The Warlord's legacy

Chapter Fourteen

BOISTEROUS CACOPHONY and stifling heat battled for the right to claim possession of the Third Sheet's common room, while a thick miasma of alcohol and body odor waited in the wings to challenge the victor. Shutters and the front door gaped wide, propped open by sticks or stones, but the gentle breeze that wafted through, stirring sawdust across the floor and hair across many heads, was no match for the roasting temperature within. Press so many bodies together, fill the air with the hot breath of laughter and conversation, add just a pinch of smoke from the kitchen fires, and the result was a refuge where summer lingered long after the rest of the city had kicked it out.

Given its halfway clever name, Corvis had hoped for more from the Third Sheet, but it was just another tavern. Tables and chairs stretched unevenly across the room. Laborers and craftsmen-some as uneven as the furniture-sat scattered around those tables or along a bar formed of a single tremendous log. Barmaids with harried faces and pinch-bruised bottoms wended through the throng, delivering drinks and plates of roast something-or-other on orders from a bearded bartender with an equally harried face (though, one might assume, a less battered rear).

A number of the larger men, and no small handful of women, carried themselves with the posture of professional soldiers. Even half drunk, clustered around a table and trading jests coarse enough to send a sailor diving overboard, they kept watch on the door, and on occasion a particularly startling sound inspired a few to drop their hands toward their waists.

Corvis, clad in the scruffiest traveling leathers he possessed-which was saying something-had seated himself a few tables away. He nursed a tankard of more foam than ale, and tried his best to make sure they noticed him watching them, all while appearing as though he was trying to be inconspicuous.

Harder, by far, than it sounds.

Eventually, however, one of the women met his gaze once too often. Scowling, she elbowed the fellow beside her and whispered, pointing Corvis's way with a chin so pronounced it was practically belligerent. Her companion, in turn, said something to the man beside him, and a moment later Corvis found his table surrounded by five tipsy soldiers.

This plan made a lot more sense before I actually put it in motion, he thought grimly.

'Don't most of them?'

"You got a problem?" the woman who'd first noticed him demanded, leaning across the table on her knuckles.

"I do," Corvis told her, deliberately keeping his hands well away from Sunder. "But not with you. Actually, it occurs to me you might be able to help me." He offered up what he hoped was a friendly grin. "Join me for a round?"

"You buyin'?" one of the others rasped.

"Wouldn't be a very polite invitation if I wasn't."

Amazing what the promise of free drink did for their attitudes. As Corvis waved over the nearest barmaid, he found himself suddenly surrounded by his best friends in the world.

More of them, he realized with a quick head count, than had actually come to threaten him in the first place.

"So," he said, once everyone was settled with tankard, mug, horn, or flagon in hand, "it seems to me that you folk have the look of fighting men. And women," he added, with what he hoped was a respectful-and perhaps just slightly appraising-glance at the sharp-featured soldier. She smirked and raised her mug. "And I'm thinking, with you being here in the city, and rumor telling me that the various House and mercenary companies are assembling outside the cities, that at least some of you must be city guards. Right so far?"

Nods and assenting grunts proved adequate, if not eloquent, response.

Corvis took a deliberately messy swig of his own beverage, wiping foam from his mustache. "So would I also be right in guessing, then, that some of you could tell me a bit about those murders that happened here recently?"

The table went dangerously silent, smiles flipping over and inside out into aggressive glowers. "Some of us lost friends that night," one man muttered darkly. "What makes you think that we'd want to talk to you about it?"

"Look," Corvis said, leaning inward, "I think we've all heard who was responsible, right? Well, there's an awfully large price on his head because of it. I don't pretend my odds of finding him are all that good, but I'm looking to collect on it. A man could retire on what they're offering, and the gods haven't yet answered my prayers about getting younger."

"You're a bounty hunter?" the women to his left asked.

"I am." Then, after an almost imperceptible pause, "Evislan Kade, at your service."

"We don't need any help from your kind," the first fellow grumbled.

"I don't doubt that," Corvis said lightly. "But you're stuck here. If You-Know-Who is still in Denathere, fine, you'll get him, and gods help him when you do. But you think he is still in Denathere? He's killed folk from here to Mecepheum, and if he's moved on, wouldn't you want to see him get what's coming to him? Even if you can't do it yourselves?"

The guards glanced and mumbled at one another, working through the logic in what "Evislan" said. While they considered, Corvis took the opportunity to order them all a second round, wincing only slightly at the tab he was racking up.

It did the trick, though. "All right," the woman said to him, hostility once more gone from her voice. "What is it you want to know?" THE CLOUDS HUNG LOW AND PREGNANT over Denathere, overripe fruit seemingly ready to burst. The scent of autumn rains perfumed the air, but the mischievous sky would only tease, withholding the cleansing showers it promised.

Corvis took it all in as he walked the streets: the shuffle and clatter of passersby, the looming faces of edifices nearly as old as Mecepheum's, the occasional flicker as beggars and urchins earned a few coppers by lighting the street lamps in advance of evening.

And he hated it, loathed every last inch of it with a burning passion that startled him after so many years. This damn city represented everything that had gone wrong in his life. Here, his first campaign had ground to a halt in bitter failure. Here, though he'd not recognized it at the time, he'd left behind sufficient clues to alert not one mortal foe, but two, to the nature of the wondrous prize he'd sought. And here, Audriss the Serpent had reignited the slow-burning embers of his own conquest into a roaring conflagration that had dragged Corvis from his family and ultimately cost him everything he'd loved.

There were places he'd want to be even less than the city of Denathere-but not many.

It had been Seilloah's idea to come here. "Maybe it's from spending several days as a dog on my way to find you," she'd said, "but it seems to me that if you're looking to track someone, you start where the trail started."

Corvis hadn't been able to argue with her, as much as he desperately wanted to. They had to examine the murder scenes, maybe find some clues there they'd not unearth anywhere else. He couldn't safely return to Mecepheum, and since the only other "Rebaine murders" that they knew were more than idle rumor had occurred here, they'd had precious little choice.

So here they'd come. Corvis scoured the taverns of Denathere, leaving Irrial to ask questions of the more affluent and influential, and with every moment he seethed beneath the fury, the hatred, and the burning shame the city cast on him from all sides.

Wrapped in a smothering cocoon of self-pitying anger, Corvis didn't realize he'd stormed clear through the small bazaar of vendors' stalls and open carts where he and Irrial had agreed to rendezvous.

Only when he felt a hand on his shoulder and spun, fists rising, did he comprehend where he was. He recognized Irrial-in time, thankfully, to arrest his punch-and the scents of roast meats, smoked fish, and sweet fruits finally penetrated the thick fog blanketing his mind.

'Aw, you should've hit her. When else are you going to have the chance to pretend it was an accident?'

"Damn it!" As swiftly as he'd returned to his senses, he seemed to forget that it was he who'd left their meeting point behind, forcing her to chase him down. "Don't sneak up on me like that. I-Irrial, what's wrong?"

"Come with me. Quickly."

She launched into a barely restrained pace that threatened to break into a run at every step, and Corvis fell into lockstep behind. Again he was utterly oblivious to the hawking shouts and brightly fluttering pennants of the marketplace, though now his vision was obscured and his gut churned with worry rather than anger.

They cut across one corner of the bazaar, and the baroness finally led him to a halt directly in front of…

"Another alley?" Corvis complained. "Isn't there anywhere-"

He staggered as Irrial bodily shoved him into the narrow walkway, caught himself just in time to avoid tripping over his feet, and found himself staring downward.

"Oh, gods. Seilloah…"

It had happened before, twice, on their way to Denathere. But then the witch had slunk away in secret, on her own, returning in a new form when it was all over. Never before had Corvis seen it.

The arm-length lizard that was her current shell lay on its side, body heaving as it struggled to breathe. Limbs spasmed; its jaw hung open and drooled a thin, blood-tinted soup. Even as they watched, scales sloughed from its hide, exposing open sores and necrotic skin beneath.

Corvis dropped to one knee with a dull splash, scattering the slimy refuse of the alley. A finger reached out, stroked the creature's squamous crest. "What can I do?"

She twisted her head his way, and Corvis gagged as a faint ooze trickled from beneath one eye. The jaw twitched, just once. The lizard emitted the faintest squawk, a sound that might, just might, have been "Cor…"

And then, with a final shudder, lay still.

"Seilloah?" It was a whisper, at first, then a cry almost loud enough to be heard beyond the alley. "Seilloah!" He searched frantically, actually digging through the garbage as though some other animal might lie hidden therein. "Seilloah!"

It couldn't end this way! Not for her…

"I'm here, Corvis." The voice was weak, her breath ragged and gasping. "I'm all right."

From atop a fence, a tortoiseshell alley cat bounded to the ground, stumbling slightly. Corvis frowned at the awkward landing, and wondered if the patches of mange on the creature's fur had been there moments before.

"Don't scare me like that, Seilloah," he said, slumping against the wall.

"Scare you?" It was peculiar, more so even than listening to it speak, to hear a cat laugh. But then, more seriously, "I'm not sure how many more times I can do that."

"What about a person?" Irrial interjected. Corvis jumped a bit. He'd all but forgotten she was there.

"What about a person?" he asked.

"Seilloah, I mean. Wouldn't a human body last longer, since it's meant to house a human soul?"

Four eyes, two human, two feline, widened in shock.

'Say, that's not a bad idea. The lady may not be entirely hopeless after all.'

"Oh, for the gods' sakes… I'm not advocating it. You two haven't completely corrupted me. I'm just wondering why you don't do it."

"Can't be done," Seilloah said. "Not by any magics I practice, anyway. It's because of the soul. I can't impose mine on a body that already has one, and I can't ride anything that's already dead."

Irrial nodded. "I guess that makes sense."

"I hope so. I'm too tired to explain it any further."

Corvis reached a hand toward the cat. "I can carry you, for a bit."

"That might be nice." She sniffed and recoiled as he hefted her in his arms. "Corvis, are you drunk?"

He couldn't help but chuckle. "No, I'm not drunk. I had just enough ale to make them think I was getting sloshed along with them."

"Well," Irrial muttered impatiently, "I hope you learned more than I did. Nobody I spoke with wanted to say much. Thought it an unseemly topic. Might drive away customers."

"A bit," Corvis said as they moved back into the crowded streets. Seilloah climbed from his arms and draped herself across his left shoulder. "It seems-Seilloah, must you?"

She froze, claws half extended, in the midst of kneading his chest. "I'm sorry, Corvis. Instinct, I suppose. I'll try to pay more attention."

"I'd sure appreciate it." He turned back to Irrial. "So it seems the killings occurred in two separate locations: the ducal keep, which is probably crawling with more soldiers than a brothel offering free samples, and a home belonging to the majordomo of one of the Guildmasters. I'm thinking that'll be the easier one to get into."

To get into, perhaps, but not necessarily to find. While Corvis had wormed the house's general vicinity from the soldiers in the Third Sheet, he felt he'd have been pressing his luck trying to pin them down to specific directions. For long hours he and Irrial wandered the streets of one of Denathere's fancier neighborhoods, nodding politely to passersby in colorful bloused tunics, gleaming brocades, and whatever other foolishness the aristocracy could foist off under the guise of "style." They dodged horse-drawn carriages trundling over cobblestones, squinted at homes whitewashed to a blinding sheen, gagged at the cloying aroma of flower gardens that had survived the sweltering summer, and found nothing at all out of the ordinary.

Yes, Corvis had anticipated that any obvious signs of violence would have long since been swept away, but he'd figured on spotting some indication-a house with a boarded-up window or a newly replaced door, a property that pedestrians crossed the street to avoid, something.

"That one." Seilloah, whom Corvis had thought to be sound asleep on his shoulder, raised her muzzle at a modest house they'd passed twice already-when the witch actually had been asleep.

"Are you sure?"

"I smell old blood."

Corvis shrugged at Irrial, drawing a sharp yelp of protest from his passenger. "I guess that makes sense."

"As much as any of this does," the baroness replied.

As casually as they could, they lingered, watching. Now that they were focused on it, they did indeed note that the locals quickened their pace just a bit as they went by, as though fearful of being spotted by someone within.

"All right," Corvis said finally to Irrial. "I think we wait for evening, and then you keep watch on the road while I take a look inside."

"Maybe I should go. If there's trouble, it's likely to be outside, right?"

He shook his head. "I'm not looking to get into a fight with the guard, Irrial. Besides, you don't know what to look for. If anyone shows up who you can't distract or dissuade, I'll give them my bounty hunter story."

"I'm not sure that'll justify you being inside the house."

"It's a better excuse than you could-"

"Or," Seilloah interrupted, "you could, you know, send the person who won't draw any attention or suspicion at all since she happens to be a cat just now."

Corvis turned away, so embarrassed that he was certain even his beard must be blushing. "Say, I've got a thought," he told them a moment later. "Why don't we send Seilloah?"

The tip of the witch's tail flicked against the back of Corvis's neck. "What a remarkable idea," she said. SILENT AND INEXORABLE as an embarrassing memory, Seilloah padded across the yard. A frightened sparrow took off in a flutter of feathers, while a handful of insects and what sounded like a squirrel skittered away through the garden, but otherwise no one and nothing marked her passage. She remained fixed on her objective, ignoring both the vague urge to chase after those fleeing creatures, and the hot, infected ache of lesions forming beneath her matted fur as feline body and human soul seared each other.

The violence hadn't been limited to the house. She could smell where the blood had seeped into the soil, run between the stones of the walkway. This near to the earth she saw scratches in the cobblestones and pebbles, perhaps where weapons were dropped or armored bodies fell. If the murderer had battled someone outside, there might be witnesses; she made a mental note to mention it to Corvis.

Corvis. Seilloah felt a surge of uncharacteristic anger, and though she squelched it with a will so strong it had already defied death, she could not wholly forget it. Twenty-three years ago, six years ago, it didn't matter; she'd joined him willingly, stood by his side committing horrors scarcely less foul than his own. She'd well understood there might one day be a price to pay, and it had never stopped her. And it had been the Baron of Braetlyn's blade, not the Terror of the East's, that had cut her down.

Yet she could not entirely shrug off the chilling knowledge that she was already dead save for the formalities, wasting away her last days in a sequence of diseased, agonizing bodies-and that it was, in part, because of Corvis Rebaine.

Seilloah leapt from the grass to land atop a windowsill and wormed her tiny form between the wobbly shutters. Again the scent of death wafted over her, and she directed her attentions to the task at hand.

She wouldn't blame Corvis, at least not much-and certainly no more than he would himself. And if the witch required any small vengeance on the friend she'd followed unto death, his own guilt would surely suffice. THE HOUSE HAD BEEN CLEANED, at least to an extent. The worst of the blood and other humors had been washed away, the tattered bodies and mangled clothes removed, the shattered furniture discarded. Still, senses far less acute than those Seilloah currently enjoyed would have detected lingering signs of murder. The carpet looked diseased, showing stains of a deep, brittle brown. Several walls were badly scorched, and a few corners retained bits of splintered wood. The stench was overwhelming to her feline nose, and even if she were to go utterly blind, she'd have easily pinpointed the precise locations where death had come.

Between the distractions of her new form and the agonies of her current condition, Seilloah could perhaps be forgiven for initially failing to discover anything of import. Yes, some of the victims had died by fire and some by blade, some by magic and some brute force, but this they already knew. And yes, she could, if asked, have provided a precise count of the slain, but she couldn't imagine what possible value such information might have.

Dining room, kitchen, back to the living room, occasionally stopping to lick bits of dried carnage from her paws, and Seilloah grew ever more irritated. They were wasting their time; there was nothing here, nothing of use…

Nearing the front door, she froze, save for the slight twitch of her tail and the quickened flare of her nostrils. Most of the room was nothing but an empty abattoir, specific details obscured by the remnants of half a dozen lives running together in a single stain beneath the carpeting and between the floorboards. But off to one side, a single man-probably a bodyguard, perhaps a servant-had died just a few steps from the others, far enough that the scents and stains of his death weren't mixed with the general filth.

She sniffed where he'd stood, where he'd stumbled back as he died. She saw the faint remnants of a soap-scrubbed stain, scented the edges of the blood, the bone, and the brain that had splattered themselves across the wall.

And Seilloah's own blood ran cold, her tiny heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings, as she recognized the evidence before her.

She'd seen it last in Mecepheum, when Audriss the Serpent had wielded the power of not one demon, but two, against the assembled aristocracy. She'd seen it far more often in Corvis's campaign, over two decades past, when he'd allowed Khanda to feast upon the souls the demon needed to maintain his power.

She'd watched the victims hemorrhage, from eyes and nose, ears and mouth, before the skull itself, unable to bear the pressures that consumed the soul from within, simply blew itself apart.

It was certainly a disturbing death to witness, and it wasn't precisely a secret. Many had seen it happen during the Terror's conquest, for Corvis had wielded Khanda as a bludgeon, hoping to cow the nation into surrender. But few knew the purpose of that peculiar method of killing, knew enough to associate it with the demon-spawned magics the warlord wielded.

That whoever was framing Corvis now had thought to include such a means of death-regardless of what magics they actually used to imitate it-suggested at the very least a deliberate attention to the details of all his past crimes.

And just possibly a greater knowledge of his methods than any random murderer, however potent, should possess.

Frowning as far as her snout would permit, uncomfortable with any of the myriad directions her thoughts were taking, Seilloah bounded back through the window and toward her waiting companions. "… WISH I COULD HELP YOU," the guard was apologizing, though he didn't really sound like he cared much one way or the other. "Kassek knows I'd like to see the bastard brought down. But I'm just not authorized to allow anyone into the duke's quarters. His family doesn't want people poking around in there."

Corvis-or rather, so far as the soldier knew, Evislan Kade the bounty hunter-stood in the lee of the great keep, watching the flickering of torches dance across its dark stone wall, and could only nod his understanding. Perhaps he might sneak in under illusion, or slip Seilloah past the soldiers at the gate, but honestly, he didn't really think he needed to see the second murder scene.

He was already well and truly disturbed by what they'd found at the first.

But that didn't mean there was nothing else left to learn. "I understand," he said affably. "And I certainly wouldn't want to cause the grieving family any more hassle." He offered a disingenuous grin. "People tend to forget to pay when they're upset."

The guard grunted something.

"I also understand," Corvis continued, dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "that some of your fellow guardsmen actually fought the bastard outside the Guildsman's house? I'd sure love to speak to one of them, see if he can tell me anything new. And of course, I'd be more than generous with whoever pointed me the right way."

That brought an uncertain frown. "I don't think," the soldier said slowly, "that that's the sort of stuff I ought to be blabbing, you know? I mean, giving guards' names to strangers…"

Corvis sighed and reached into a leather pouch at his belt, muttering under his breath. Then, with a sequence of individual clanks, he methodically dropped ten gold coins into the palms of the slack-jawed fellow before him.

"Ask around for Corporal Tiviam," the guard whispered breathlessly. "He lives in the barracks within the keep, so you wouldn't be permitted access, but he likes to drink at the Three Sheets."

Of course he does. Corvis shook his head, wondering when the gods might finally have had enough entertainment at his expense.

'Not for a while yet, I'm sure. I'm certainly still laughing at you.'

"You should have no difficulty finding him there," the young sentinel continued. "He's been there a lot since that day, and his arm's still in a sling."

Corvis nodded in quick thanks and strode away. He wanted to be long gone before the muttered illusion faded, and the "gold" coins transformed once more to brass.

"… might have talked his way out of it," Borinder was saying, struggling to keep a straight face. "But then…" A chuckle forced its way through his lips, painting his face red as it passed.

"Yeah…?" Tiviam pressed, amused yet frustrated by his companion's jocularity. The man had some great stories, but he was utterly miserable at telling them.

"Then," Borinder finally managed to sputter, "he left for his shift that morning, and-and he left her a handful of coins on the nightstand!"

The rest of the squad burst into peals of laughter, Tiviam guffawing louder than any of them. Even as he struggled for breath, wiped tears from his cheeks, he worried briefly they might be revealing their presence, but no. Nothing suspicious about a group of workmen enjoying a bit of fun after a hard day's work, was there?

And besides, the captain of whom Borinder spoke was a splinter in the heel of everyone present, and indeed most of the guard as a whole. Not a man or woman at arms in Denathere would waste a single second in sympathy for him.

"Considerin' where Captain Lorkin spends most o' his nights," Arral chimed in, "not to mention most o' his pay, his wife's lucky that a few coins is all he gave her. I'm stunned that neither o' 'em's come down wit' a good, blisterin' case o'-"

All four glanced up, across the yard and the winding walk, as the door to the house drifted slowly open. Tiviam expected a few silk-clad folk within, perhaps guests leaving early, or one of the uniformed guards making a quick inspection of the property.

What he saw, instead, was a glimpse of hell.

Blood and flesh were strewn about the foyer, soaking into the carpet, coating the walls. He couldn't see the faces of the dead, but then he didn't need to, for he knew the names of everyone within.

For a span of several gasping breaths, four trained, experienced members of Denathere's guard couldn't move a muscle, their souls staked to the earth with coffin nails.

It isn't possible! Tiviam could have sworn he heard the words shouted, loud enough to echo from the rooftops; only later would he realize it was all in his mind. We'd have heard something! We must have heard something!

As abruptly as it had been revealed, the carnage was obscured, for the hell that lay beyond that door birthed a devil of its own. It didn't seem to step into the doorway so much as it was simply, suddenly there: a looming figure of naked bone and darkness filed to a jagged edge. Blood ran in rivulets from the grotesque axe in its hand, far more than should ever have clung to the blade.

Tiviam knew; knew how a houseful of people could be slaughtered without sound, knew how so many guards could fall before a single foe.

Knew who it was he faced.

And Tiviam, in the bravest act of his career-an act that would later win him a commendation and a medal that he left to rust on Borinder's grave-screamed at his men to charge.

The Terror of the East emerged to meet them, and shrieks of panic erupted along the street. Passersby, their attention drawn by Tiviam's cry, shoved and tripped over one another, desperate to flee the horror they all recognized. Some would tell later how a band of courageous civilians-Tiviam's men were, after all, dressed in workman's clothes-had hurled themselves at the walking nightmare, bought everyone else the time to flee. It was the only thought that kept Tiviam sane in the months to come.

Borinder, long-legged and fleet of foot, was the first to reach the Terror of the East. Tiviam couldn't even tell precisely what happened; he knew only that he saw a blur of blades, and the jovial soldier's sword was shattered. A second flash, equally swift, and Borinder himself lay in pieces on the lawn.

The Terror raised his hands, palms out, and a gout of liquid flame the envy of any volcano arced through the air. Nassan lacked even time to scream as half his body liquefied, sloughing from his bones. Arral, hurling himself desperately aside, proved more fortunate. Though a portion of his leg sizzled away like so much frying grease-though he would never again walk without a crutch-he would live. The gods were even kind enough to allow him to pass out, that he might dwell for a time in the realm of Shashar Dream-Singer, rather than in the agony of his own ruined flesh.

And that left Tiviam, standing alone before the man who'd inflicted crippling scars upon an entire culture. He was dead; he knew he was dead. But in that, Tiviam was wrong.

He approached in a desperate lunge, broadsword leveled to punch through armor and into the bastard's black and putrid heart. But the Terror of the East moved, far faster than any man, and the guardsman saw a haunting crimson glow emanating from beneath the warlord's breastplate. The broadsword passed harmlessly, and the black-armored arm slammed downward, trapping Tiviam's elbow in a grip of unyielding steel.

A twist, a barely perceptible flex, and Tiviam convulsed in agony. The sword fell to the grass as his arm flapped uselessly, the bones within broken, the elbow separated at the joint.

Empty sockets stared into frightened eyes. Tiviam trembled beneath the weight of death's own regard, and hoped only that it would bring an end to the pain.

And then he was falling, all support gone. For the Terror of the East had simply disappeared. LOCATING CORPORAL TIVIAM had been just as easy as the guard had suggested. Corvis and the others set themselves up in the Three Sheets, and it was only the second evening when a broad-shouldered fellow with cropped hair and his left arm in a leather sling showed up and began drinking as though to douse a fire in his gut. In fact, Corvis realized upon seeing him enter, the man had been present the other day, sitting off alone in a corner and guzzling mead. He'd been right there, had Corvis known to talk to him.

Coaxing the story from him had proved somewhat more challenging. Corvis loosened his tongue with multiple rounds, and left a small but gleaming heap of coins on the counter before him-real, this time, in case the whole escapade should take too long for an illusion to hold. And still, in the end, it was not Corvis at all, but Irrial, who got what they came for. In her huskiest voice, her auburn locks falling across her face, she fawned over the "courageous warrior." Her breath came in sympathetic gasps over his mangled arm, and her eyes grew moist at the account of his fallen companions.

And only when she-and Corvis, sitting rapt at the next table, hanging on every word-had heard it all, did they depart, leaving Captain Tiviam to his efforts at washing the memories away. When last they saw him, his head was slumped over a drinking horn, empty save for a tiny puddle sloshing around the bottom. Into that vessel, over and over, he repeated again the last words he'd said to Irrial.

"He could have vanished at any time. He didn't have to kill them at all…"

Corvis and Irrial pushed through the crowded market, weaving around last-minute shoppers hoping to do a final bit of business before the vendors closed up for the night. This late into the evening, the sounds of Denathere had grown muted but otherwise remained unchanged. Corvis had to fight the urge to stick a finger in each ear and waggle them about, trying to clear an obstruction that he knew was purely imaginary.

It was, for a few minutes, preferable to actually thinking.

Mindlessly, he allowed Irrial to guide him back to their quarters. The rooms stood on the third floor of an establishment far nicer than the Three Sheets (it'd been the baroness who acquired them, and it showed), but truth be told Corvis was so distracted that, if his life had depended on it, he never could have recalled its name. Only when they were settled in one of the two bedchambers-replete with chairs upholstered in cherry red, down-stuffed mattresses lined with clean linen sheets, even a brass lamp with jasmine-scented oil-did he reluctantly crawl from his comfortable mental quilts and direct his thoughts toward the tale they'd been told.

"I think we have to assume," he said without preamble, "that whoever's behind this has a much more detailed knowledge of me and my methods than we'd suspected." Even saying it aloud made him uncomfortable, and he could only hope his voice was steady. The last time someone had popped up with excess information about Corvis's past, he'd thrown the entire nation into shambles and nearly obliterated Mecepheum itself.

To say nothing of Corvis's family…

Seilloah leapt up to the tabletop, sniffed unhappily at the glittering lamp, and then nodded perfunctorily before proceeding to chew at something stuck between her claws. "Probably a safe assumption," she agreed.

Irrial, however, sounded less convinced. "Why? What about the corporal's story worries you-other than the thought that someone might be even more vile than you were?"

"It's a combination of things," Corvis said, vaguely disturbed by the cat-witch's behavior and, for the nonce, oblivious to Irrial's verbal dig. "The men who died in that house by what's been made to look like Khanda's soul-consumption, the red glow Tiviam described…" He tapped his fingers idly on the edge of the table, stopping immediately as Seilloah glared at him. "It's all the little details, and they're all right."

"What about that glow?" the baroness asked.

"Khanda. I usually wore the pendant on a chain, and it hung beneath the armor. Only someone very close when I used my magics-his magics-would have seen it. So, yeah, maybe someone who saw me fight in the past was just astoundingly observant, and remembers every detail, but I'd say the odds are pretty heavily against it. Plus, they wouldn't necessarily understand the significance of what they saw."

'But it's nice to be noticed. An artist is never appreciated in his own time, you know?'

Corvis felt his fingers curling into fists. "Would you stop?" He was never certain if he'd only thought it, or whispered aloud.

'See? That's exactly what I mean. You never appreciated me, Corvis. I bet you don't remember my birthday, either.'

He allowed his eyes to squeeze as tightly shut as his fists, hoping the others would attribute it to his exhaustion.

"No," he continued finally, "I think we'd better prepare ourselves for the notion that we're dealing with someone who knew me personally, or who's spoken in depth with someone who did."

"At least it's a short list," Seilloah remarked around a mouthful of fur. Then, "I hate to bring this up, but Jassion did go to see Tyannon…"

"No. No chance."

"Corvis-"

"No. I'm not saying it's impossible that she'd have helped him to find me, under the right circumstances, but even if she remembered details, why would she tell him? They wouldn't do him any good in hunting me down. We're looking for someone else."

Seilloah and Irrial exchanged skeptical glances, but neither pressed the issue.

"So yes," he said, "it's a small list. And the first step is to find them."

Corvis looked deeply into the lamp's burning light, focusing past his fatigue. And gods, the last few days shouldn't have been so exhausting! I should never have agreed to getting old…

"Davro first." Corvis felt the faint tug of his spell, gazed off in its direction even though there was little to see but a dull beige wall. Wading through sluggish thoughts, he translated the strength of the pull into a sense of distance, and that distance into a line on his mental map of Imphallion…

"Still in that bucolic valley of his, I think." Corvis couldn't help grinning, remembering his response upon first learning what had become of the fearsome ogre.

"I'm not sure that means anything," Seilloah warned. "He was really unhappy with you."

"True. But he also doesn't want anyone knowing where he lives. I doubt he'd risk drawing attention to himself. Still, we'll follow up if we need to."

Again he concentrated, using the flickering flame as a focus. But this time, there was…

"Nothing." He rocked back in his chair, blinking rapidly. "Losalis is gone, Seilloah."

"Are you sure? Maybe someone just broke the spell."

"Maybe." But he didn't sound at all convinced, and for long moments he refused to speak any further.

"Losalis was a good man," he said finally, answering the question embedded in their silence. "Or at least he was a loyal one. I just hope, if he is dead, that it was nothing I did that got him killed."

"Right," Irrial spat with surprising rancor. "Because that's so much worse than the thousands of good men that you killed deliberately."

"Let it go," Seilloah commanded, even as Corvis, his face growing hot, opened his mouth to retort. He glared, nodded, and turned again toward the lamp.

'What, she doesn't even get a "Shut up"? If I'd said that, I'd have gotten a "Shut up." '

"Shut up," Corvis whispered.

One last time, one more soul who had served at his side during the Serpent's War, one more to whom he'd attached his invisible tethers of magic. Again the tug, again the mental struggle to translate that amorphous sensation into real distance.

A peculiar gurgle bubbled from his throat, the result of hysterical laughter and a frustrated sob slamming into each other deep in his chest. And he wondered, even as he delivered the news, just how often he would have to retrace his own steps before this was finished.

"Emdimir?" He'd never heard Irrial's voice reach quite such a pitch as he did in that disbelieving squawk. "After all this, why would you want us to go back east?"

He shrugged. "Near as I can tell, that's where she is."

"Well…" Irrial frowned. "At least it's not all the way back to Rahariem. I'm not sure I could face… What?" she demanded at the sudden chagrin, almost schoolboy-like, on Corvis's face.

"I, uh… I wasn't sure how to tell you, or, well, even if, but…"

"Yes?" It was, perhaps, the most venomous yes Corvis had ever heard.

"Emdimir's fallen, Irrial."

Her freckles appeared rich as ink, so pale did the baroness's face become. "What?"

"A couple of weeks ago, according to the mercenary talk I overheard at the Three Sheets."

"And nobody's done anything? Still nobody's done anything?" Her voice was rising so fast, it threatened to take wing. "What's wrong with everyone? What's wrong with the damn Guilds?"

"Irrial, we should really be more qui-"

"What's wrong with me?" She reached a final, undignified screech, and then slumped in her chair, her tone following suit. "Gods, they keep coming, farther and farther, and I haven't done anything… We'll never free Rahariem now, we-"

"Irrial!" It was Seilloah, not Corvis, who barked that name-a peculiar sound indeed, coming from a feline mouth. "You are working for Rahariem. It's what you've been doing. Don't forget it."

"Right. Sure I have."

"And besides," Corvis added, "you've seen the soldiers. Some of the noble Houses are mobilizing. Yeah, I know, it's not enough, but if the others start to follow their example…"

"Horseshit. They're bloody useless, the whole lot of them are going to die, and you know it." Her hair fell around her face and hung limp for a moment, until she'd finally regained her composure. "All right," she said, looking up once more. "Emdimir, then. For, what was her name? Ellowaine?"

"Ellowaine," he confirmed.

"What," Seilloah asked slowly, "makes you think she's the one?"

Corvis smiled grimly. "Because Ellowaine's a mercenary, Seilloah. And since Emdimir's occupied just now, her being there almost certainly means she's either a prisoner, or…"

He let it dangle, and Seilloah understood.

"Or she's working for Cephira."