better part of a day.

The carriage was meant to draw little notice, but in this place, anything not decayed by moisture and hard life stood out like a torch in the night. Even through the pouring rain, it was clear the carriage didn't belong. It had-no doubt-drawn plenty of notice. Standing in the doorway of an establishment he'd rather not be connected to, the carriage's owner, a man in a mask, frowned.

He spent several songs staring at the conveyance, calculating the possibilities that someone was, even now, watching him.

The drug in his system-a rare and special treat imported from the shores of Returned Abeir solely by the establishment behind him-made his already sensitive eyes ache from the lamplight. He pulled the mask a little lower so the eyeholes sat low and the mask shaded his sight. The street was still.

The masked man sighed. The carriage and anyone who'd seen it couldn't be helped. Besides, while it might have stood out in Mistshore, he thought, it did not connect him in any way to the drug den. Provided he wasn't followed. He watched the carriage and the street for several moments, feeling the lethargy in his bones acutely. He was alone.

Blaming his mistrust on the drugs, he strode briskly to his carriage. His groom scrambled down to open the door and help him in.

With a contented sigh, he sank down into the plush seat and pulled the mask from his face, revealing the fine-boned features of an eladrin. He rubbed his solid blue eyes, thankful the magical lamps were shaded and the curtains drawn. Inside, the threatening air of the district was shut away. The dark carriage was warm and smelled faintly of musk and vinestar blossoms.

He frowned. He owned no such scent.

"Master Halnian," a smooth voice said.

Rhinzen Halnian nearly leaped out of his seat. He pulled the shade from the lamp, squinting in the sudden light of the glowballs. There was another man sitting opposite him. His hair was oiled back, sleek as an otter's, and the faint hint of rouge stained his cheeks. Virulent yellow lace dripped from the sleeves and collar peeking out of his black stormcloak. His muted red leggings were tucked into bright green, thick-heeled boots. He smiled, revealing two copper-capped canines.

"Enjoying your haepthum?"

"Son of a barghest, Magli," Rhinzen swore. The haepthum, the drug pulsing in his veins, made his heart race and thrust vicious spells to the front of Rhinzen's mind-easy to cast, easy to make the other man pay…

He ran a hand through his fine blond hair, as if to push those thoughts back where they belonged. "What are you doing here?"

"My patron is in the city," Ferremo Magli said, "and I am not looking forward to discussing how you've crossed me."

"Crossed you? Magli, I've done no such thing. Have you told-"

"I haven't said anything. Yet." He pulled a thin stiletto from under his jacket.

Fire, Rhinzen thought, the spell coming easily to mind, more easily than it would have without the haepthum. But the man merely began cleaning his fingernails. Rhinzen cleared his throat to cover his nerves.

"What can I do for you, then?"

"When," Ferremo said, not looking up from his nails, "were you planning on delivering the information my patron paid you for?" "Soon," Rhinzen said. "It isn't as if the spells are all the same. You can't underestimate what a delicate process it is."

"That's funny," Ferremo said. "I believe you told us you knew these particular… spells. Had set them up, in fact."

"I did."

"Seems to me if you're worth even the half you've been paid, you would be finished by now." He looked up at the eladrin. "And I could be out of your hair instead of watching you spend my coin on your filthy habit, trying to build up enough magic to impress anyone."

Rhinzen sneered. "It's a pleasure, not a crutch."

"So you say. I suppose you could also quit whenever you like." The blade flashed in the cold light. "Just like any dreamkisser."

His anger boiled spells through his thoughts. "Who are you to speak to me like that? I am Rhinzen Halnian of the Court of Summer's End, Master of Wizardry, Head of Ritual Studies." The haepthum hummed in his blood, and Rhinzen felt as if the threads of the Weave were becoming his very veins. "I have warded the noblest of Waterdeep. I have cut down mages whose simplest spells would make you weep like a babe. I have culled the weak willed from the mighty and raised the clever above the meek. Do you think I'm afraid of a thug in lady's boots?"

Thunk!

Rhinzen heard the stiletto sink into the seat beside him before he felt the knife slide between the bones of his hand. The haepthum dulled the pain, but Rhinzen still cried out as what it left untouched burned up his arm. His eyes watered. He tried to pull away, but the stiletto stuck, and Ferremo didn't loosen his grip. His eyes never left Rhinzen's as he leaned in close.

"First, I do know who you are," Ferremo whispered. His breath smelled like lemon peel. "I know exactly who you are. You shouldn't doubt yourself. Plenty of people know.

"Plenty of people who would also love to know what it is you're doing down in Mistshore in the evening hours. Think those noblest families would like to know what their scions' mentor is addicted to? I'll bet my whole purse I can tell you how well that would go. Especially when we get to discussing side effects. That little burst of pique, if my understanding is correct, is like a breeze compared to the gale you're toying with."

Blood was pooling beneath Rhinzen's palm, soaking into the velvet seats. His breath shuddered in and out of his lungs. His ears were ringing, but he heard every word Ferremo said. The man wasn't lying. He wouldn't hesitate to ruin Rhinzen's life.

"Second," Ferremo continued, "you've been paid. So I want to see results. If I have to go to my patron empty handed, I'm going to make certain you bear the brunt of what comes next. And I'm sure you can guess how painful that would be for you."

He pulled the stiletto from Rhinzen's hand. Rhinzen gasped out in relief and swaddled his bleeding hand in the hem of his robes.

"Third," Ferremo said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the knife clean, "you should be lucky enough to have these boots. Hydra scale. Hand stitched. They're worth a small fortune." He lifted his foot to show the gold embroidery running up the green-dyed, scaly leather. "And I think they're cunning. So I'd like to hear an apology."

"Sorry," Rhinzen said, trying not to scream.

Ferremo smiled, flashing his copper teeth. "Thank you." He slid his stiletto back into its hidden sheath. "I expect to hear from you in the next few days. Or we'll have to have another conversation."

Rhinzen nodded. Bastard human thought he was so clever.

The man smiled wider and opened the door of the carriage. "A good evening to you, Master Halnian," he said as he descended into Mistshore.

That, Ferremo thought as he walked away, was terribly fun. He seldom got the chance to do the dirty work anymore. The look on that puffed-up eladrin's face when the knife went in had been worth a dozen dragons in his coin purse. He didn't look back as the carriage clattered into the night-Rhinzen would take care of himself now. Time to get out of this cesspool and back to a nice warm Ferremo. The voice slapped Ferremo Magli's well-coiffed head with exquisite vertigo.

"Master?" he said softly.

Have you gotten it? the voice rumbled through his thoughts, deep as a cavern-the voice of his master's true form.

"Soon. The mage is running scared. He won't fail us."

Never underestimate the cowardice of the fey, his master said. Keep after him. The dragonward is more than I expected.

"Of course, master." Ferremo pulled the hood of his stormcloak lower as he passed a group of sharpjaws lurking in an alley, looking rough and reckless. "And the… next step?"

I am preoccupied. You will do it for me. Go to her home.

Ferremo winced inwardly. He was cold and drenched-and his boots were getting muddy-but he could not disappoint, not at this stage. "Yes, master."

I wilt send a carriage to meet you outside the docks. Hurry now. You show yourself too late, and they'll suspect. We can't have that.

No indeed, Ferremo thought to himself. All his master's plans hinged on the next step and a single woman.

There were things in the world, Tennora thought, that defied logic, defied expectation, and made one wonder if anything one had been taught was true after all. She held out hope for those things, the way a sailor's wife lights a candle in the window even when the sea is full of storms-her lost love may come back one day.

And there were things in the world, she thought, that were the fancy of madness or the fantasy of liars and cheats, and that made one wonder why one trusted anybody at all. Things that made one want to snuff the candle out.

"You're a dragon," Tennora said, slowly. "But you turned into a woman when you encountered spellplague."

Clytemorrenestrix rolled her eyes. "Yes. Didn't I say that?"

"Yes," Tennora said. Mad. Mad as the wizard under the mountain, she thought. "I wanted to make certain I heard you correctly." She glanced over the woman's flawless skin. "You don't have a spellscar."

The woman's face contorted in a scowl. "My whole body is a spellscar. At any rate I don't see how it matters. You do not need to know these things to bring me to Aundra Blacklock."

"I never said-"

Mardin interrupted with two plates of roast squab in rustic rosemary gravy. "Here you are, my dear, and one for your new friend." He looked expectantly at Tennora.

Tennora took a deep breath to ward off her rising anxiety. The woman couldn't be a dragon-that was impossible. Either she was toying with Tennora or she was mad. There was no other sensible explanation.

But what of the moment of fear that rushed up inside Tennora when she met the woman's eyes? What of the smell of lightning?

What of the fact that Tennora felt certain in the hollow of her heart that Clytemorrenestrix was telling the truth?

"This is…" Tennora frowned. Even if she could say the woman's name right, Mardin might know what it meant, and then what? "May I call you Nestrix?" "If you must," Clytemorrenestrix said.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear lady." Mardin took up one of her hands to kiss it, but Nestrix pulled away with a look of disgust. Mardin shifted awkwardly and looked to Tennora for an explanation.

"She…" Tennora started. Then shrugged. "She's had a long day."

Mardin raised an eyebrow, but did not press the matter. "Well, enjoy your meals," he said, and returned to his post behind the counter. He glanced back at Tennora, as if he knew she wasn't saying everything. As if he thought she should have.

The blue eyes met Tennora's again. "It's better not to tell him," Nestrix said. "Adventurers are excitable. Even if they aren't adventuring."

"How did you know he was an adventurer?"

Nestrix shrugged-a jerky, self-conscious gesture, as if she'd learned it from watching someone else and was still testing it out. "They have a look."

She's so uncomfortable in her skin, Tennora thought, pulling apart her squab. She shook her head-plenty of people looked awkward and none of them were dragons. She herself felt uncomfortable in her own skin more often than she cared to admit. She was being fanciful, just as Aunt Aowena always said.

"If you'd take your head out of the clouds for a change," she'd said over highsunfeast, "you'd see the world of opportunities you already have!" Then she'd gone on to name-as some of those opportunities-the Marchenors' son and the nephew of one of Eckhart's hunting friends.

"Will you take me to Blacklock or not?" Nestrix said.

Tennora passed her mug from one hand to the other. "Why do you want to talk to her?"

"That isn't your business."

"Look," Tennora said, "Aundra isn't an easy person to get to. If you want my help, you're going to have to give me a good reason."

Nestrix narrowed her eyes at Tennora. "I could kill you if you don't."

"I'm not afraid of you," Tennora said, though it was half a lie. Dragon or not, the woman still had a dangerous look to her.

The smell of summer storms rose again and vanished. A chill ran up Tennora's spine. Nestrix turned away, glaring at the fireplace.

"I have heard she's found a way to reverse the affects of the Spellplague," Nestrix said. "That she can repair the Weave in very limited locations. If she can do that, I will never have to worry about you not fearing me again." She turned back to Tennora. "You can't understand what it's like to look in the mirror and not recognize yourself, time and time again for over a century."

"I don't think it's that strange to…" Tennora trailed off as what Nestrix had said settled into place in her mental timeline. Over a century. Her eyes widened. "Shar pass us over… You mean… the Spellplague? The Year of Blue Fire?"

"Of course," Nestrix said, picking at a leg of squab. "What did you think I meant?"

"A… a pocket." Tennora shrugged. "Little bits of spell storm that pop up now and again." She studied the woman across from her. "You can't be a hundred years old."

Nestrix scowled. "Of course not. I'm five hundred and sixty-eight. And what little trace of spellplague could do this?" She gestured at her body as if it were scaled and slimy and not well muscled and pleasantly curvy. "I am plaguechanged, make no mistake."

"But you're not dead," Tennora said. "You should be dead. No human lives that long. Not anymore. In stories maybe-"

"I haven't the faintest idea how this works," Nestrix said, sounding irritated. "I may look like one of you, but I kept certain skills. My proper lifespan appears to be one of them."

"And the fear." Tennora leaned in closer. "What else?"

Nestrix smiled and Tennora found herself expecting serrated teeth-but they were even and flat. "If you help me, perhaps I'll show you. What do you say, thief?"

Tennora frowned. "I'm no thief."

"No? Thieves have a look too." Nestrix leaned across the table and sniffed audibly. "Ah, no-a wizard. With guano under her nails, cobwebs in her pockets, and ink on her fingertips." She leaned back.

"I'm not a wizard either," Tennora said.

"Then what are you?"

"Nothing. 'It seems no mastery burns within me,'" she said glumly.

Nestrix grinned. "Even I know those are Ahghairon's words. Don't quote your texts and tell me you're no wizard."

"I am a wizard as you are a dragon," Tennora said. "I was, and now I'm not." "Perhaps you should try your hand at being a thief," Nestrix said. "You have the look."

The tirade Aunt Aowena would unleash if that ever happened-punctuated, of course, by her fainting and Uncle Eckhart's blustering curses-was enough to give Tennora a prescient headache. She rubbed her temple.

Nestrix was watching her expectantly.

"I'm not opposed to helping you," Tennora said as diplomatically as she could manage, "but I have to say… I don't think Aundra's going to give you what you ask for."

"Of course she will. She has to."

"It's just… I mean, maybe I'm wrong, but what sort of dragon were you?"

Nestrix looked as if Tennora had slapped her. "You can't tell? What sort of wizard are you?"

"I already told you, I'm not a wizard-"

"Well, you were," Nestrix said, crossing her arms. "You should be able to tell. Or is that why you aren't anymore? You're too stupid?"

Tennora felt her cheeks flush. "I have a stlarning good idea. And even if I didn't, I'm betting I'd be guessing some colors that Aundra's not going to be interested in giving her charity to."

Nestrix's hand slapped down on Tennora's, and fear rushed toward her again. But it broke on Tennora's anger, and she felt it wash over her and away. She pulled back from Nestrix. "I am not stupid," she said. "And neither is Aundra."

Nestrix narrowed her eyes. "Your Aundra Blacklock knows nothing about me. If she won't help, then fine-I'll look elsewhere. But there's little fairness in assuming because my cousins are nasty to you, that I will be as well. I just want my life back." She fell silent for a moment, then added, "And for your information, anyone I've killed deserved it. Or do you allow strangers to wander through your home, taking your things and poking you with sticks?"

"No," Tennora said, "but I don't kill them if they do." "That's your weakness."

"And I don't insult people I'm asking for help. Now go away, or I'll call Mardin over and you can see how excitable he can be."

"You haven't even heard my offer," Nestrix said, folding her hands. "You want to be better at casting spells, don't you? You want to be a wizard again?"

Tennora hesitated. "Yes."

"I know a ritual that will help you."

Tennora shook her head. Why did she ever believe any of this? "No, you can't. I know enough about rituals. There's no such thing, and even if there were, you can't possibly be powerful enough to cast it."

"There might not be such a ritual now," Nestrix said. "But that's because you people lost it when the Blue Fire came."

"If it's from before the Spellplague, it won't work." "It might not work. But that doesn't mean a clever girl like you couldn't adapt it."

"Why do you have it? Are you a wizard?"

"Hardly. My mate was a spellcaster. He found the ritual and taught me to cast it on him. I do not claim to know much about spellcasting, but I could tell it made him very happy indeed."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead."

"I'm sorry."

"He was fortunate." She glared at the fireplace again. "I'm sorry I said you were stupid." She did not sound sorry. "Will you please help me?"

"How am I supposed to trust you?" But the truth was, she already did-in her gut, she trusted every word that Nestrix had said. Her mind knew better. It was a bad idea to trust a stranger, and a worse one to trust a dragon.

Nestrix looked at her thoughtfully. "Coins wouldn't do it… not for you. And a promise-well, if you'd take that, you wouldn't be asking." She considered her a moment longer and sighed heavily. She unfastened the pouch from around her neck and handed it to Tennora. "That is my guarantee and yours."

Tennora loosened the neck and peered inside. It had been stuffed with batting and rags. She nudged those aside and found, nestled in the middle, the curve of an eggshell. It was mottled blue and thick as a porcelain bowl.

"You bring me to Aundra Blacklock, I'll teach you the ritual," Nestrix said. "You keep that safe, I will not kill you."

"What is it?"

"A shell from my first clutch," she said. "It's what I have left of them. If you damage it, then I will kill you after all." This she said in as matter-of-fact a tone as she'd used when she'd described their deal.

"All right," Tennora said. "I'll do as you ask. But if Aundra won't see you, then I hand this back and you go on your way."

"Of course," Nestrix said.

Tennora slipped the pouch over her neck. It was lighter than it looked.

You shouldn't trust her, she told herself once more, but it was the memory of her mother's voice that rose up and caught her attention.

"Your wits are very useful," she'd said more than once. "But if your gut disagrees, your wits aren't worth much at all."

"I'll go settle with Mardin."

When she reached the bar, Mardin set aside the mug he was drying and came over to her. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Everything's fine," she said. He gave her a skeptical look. "It is. Look, what do I owe?" "Your coins are no good today, petal." He glanced over at Nestrix. "Who is she? What does she want?"

"Someone I met. Tell me or I'll just give you a pile of them."

"Fine, six coppers. But you tell me if you need help. Where did you meet her?"

"Out." Tennora counted out the coins. "Mardin, I can take care of myself."

"I know you can-wouldn't be your mother's daughter if you couldn't. But that woman looks a mite like the scorchkettle that was shouting in the street earlier."

"Funny," Tennora said. "I hadn't noticed."

"Be careful." He leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "And I'll say no more."

No more, Tennora thought, until tomorrow. Or until someone else asked him, and he told his new favorite patron all about dear little Tennora.

Truly, she adored Mardin as if he were her blood uncle. But between Mardin, Aunt Aowena, Uncle Eckhart, and-until lately-Master Halnian, she felt as if too many people were pulling her in too many directions. She could take care of herself, walk her own path, couldn't she?

But oh, how disappointed they'd all be if she didn't listen to them. If she told Aunt Aowena outright that her offer was insulting. If she told Uncle Eckhart she wasn't afraid of her neighbors and only a fool would be. If she told Mardin that she wasn't twelve years old anymore, sweet and quiet standing behind her mother's perfumed skirts, and she knew what she was risking and wanted to risk it anyway.

"It is best," her mother had said on more than one occasion, "to show your elders a polite face and a smile, and please them if you can. There are too many watching for you to miss a step and prove yourself unworthy of your father's name."

And much as Tennora tried not to care, to break herself of the well-trained reactions and choking politeness, she found herself falling back into them like a wheel into a rut.

She was so lost in her own thoughts, she nearly crashed into a man in a hooded stormcloak. She looked up and realized he wasn't a man but a half-orc, broad-shouldered and taller than her by head and a half.

"Sorry," she said, moving to the side. But the half-orc didn't move.

He grabbed her hand-his own was the size of a dessert plate-and pressed a piece of paper into it. "I must warn you. There isn't much time."

Oh gods, Tennora thought. A zealot. The market teemed with them, and some days they wandered down the street of the God Catcher trying to collect souls and alms. They were harmless, and more often than not their intentions were in the right place. But Tennora's soul was perfectly content, and its comportment-as her aunt would say-was not the business of a shifty-looking beggar.

But it was late, and he looked so concerned. She stifled her groan, smiled, and folded the leaflet, stuffing it in her pocket. "Thank you," she said pleasantly, and slipped to one side. "I promise I'll look at it later." If she was lucky there wouldn't be printing on one side and she could use it for notes. She pressed a few coppers into his hand and stepped around him to collect Nestrix and head home to the God Catcher.

Veron watched Nestrix and Tennora leave, twisting the fabric of his sleeve in one hand. He'd expected her to be startled, maybe for her to cry out or tell him off. He hadn't expected to be ignored and turned aside like that. He turned to the bartender.

"You were talking to her," he said. "Do you know where she lives?"

Mardin grunted. "What makes you think I'm daft enough to tell you that?" He looked Veron up and down. "You her fancyman? Veron startled. "I'm sorry?"

The bartender chuckled. "I don't judge. You ask me, my girl needs to find herself a nice fellow. In my book, anybody who cleans up his mess like you did with them pigeon bones gets a good mark, don't matter who his father is. So you can tell me. Passing her love notes?"

Veron felt his cheeks burn. "No, no-just… a concerned party. That person she's speaking to is trouble."

"She can handle it," Mardin said, picking up another mug.

"I don't think-"

"Do you know who that girl's mother was?" Mardin said. Veron Angalen shook his head. "Liferna Uskevren-and if you never heard of her, it just proves she was better at her trade than anyone under the sun before she took up with that Hedare boy, fell in love and into 'society.' A whole line of clever women and not a few damn clever men leads up to that one. Ruthless enough to get the job done, good-hearted enough to come back for you when the odds are tough. Tennora can take care of herself." Mardin frowned. "Though it's easy to forget that."

"She'll need to remember soon enough." Veron paid his bill and looked out the window at the God Catcher. The two women entered through the large door below the statue's chin. He should have been quicker.

He would have to be quicker next time. He was close, closer than he'd ever been.