Thief of Lives

Chapter 15

Sgaile neared the end of the district outside of Bela's third ring wall. He slipped off his cloak and reversed it. The inner lining, now outward, was evening blue and, though as dark as the rest of his gray-green raiment, broke the conspicuous monotone of his attire. His features would be eyecatching enough. He disassembled his shortbow, lodging the pieces in the back of his belt.

Humans moved about the street, but with his cowl up, few took notice of him. He slowed has pace as he approached the gatehouse through the outer ring wall.

Beneath the raised portcullis were four white-surcoated city guards, watching each passerby, and several other armed men in plain dress. Upon the wall top, more guards paced the rampart in both directions into the distance. There were more than expected, and he wondered what had forced an increase in the day watch.

A guard lowered a prong pike across his path. "What's your business here, master treeborn?"

The man was tall for a human, almost as tall as Sgaile, with a close-cropped beard spiking from his chin and small eyes beneath the ridge of his plumed helmet. Human facial hair had always been somewhat repugnant to Sgaile.

"I am delivering a letter to kin," he answered.

After a moment's appraisal, the guard held out his gloved hand. "Let's have a look."

Sgaile withdrew a folded paper from his vestment. The guard took it and roughly snapped it open with one hand, squinting as he stared at the inked scrawling upon it.

It was merely a letter from Sgaile's brother on a journey down the coast. As it was scripted in Sgaile's own tongue, it was doubtful this simple guard would know the difference.

"There has been a death in our clan," Sgaile lied. "I am here as the bearer of sad tidings for a kinsman."

The guard shook his head, trying to read the letter, and then handed it back.

"Move along," he ordered.

Sgaile gave a curt nod and passed through the gatehouse archway.

In this lower district, few people moved about the filthy streets. The denizens of the city called this place Chatruche Zastup-Hovel Row-and its packed stench confirmed its name. Little was given attention in such a place, which was why the one he came to see would be found here.

Upon arrival he ignored the dwelling's shabby appearance and directly approached the front door. His knock was light and sharp, and he hoped the occupant was at home.

The door cracked ajar, and it was dark inside. A figure appeared back in the shadows through the opening.

Thin, with sharply peaked ears and long, sand-blond tangled hair, the man hid his attire beneath a faded dun-colored cloak. His large amber eyes widened, and there was the barest hint of joy in his soft smile for the visitor upon his porch.

"Kinsman," he whispered.

The door opened fully, and Sgaile quickly stepped inside.

Something tugged Leesil's bare foot. He opened sleepy eyes to see Vatz hanging on the bunk's edge, glowering at him.

"You all right?" Leesil mumbled.

"I got to find my uncle," Vatz answered. "And tell him about the inn."

"The whole district knows by now," Leesil said, coming fully awake. "I'll get you back. He's probably worried, wondering where you are."

Vatz slowly blinked hazel eyes too large for his face.

"Naw, but he'll be mad about the inn, and I got to tell him what happened. And you shouldn't be there when I do."

Leesil heard Magiere stir, and she rolled out of the bunk below him.

"Of course we should," she said. "You don't have to deal with this. None of it is your fault."

"No, he'll take it better from me," Vatz said, shaking his head adamantly. "Just stay and help that Wynn girl track down the vampires from all that stuff she's reading. I'll be back soon to help fight. I've a notion what you might be getting paid, so I ain't working cheap."

"Now you hold on," Leesil growled.

The boy's ardor for his fancied new trade was getting out of hand. Before Leesil could tell Vatz to put such ideas out of his head, Magiere turned the subject aside.

"Tell your uncle I'll request that the council pay to rebuild the Burdock, and if they refuse, we'll take care of it somehow."

"Good enough." Vatz nodded in satisfaction. "You're okay,… though I still should have charged you more on the pier." He strode out of the room on his short legs.

Leesil's yawn ended in a sigh. "Have we inherited a child?"

"He won't take no for an answer," Magiere replied. "So we make sure he gets no opportunity for trouble."

"Ratboy." Leesil leaned back again. "He knows quite a bit about us. That may change the way we handle this."

The sight of Ratboy had been unsettling, to say the least. Of all possible places across this land, it seemed nearly impossible that Ratboy should reside in two places that he and Magiere were called to for different reasons. But the pieces slid together in his mind last night while he'd been ministering to Magiere. It bothered him that they'd been played so easily into this blood-soaked mess. Taking Ratboy's head would end that problem, much to his pleasure.

Magiere leaned down to check on Chap. At her hesitant touch, the dog yawned deeply, and then rolled off the bunk, limping but surprisingly able to hobble about. She roughed up the fur on his head.

"He heals even faster than I do."

Leesil watched, unnoticed, as Magiere lifted the side of her shirt enough to inspect her ribs. The yellowed mottling was still visible, but no black and blue remained beneath.

"Chap can't track yet," Magiere added. "So we might as well look in on Wynn. I don't read well, but you do, and perhaps we can narrow down what she's looking for."

Leesil looked down at himself. "We need to find me some clothes. Boots and a shirt, at least."

Her expression seemed troubled, as if in looking at him she was now uncertain of something. Did it bother her that much to look at him?

"Stay here," she said, "and I'll see what I can find."

The only clothing Magiere found was a shabby gray hand-me-down sage's robe and a guard's old, faded surcoat. Leesil chose the surcoat, which he sliced off just below the belt and sashed around his waist with the remaining strips. It didn't cover the stilettos strapped to his smooth brown arms. The soldier's boots were too large, so he wore a pair of sage's sandals instead.

Once he was decent, of course, Leesil gave little thought to his attire. Magiere found the effect worse than his previous shabby shirt, as he would stick out wherever they went. There would be no more arguments about new clothes. She was reoutfitting him at the first opportunity, including some additional raiment she had in mind.

Magiere led them back to the old sergeant's chamber now used as the sages' study. She liked it, with its glowing cold lamps, shelves and tables, parchments and books. A peaceful place of thought, even if she couldn't read most of what was stored here. To her mild surprise, the place had changed. Casks, crates, and stacks of parchment were piled around the far table, and Wynn was shuffling through documents. She smiled widely at Magiere.

"It would appear both the city guard and the local constabulary consider me part of this investigation. I've received almost everything I asked for in the way of records."

Magiere sat down on a stool. "They're finally listening to us. Hopefully, this will all be over soon, but we're still uncertain how many undeads we're tracking. The number keeps growing."

Leesil followed more slowly with Chap, looking over the room with mild surprise, taking in the sight of rolled parchments and a few leather-or wood-bound sheaves and books. He glanced out one of the small windows in the room with concern.

"I hope Vatz gets himself back here before nightfall or stays in with his uncle. Ratboy and his little horde have seen him. It's not going to be safe out there, especially near the inn."

"How many are you hunting?" Wynn asked.

"At least four," Magiere said thoughtfully. "Assuming Sapphire wasn't destroyed. There were two in Leesil's room, and one of them we know. He escaped us in Miiska. I took down the second one entering my room, but not the first. He is a more serious problem."

Wynn set down a handful of parchments, attentive as Magiere shifted upon the stool and continued.

"He's a mage, or some such, and ignited his dead companion's body from across the room. The place burned down and left me with no proof-no head-to show the council."

Wynn's nose wrinkled. Magiere had related some of this the previous night, but without mention of a headless corpse.

"That last one was dressed as a noble," Magiere went on. "With a cloak and black gloves. I've never seen him before, but he could be the one we are after… who murdered Chesna, and possibly Au'shiyn."

Wynn lifted a teapot from a side table and poured two steaming mugs, dropping a tiny green leaf into each. She handed one to Magiere. It smelled slightly of mint.

"I will arrange food shortly," Wynn said. "Tell me what this nobleman looked like. I've seen many of the council and their staff on royal grounds."

"Tall, well built, not much older than me," Magiere said. "Handsome, I suppose, with hair to about the chin and tucked behind his ears. Good with a sword but…"

Magiere hung on the thought for a moment, but still could not understand what had happened in the room with the nobleman.

"When I fight one of their kind, at times I pick up impressions-feelings, intentions, or occasionally a name or identity. There were strange flashes from him, as if he wanted to bleed me slowly, toy with me rather than kill me. And then everything wiped away, and I felt nothing from him."

Wynn's head tilted; then she shook it. "Your description does not match anyone I have seen on the council or at their hall."

Magiere shook her head as well. "I'm not certain of his voice, as I didn't hear much of it."

"You've heard the killer's voice?" Wynn asked in surprise.

"A few words… in a vision. Which means we may be looking for five."

The mention of visions gave Wynn pause, though she did not seem surprised, which in turn made Magiere wonder.

"I will return in a moment with food," Wynn said quietly, and left the room.

She returned shortly with a wooden tray carrying three bowls of steaming soup made from yellow beans, potatoes, and assorted vegetables. She passed one each to Magiere and Leesil, set the third upon the floor before Chap, and gestured to the crates around them.

"Perhaps these will help us," she said. "They contain records, some of which are for dwellings purchased in the half year. It is further back than you asked for, and not all are deeds and bills of sale, but I wanted to be thorough. The one you call Sapphire, or some of the others, could have existed in the city before the death of Lanjov's daughter."

"Where do we start?" Magiere asked.

Wynn looked at her. "You wish to sift through records?"

Leesil pulled off the top of a crate, fingering through its contents.

"Chap needs more rest, so there's little else to do," Magiere explained.

At these words, Chap growled and loped toward the door, but he stumbled three times, halting in frustration.

"Get back here. You can't hunt like that," Leesil said without looking up. He piled parchments and a few scroll cases onto a table. "We're looking for a three-story dwelling; that's what Sapphire told me. Knowing Rashed's past arrangements, if Sapphire is with Ratboy, the little butcher will want underground access. Sing out if you find any cellars in the descriptions."

Magiere knew he was speculating, but it made sense.

"Oh," Wynn added, "And if Magiere's theory of a connection to Lanjov is correct, be sure to check any deed you find against the names of the council members."

Chap growled again.

"What's wrong with him?" Magiere asked.

"He'd rather be hunting." Leesil scowled, and then his expression became troubled at some thought. His voice became hesitant. "I lost my shirt."

Magiere shook her head. Since he now resembled a refugee soldier, his lost shirt was rather obvious. "We'll get you another one."

"No, I mean, I lost my shirt. The shreds of cloth from Chesna and Au'shiyn and Sapphire's dress were inside it. Chap may not be able to track without them."

"Oh, Leesil…" Magiere sighed, and sank back down on a crate. Another setback wasn't what they needed. "There's nothing you could've done. We barely got out of the fire with most of our belongings."

Wynn shuffled and organized parchments into new stacks, separating what appeared to be recent deeds from older ones and other papers they didn't need.

"It does not matter," she offered. "You told me Chap can smell the presence of an undead. All we need do is find the right dwelling and bring him near it."

The young sage was right, and Magiere opened another crate.

"Start with the properties purchased in richer districts about three months ago," she instructed. "Or at least what sold for a substantial sum."

Wynn nodded and continued sorting, while Leesil stopped to stir his soup with a spoon.

Chap limped back, ignoring the bowl on the floor, and, without warning, reared up to place both paws on Wynn's table. He sniffed at the parchment stacks, and then suddenly began clawing sheets off the table as he pushed his nose deeper in the piles.

"What is wrong with him?" Wynn asked, voice rising above its normal calm.

She grabbed at papers as they flew or were knocked from the table. Magiere dropped the stack she held, about to go after the hound and the parchments spilling everywhere around the table. Leesil reached out first, setting his bowl aside.

"Get down. Stop that."

Chap turned his head and snarled at Leesil, partially baring his teeth. His growl faded to a low, continuous rumble. Instead of dropping down, he shoved his muzzle into another stack, knocking half of it across the table. Wynn made a quick grab for the teapot before it toppled.

"Chap, please!" she said in frustration.

Just once the hound glanced at Wynn with an extra rumble.

"All right, that's enough," Magiere snapped.

Wynn sat back in fright, but watched as Chap continued digging through the parchments. "Wait," she whispered. She hesitated a moment longer, and then she whispered again, this time to the hound. "a'Creohk, mathajme."

Chap froze, almost appearing startled, and looked up at her.

Magiere stepped closer. "What did you say to him?"

Everyone's attention was now fixed on Chap, ignoring even the disarray he'd created. The hound lowered his head as if aware he was the center of attention. Muzzle on the table, he glared at the young sage with a low grumble in his throat.

Wynn's breaths were quick and shallow as she stared back at the dog. "a'Creohk, mathajme," she repeated.

Chap dropped down, rumbling still in his throat, and belly-crawled under a nearby table.

As suddenly as Chap had attacked the parchments on the desk, Wynn bolted across the room and began rummaging though the contents of other tables. She didn't seem to find what she was after and turned instead to the room's rear shelves.

"What are you doing?" Leesil insisted. "Just what is going on here?"

"He understood me." Wynn gasped. Shoving books roughly aside, she dumped small boxes out on the table and sifted quickly through their contents.

"So he understands Elvish," Leesil said in confusion. "My mother gave him to me and likely got him from her own people. He's heard it before."

"No," Wynn said. "I requested that he halt what he was doing."

"So you told him to stop," Magiere added. "He's smart enough to know that, though I don't know why he listens to you now instead of us." But she still stepped to the side, trying to see where Chap had gone.

"No!" Wynn shouted this time, and both Magiere and Leesil were taken back by her tone.

Wynn tried to compose herself and panted as if out of breath.

"It was not an order," she continued more calmly, "and he could not have… should not have known, even if raised hearing your mother speak some of the language."

"Make sense," Magiere snapped at her.

Wynn took several more deep breaths. "I requested-not ordered-that he end what he was doing… formally." She paused, then held up a hand before anyone could interrupt. "I formed it in the Elvish that I speak. Any one root word in Elvish can be transformed into an action, thing, or rather verb, noun, and so on. The little Elvish I've heard or read since arriving in Bela is not formed the same way as from my region, though I'm not certain why."

Magiere was utterly confused now and only barely followed what the young sage was saying. Wynn gasped in exasperation.

"I formed the request in the Elvish I know, not what Chap would have heard. And even so, a dog would not have understood without interpreting the differences of dialect, let alone the formality of phrasing."

Finished, she waited for the words to sink in.

An unsettling chill crept over Magiere as she began to comprehend the explanation, though it didn't quite explain much. Leesil crouched down to peer through the legs of the room's furniture.

"Chap?" he said, half-voiced.

Magiere crouched down as well.

The dog hunkered in the shadows beneath the table in the farthest rear corner of the room. His glittering eyes sparked, shifting between her and Leesil. He looked in Wynn's direction with a slight show of teeth, as if she were a threat he wouldn't even come out to face.

Wynn returned to her frantic search and then suddenly stopped, snatching up an item from a box of quills, styluses, and charcoals. She scurried to the middle of the room between the dog's hiding place and Leesil and dropped to the floor.

"Please stay behind me," she instructed. "I think he knows what we are saying… and is very upset."

Chap twisted about beneath the table, eyes fixed on the young sage. He snarled at her with exposed teeth.

"Chap, stop it," Leesil ordered, but the dog barely glanced at him.

"That is ridiculous," Magiere muttered, but readied to jerk Wynn back if Chap lunged at her.

Wynn held a lump of white chalk, and she poised it on the floor.

"Call to him," she said to Leesil.

Leesil looked at her suspiciously, and with a sigh of resignation, did as she asked. "Come on, boy."

Chap growled at him, and dropped his head low to the floor.

"Come out," Leesil insisted.

The hound inched forward, gaze shifting between the three of them, but mostly still glaring at Wynn. When he'd crossed half the distance, Wynn began drawing on the floor with the chalk. She scripted two sets of symbols a hand breadth apart, but Magiere couldn't read either of them. Wynn pointed to the first and then the second.

"Bithd… na-bitha," she said, looking to Chap.

She scrawled a second set of words below the first, this time in Belaskian.

"Yes… no."

Chap immediately backed away with a pathetic whine.

"Come here," Magiere ordered him.

The hound dipped his muzzle to the floor with a loud, resistant rumble. He limped forward again, stopping before the chalked words and wrinkling his jowls at the young sage. It took another moment before Wynn could speak.

"Majay-hi?"

Chap turned slowly toward Leesil, staring at him for a moment. His paw reached out to the first set of words on the floor.

Yes.

"Oh…" Wynn whispered, sitting back upon her folded legs. "Oh…"

Chap hung his head.

Leesil dropped hard to sit on the floor and ran a hand across his face. He looked like a peasant mourner in a dank Droevinkan burial ground, lost and abandoned.

Wynn's hand, still holding the chalk, was shaking.

"Fay," the young sage whispered, gazing at the dog.

"What?" Magiere asked, but when no answer came, she shook Wynn by the shoulder. "What do you mean, 'Fay'?"

Wynn looked back at her.

"He is Fay," she said, and swallowed hard. "An elemental spirit."

Magiere shook her head with a grunt of disgust. "That's just something that loon Welstiel called him. You told us yourself it was probably a folk term for his breed, even if he's a rare kind at that."

Wynn regained some of her composure, her attention split between Magiere and the hound.

"He senses death and life, has intelligence, understands language as well as dialect, heals miraculously… and his injuries are slight compared to what they should have been. I know of no breed such as his, and he does not have the look of mongrel or mix. You both have told me how powerful he is in battle, enough to face an undead."

She looked back to Chap, leaning down and trying to catch the dog's attention, but Chap swiveled away.

"Possession cannot change an animal's innate intellect, not that I know of," Wynn continued. "So his intelligence is part of his nature. I know of no way such could be created through magic." She fingered the chalk markings on the floor. "And when asked, he confirms it himself."

Magiere was on her guard now. Chap had been with them for years-had been with Leesil most of his life. In all that time, the hound had understood everything they'd said and done? True, Chap displayed uncanny intelligence for an animal, but this was nonsense.

"How is this possible?" Magiere demanded. "Even if he is capable? Leesil's had him since they were both young… and why are we only now finding this out?"

Wynn swallowed hard and shook her head.

"I don't give a damn," Leesil muttered. "I'm sick of every day revealing more… things"-he looked suspiciously at the dog-"pulling and pushing us around like unwitting puppets."

Magiere couldn't help but share Leesil's suspicion. Years ago, she'd stepped from a tavern into the dank, cold night of a Stravinan town so far inland and remote she no longer remembered its name.

A trembling itch had run up her spine as her senses came alive to the smallest sound and scent, followed by an urgency that told her to turn about. Something approached from behind.

It was the barest, tiniest rustle she shouldn't have heard, but she had heard rather than felt the hand digging in the cloth sack over her shoulder.

When Magiere whirled, ready to deal with this thief, she halted with his wrist in her grip. They stood there, she and he, staring at each other. Neither tried to move away. There was complete surprise on the thief's tan face.

Leesil's face.

Now, in the sages' barracks, Magiere looked into Leesil's amber eyes.

Something had prompted Leesil to steal from a well-armed woman. Something had piqued her awareness of a thief. After all the skill and cunning Leesil displayed over the years, she shouldn't have caught him. And somewhere nearby had been a dog.

If any of what Wynn concluded was true, then why of all people did this creature choose to keep company with a couple of peasant-cheating rogues?

Magiere shivered at the sudden recollection of the night she'd chased Chap into the street from the Burdock. There had been an urge to find Leesil, built upon her memory of their first meeting. Why was she recalling these two events now?

Leesil's eyes widened at her, and a sickening knot formed in her stomach.

"What…?" she asked hesitantly. "What're you thinking?"

"The first night…" he said, uncertainly. "I remember the first night we met."

Leesil's face turned hard and cold as he looked upon Chap.

"You…" Leesil whispered.

Magiere's muscles clenched at the thought of what had happened that first night she looked into Leesil's eyes-and neither of them had known until now.

"You son of a bitch!" Leesil snarled, and he lunged at the hound.

Chap skittered away as Wynn fell backward, caught between the two of them.

Magiere grabbed Leesil by the waist and, crouched as she was, threw herself backward, toppling them both across the floor. Wynn spread her arms out like a barrier, with Chap nervously peering around her side.

Clinging tightly to Leesil, Magiere pulled him along as she backed across the floor up against the legs of a table.

"You did that to me!" Leesil shouted at the hound. "Stealing from a wandering woman with a sword-it was lunacy-but I couldn't leave well enough alone."

"Stop it," Wynn shouted back. "From all you have told me, he has never harmed you… never done anything to hurt you."

"Leesil, calm down," Magiere whispered.

He wrestled out of her grip and rolled to his feet. Backing toward the hallway entrance, he wouldn't even look at Chap.

"I can't be here."

He left without another word.

Gathering her gray robes and pushing her braid back, Wynn clambered to her feet. The young sage was obviously at her wits' end.

"I do not understand," she said, looking to Magiere for an answer. "Why is Leesil acting this way?"

Magiere had no answer for her. There was too much behind all of it, too little time, and so much more they were now facing. All these years, Chap had been hiding from them, following them silently. And telling Wynn anything meant revealing her and Leesil's past livelihood to someone who wouldn't understand it.

"Stay," Magiere finally managed to get out. "Stay with Chap and try to find out why he was digging through those parchments."

Betrayal and revelations aside, their immediate needs hadn't changed. She couldn't allow Leesil to turn away now. As she backed toward the hallway, Chap peered again around Wynn's long gray robe.

Canine crystal blue eyes looked at Magiere, watching her carefully.

The moment the sun set, Chane slipped from the house to find Toret sustenance. He felt the hunger himself, and his wounded shoulder troubled him. It burned.

He traveled the alleys and side ways into a lower district until coming upon a derelict woman resting behind a stack of crates, half-conscious, an empty brown glass bottle in her hand, the air around her smelling of cheap liquor.

Her flesh reeked of sweat and filth and urine, but Chane gorged himself on her blood, soaking in her life. He was careful not to shed a single drop on his clothing. Eyes closed, he settled back and focused inward, awareness sifting through his flesh, driving the woman's stolen life into his shoulder.

Pain decreased, but the wound did not fully heal.

He let the woman's body lie where he had found it. As he walked away, it occurred to him that Toret had abandoned all rules concerning prey. Before this hunter's arrival, they killed infrequently and always disposed of the bodies with discretion-or rather, Chane made certain that was what Toret believed. Now, no questions were asked.

The hunter.

She was the key to fit the locks and chains upon him. All he need do was to bring Toret and this dhampir together. All previous schemes tossed aside, he stepped onto the main street of the inner ring wall, heading for the sages' old barracks. Toret waited to be fed, and time was limited.

Upon reaching the barracks, Chane stepped inside, not bothering to knock. It was still early evening, and likely Wynn would be about. He headed straight for the large study area, relieved to find her inside poring over a stack of parchments.

He paused upon entering.

Across the floor were scattered scribblings. Chalked words were everywhere, and only a "yes" and "no" were in Belaskian, the rest scrawled in what appeared to be Elvish script in odd groups at all angles.

He stepped in, and Wynn noticed his arrival. She looked perfect sitting there in her neat gray robes and long brown braid, surrounded by piles of parchment in the glowing light of the cold lamp upon her desk. Her calm olive face was lovely, and her knowledgeable counsel was always welcome. He could see that she was attracted to him, though her intellectual nature blinded her awareness of this. She was a little sparrow of a scholar, and he would never play with her.

"Good evening, Wynn," he said politely.

For some reason, she appeared mildly agitated and not particularly glad to see him.

"Oh, Chane… did we plan to meet this evening?"

He crossed the room and pulled up a vacant stool to sit by her. "No, but I need information and thought to stop by. I hope that is all right?"

She nodded absently, preoccupied, and began scooping up parchments into neat stacks. "Yes, you are always welcome. There is simply a great deal happening right now."

"What is this?" Chane asked, glancing down at the chalked symbols on the floor and indicating the general disarray of the room.

"Assisting some friends," she replied, and sat back on her stool. "I am glad to see you, but I am a bit scattered at the moment. A change might clear my mind."

Wynn rubbed her eyelids; clearly she had been at her task too long without pause. Chane felt momentarily reluctant to burden her further. Mortals on the whole meant nothing to him, but Wynn was unique.

She reached out with small and perfect hands to straighten up the table. "Tell me what you are seeking."

"First, can you translate an Elvish word for me?"

"I can try. What is it?"

"Anmaglahk," he answered. "Something I read recently, but I have no idea what it means."

Wynn's brows knitted. "I do not think it is a real Elvish word, Chane. Where did you see it?"

"In a history text on this continent's elves," he lied.

She appeared thoughtful for a moment. "My best guess… would be ‘thief of lives. That is the closest I can surmise."

"Thief of lives?" he repeated. "That sounds like a killer-or an assassin."

"Perhaps," she replied with a frown, likely finding his interpretation unpleasant. "But the elves do not use assassins, so the word must have been used in reference to other races." She offered him a tired smile. "Now, what did you really come to research?"

"As long as you promise not to laugh at me," he chided.

"Why would I ever laugh at you?" She blinked, not quite catching his humor.

"I want to know about a legend called the ‘dhampir, rumored to be the offspring of a vampire and a mortal. A mere superstition, but curious."

Wynn did not laugh. In fact, she stared at his hands and hair and, for a moment, Chane thought he saw fear pass across her pretty features.

"Where did you hear that word?" she asked.

Her reaction confused Chane enough that his senses began to open. Carefully casual, he spread his hands, palm up, in a carefree gesture.

"A passing fancy," he said. "I think it was in a tavern, a rumor I overheard."

She nodded, outwardly calm, but he heard the quickened beat of her heart and the slight tremble of her breath. Was she afraid… of him?

"Domin Tilswith is the expert on lore. If you will wait here, I will find him."

As she stood up, Chane felt an urge to prevent her from leaving, to find out what had suddenly frightened her. Such an action would certainly frighten her further and, strangely, that bothered him.

With a quick bow and a shaky smile, Wynn left the room.

Something was amiss. Then Chane heard the sound of quick footsteps coming toward him from the far end of the barracks. Instinct took hold, and he bolted from the study toward the front door.

Magiere paced the short path between the bunks in their barracks room and the open hallway. Every time she reentered the room, she saw Chap perched next to the table, his expression somehow sad.

She understood little of what Wynn had explained throughout the afternoon and evening, as the young sage worked to speak with the dog in their halting manner. The study's floor was now covered in chalk marks.

Fay were as old as the world itself, so legends said, and for the most part they were considered to be myth and superstition. Varied religions had their stories of how life began, but older still were the tales of the world's making.

Earth, water, air, fire, and spirit.

Mountain, wave, wind, flame, and tree.

Solid, liquid, gas, energy, and essence.

Perhaps divine by some faiths' standards, these elemental intelligences had been the Fay, whose mingling brought the world into existence.

The sages believed humans were the oldest race, and the mingling of the first humans with these Fay, when the world was young, gave birth to new beings. In turn, these beings mingled among themselves and from them, down through the ages, descended the new races. The Elvish word for these Fay-derived races was Uirishg-which meant either "Fay-blooded" or "Children of the Fay."

Amongst the trees and forests were the elves. The people of earth and mountain were the dwarves, though Magiere had never seen nor heard of any in this land. The Fay-descended races of wind, wave, and flame were not known to Wynn.

In the far-forgotten past behind all of them were the Fay, the elemental beings.

Magiere looked up at Leesil lying in the top bunk. One arm thrown over his face, he ignored both her and the hound.

"Wynn told you," she said. "He doesn't control us. It's more a touch of thoughts, an urge built upon a memory-nothing more. That we weren't aware of what was happening"-she glanced at Chap-"is why we never ignored or dismissed it."

"And how many times have we been unaware?" Leesil asked. "How many turns in our lives were made because he wormed into our thoughts?"

Chap barked twice.

"Quiet!" Leesil snapped. His arm dropped, and he rolled his head enough to look at Magiere.

"I don't know," she finally answered.

"And what else is he concealing?" he asked in a snide tone. "Why are we so privileged to have his company?"

Magiere shook her head. "I don't know," she repeated.

"Well, I should be used to living in the dark by now," he muttered.

His words made her pause, as if he spoke of something else, but there was no time for it.

"We know Chap… thinks… the murderer isn't part of the council," Magiere offered, hoping to divert Leesil's attention to more immediate matters.

In truth, she didn't care to contemplate the mystery of the dog any further. The reasons for, and the implications of, Chap's hidden nature following them all these years were too overwhelming.

"The best Wynn can make out," Magiere continued, "is that Chap was looking for scent on the parchments. If an undead signed for the purchase, there might have been a lingering trace, but he found nothing. It's probably been far too long and the scent is gone."

Chap stood up on all fours and yipped at her, tail switching.

"I told you to be quiet!" Leesil shouted at the animal.

"That means ‘yes, " Magiere said tiredly. "It's something Wynn arranged with him." She let out a deep sigh. "One for ‘yes, two for ‘no, three for ‘maybe' or ‘uncertain. "

Leesil's head flopped down on the pillow again.

"Think you can do better?" Magiere asked. "She's done the best she can, considering she's trying to talk with some… one… who can't write or speak. She says his thoughts or way of thinking-as Fay or what have you-isn't the same as ours, making it hard to communicate with him."

A cold, wet lump prodded her hand, startling her.

Chap had inched to her side, shoving his muzzle into her hand with a soft whine. His tongue whipped between her fingers.

"How much of our lives has been shaped by him?" Leesil said, and leaned on one elbow to peer down at them. "Would we even have met if he hadn't forced it that night?"

"Does it matter?" she asked. "We're here, together, for a purpose. And I have to believe we'd still be here, whether or not he had anything to do with it."

Leesil's amber eyes narrowed and sent an ache through her chest. She wanted to comfort him but was uncertain how. Then a high-pitched voice filled the room.

"What's the problem? You burn something else down already?"

In the doorway stood young Vatz in fresh oversize pants and shirt, his frazzled hair only slightly tamer than when he'd left this morning. A small relief spread through Magiere.

"Did you find your uncle?" she asked.

"Yup. Kept switching between moaning like he'd lost his mama and wanting to skin you for supper, till I told him about the money. Then he started growling about lost income while the place is being rebuilt."

Magiere sighed again.

"Had supper yet?" Vatz asked. "I ain't eaten much since last night."

"I'll find Wynn and get you something," she answered. "Stay here."

Perhaps the boy's presence and his ignorance of the evening's events would provide a safeguard between Leesil and Chap.

Magiere headed for the study, her mind filled with questions concerning the hound that refused to be dismissed. It was too much coincidence that an animal born to hunt undeads-though perhaps that was just a consequence of his true nature-should end up in the company of a dhampir, let alone a reluctant and retired assassin. When more immediate concerns were met and their task for the council completed, she hoped Leesil would gather himself enough that they could turn to finding answers.

When she entered the study, there was no sign of Wynn. A cold lamp sat on the desk where the young sage had been working.

She headed for the side passage leading to kitchen. In the dimness of the entry way, a soft light called her attention, and she glanced down.

The topaz amulet glowed brightly.

Magiere spun about.

There was no one in the room. The sound of booted footsteps echoed from the main hallway, and she started to run.

"Leesil!" she shouted. "My sword!"

She passed the front entrance but saw no one. Before she headed down the hall toward their room, Chap came toward her with Leesil close behind. The dog still limped, but he dashed past as Leesil tossed her the falchion. His punching blade was in his right hand. Vatz came running behind, loaded crossbow wrapped in his little arms.

"Get back in that room!" she ordered him.

His expression clouded, and his angry little mouth opened.

"No arguments," she snapped. "Move!"

A wail echoed down the hall behind her as Chap burst into full cry, and Magiere whirled to follow without waiting to see that Vatz obeyed.

As she reached the study again, Wynn and Tilswith scurried in from the side hallway to the kitchen. Leesil and Chap entered behind Magiere, and the hound circled the room with a continuous rumble as he sniffed about. He let out a growl as he passed by Wynn's table, and then turned and trotted back into the main hallway.

Magiere hesitated before going after him. The two sages hung back.

"Who was just here?" she asked.

"Our friend, Chane," Wynn replied, out of breath and her voice unsteady.

"Good scholar, but…" The domin paused, gripping Wynn's arm, his voice touched with sadness. "He is tall, noble look… red-brown hair behind ears."

"Oh, merciless saints!" Leesil snapped, and he bolted after Chap. "Come on. They've been inviting an undead for tea and studies."

Magiere followed. As she rounded the corner to the front door, she saw it already ajar. Leesil ran into the night ahead of her, and Chap's wail echoed from the street outside.

Sgaile tied the corners of his cloak about his waist to keep it out of his way and hold his cloth bundle of equipment snug against his back. With the shortbow hung over his shoulder, he slipped into a space between buildings close to the inner ring wall and searched for a way to the rooftops.

It had been a long day's wait, and his brethren in Hovel Row had informed him of the strange, well-dressed human who had come with questions. The city was being locked down at night because of a string of unexplained deaths, and movement would be difficult. He stepped out before dusk to give himself time to enter the city's wealthy inner districts before the gatehouses were closed for the night.

Ascending the rough buildings was easy for Sgaile, and he soon perched at the apex of a three-story structure. Leaping to the next rooftop, he landed silently and worked his way along. Out ahead and above, he could see a white speck atop the wall and settled still as a shadow next to a clay chimney. A guard in white surcoat and feather-crested helm strolled along above. When the guard passed down the other way, Sgaile continued along the roofs.

It would be difficult to locate his target with little to guide him but the secondhand description given by his brethren. He reconciled himself to a long night of silent searching. Then a wail carried through the air.

Sgaile froze again, dropping low.

There had been mention of a dog.

The wail sounded again, long and savage, and Sgaile sprang to his feet, leaping across the rooftops.

Chane ducked through a doorway, out of sight, as he heard shouting in the hall. He did not stop to listen and slipped out the front door once the footfalls passed by toward the study.

When the explosive wail burst from behind him, it startled him. He had heard that sound twice now-once from a distance and once close by-and knew the dhampir's dog was inside the barracks.

What could the dhampir possibly be doing among the sages?

As he ran through the street, the wail shifted to a high-pitched tone that cut through the night air, and Chane knew the hound was outside. Looking back, he saw far behind two gleaming pinpricks like diamonds in the dark. Its silhouette loped oddly. Chane's own legs were long, and he ran swiftly, but he heard the hound gaining ground.

He searched about for refuge, someplace to make a stand, and spotted the shabby frame of a large storage shed between two buildings against the ring wall. The door was broken but three walls were intact, so he dodged inside, stepped to the back, and began chanting softly.

In his mind, he drew lines of light, slowly crafting symbols in his thoughts. First the circle, then around it a triangle, and into the spaces of its corners outside the circle, he scrawled glyphs and sigils, stroke by stroke. The mesh of lines in his mind overlay his sight of the room wherever he looked, and he aimed through its center at the ground before the door.

Still wailing, the hound slammed into the broken door, smashing it open, and its voice shifted to an elongated snarl.

In the shack's darkness, the animal's blue-gray fur stood on end around its neck and along its back, its sharp teeth exposed beneath wrinkled jowls. It was so tall that its back would reach Chane's thigh. And the dhampir could not be far behind.

Chane focused upon the floor before the hound. A shifting warp twisted his vision of the room.

Spirals of flame shot up in front of the hound.

Without looking back, Chane dashed through the shed's broken side, scanning the street for the nearest sewer grate.

Leesil ran at full stride out the guild's front door. Chap wasn't far ahead, but for running on only three legs, the dog covered ground at a rapid pace.

His slender legs pumped wildly to catch up. The hound had sustained too many injuries on this exploit from throwing himself into every battle. More than once, he'd been outnumbered or flanked before Leesil could get to his side. They knew little of this undead that Chap pursued, other than that he was a swordsman and perhaps a mage as well. This was more than Chap had faced before.

Hound… Fay… or both. Anger flared inside Leesil, a mix of resentment toward Chap and ire at the undead who'd walked right through the building when they weren't paying attention. He pushed harder to catch up, knowing Magiere wouldn't be far behind. Out ahead, he caught sight of Chap's loping form. He peered farther down the gradual arc of the road.

There was the dim outline of a fleeing form. Then it was gone.

Chap turned, heading toward a large but shabby three-sided shed at the far end of the barracks grounds. Why would the undead run there? It offered no protection.

As Leesil followed, he saw Chap standing just inside the shed's doorway, snarling loudly. A breath later, fire erupted like a fountain inside the shed, and the doorway quickly ignited into flames behind the dog.

A shadow flickered away out of the shed's broken side.

Leesil wanted to scream. He ran headlong through the door, leaning forward to grab Chap by the chest, and threw himself forward.

He felt heat like the pressure of water closing around him, as if he'd leaped from a height into a boiling sea. Rolling across the ground with Chap clenched tight to his chest, he smashed them both against the shed's back wall. Leesil scrambled up and shoved Chap ahead of him out of the shed's broken side.

Once in the street again, he grabbed the hound, running his hands over the gray-blue fur, checking for burns. His heart thrummed against his ribs. To his relief, the fire had mainly scorched Chap's tail and singed a few patches of fur on his haunches, but that was all. A moment more among the flames, and the result would have been more than Leesil cared to imagine.

Chap tried to lunge away down the street again, but Leesil held tight.

"No," he said. "You wait."

"Leesil!"

Magiere's shout came from the front of the burning shack.

"Here," he called back. "We're over here."

She ran toward him, falchion in hand. "Where's the undead?"

"I don't know." Leesil shook his head and looked to the burning shack. "Should we sound an alarm? This one enjoys his little fires."

Magiere looked to the shed as well and shook her head. "This shack isn't connected to anything." She dropped next to Chap. "Did that bastard burn him?"

"No, not really." Leesil allowed relief to flood him.

Chap turned and licked his face once before growling, struggling to be released. But Leesil hesitated.

"You ready?" Leesil asked Magiere.

"Let him go," she answered.

Chap lunged down the street, slowing now and again to sniff for a trail. Leesil had no idea how the limping dog kept his pace, but they ran after him along the open street.

Anger mounted again, and Leesil felt the sweat in his hand gripping the blade as he pictured this undead's head rolling on the cobblestones. He shifted the blade to his other side and wiped his palm dry on his breeches. Street lanterns partially lit the way, but there was no one in sight.

The guard patrolled near the city walls in greater numbers, but he hoped this undead wouldn't run into them. They would likely get themselves killed.

Chap pulled up short at a sewer grate and circled it, nose to the ground, and then looked at them. He clawed at the grate with his good front paw. An anxious rumble issued from his throat, but Leesil saw the slight shake of his legs. The dog panted in exhaustion.

Magiere kicked at the grate. "He went down."

The light glow of her topaz dimmed to nothing as Leesil watched. He knelt down next to Chap, and Magiere crouched as well. She looked at the grate and then at Chap.

"We've no lantern or torch, and Chap's done in," she said.

Leesil peered down through the grate. She was right, but the image of Chap circled in flame still burned in his mind. He put his hand on the dog's back and felt the tremble of fatigue beneath the rumbling vibration of his growl. He reached down to grab the grate.

Magiere put a hand on his shoulder.

"Not like this," she said. "We stick to the plan. Find the lair and go in during the day when we're all well prepared and at our best."

"He can't have gotten far," Leesil argued.

"We'll find them," she insisted. "It may take a bit of time, but we will. They can't get out of the city, at least I hope not, now that Chetnik has all the gates locked down after dark."

Breathing slowly, Leesil nodded, but Chap continued to growl, looking downward through the tight mesh of iron bars.

"And I know you can understand me," Magiere said to him. "So don't pretend otherwise."

Chap quieted but glowered at her.

At another time, when he'd been just a dog, Leesil might have found Chap's expression humorous. Now it gave him shivers. Movement in the street pulled his attention, and Leesil rose and turned in one movement, blade at the ready.

Vatz stepped up behind them, crossbow loaded and a determined look on his face.

"We going down?" he asked.

Magiere's jaw dropped. "I told you to stay inside with the sages!"

"I ain't hiding behind that bunch of gray skirts."

She was about to grab for the boy with a vicious glint in her eye, when Leesil pushed Vatz back down the street the way they'd all come.

"Let's get inside," he said. "We can talk about this later."

"What!" Vatz growled. "I thought you two were-"

"Move," Leesil ordered.

The boy reluctantly obeyed, with Magiere following him, and Leesil turned to call for Chap.

The dog was gone.

Fire in the night. A wail in the air.

Sgaile focused upon the glow ahead rising up between the night silhouettes of the rooftops. He barely caught the sound of running feet and indistinguishable voices. When he landed upon a shaked roof with twin chimneys, front and rear, he saw the flames across the way against the city wall. Scanning the barrier's top into the distance, he saw the far-off guards in white making their circuit around the wall's top. None appeared to have spotted the waning blaze. Perhaps it was tucked too close to the wall to be seen from such a distance.

What burned was little more than a lone abandoned shed, and it already collapsed upon itself, the fire dimming. Scattered sparks wafted upward and extinguished before they crested the wall's top. Firelight impaired his night sight, and the wail, footfalls, and voices had all faded. He crept closer to the roof's edge over the street and looked along the line of buildings.

Walking away to the far right was a small boy, crossbow hefted over his shoulder. Behind him was a tall female, back turned, with long black hair and loose-hanging shirt. He could not make out much of this person, except for the heavy-bladed sword in her hand. A flicker of white in the dark pulled his attention left and up the street.

Standing near a street grate was a figure with long white-blond hair, a ragged white sleeveless vest or shirt lashed sloppily around his waist. The only other feature Sgaile could make out was a strange blade gripped in his hand.

The figure turned slowly about, looking all around with seeming concentration, and Sgaile saw his face. He focused his vision.

It was man of tanned skin like his own, but the face was not quite right. The eyes were not as wide or large as his own, and the feathered brows not quite as arched and high. His chin was more the squarish end common to humans.

Half-blood.

Sgaile glanced quickly at the woman and boy farther down the street's gradual arc. His target stood still and in plain view, and he could not let such a chance pass by.

He slipped an arrow from the back of his belt and fitted it to the shortbow. Taking aim, he drew the string back.

Leesil looked up and down the street and between the nearest buildings, trying to spot where Chap had gone. He was about to call out when an odd tingle scurried across his back. Wariness overtook him, and he peered about the dark as if there were something else nearby that he couldn't see.

Had the undead come out through another grate and doubled back? He listened carefully as he peered into the shadows of the buildings.

One shadow moved, low to the ground, and he tensed.

Chap ambled out from between two silent shops, nose to the ground as he followed the line of buildings. Leesil relaxed in annoyance.

"Get over here," he called. "It's gone already."

Chap looked up and paused again to the scan the street. With reluctance, he hobbled toward Leesil.

Sgaile fixed his gaze upon the half-blood's chest just right of center and at the man's heart. He took a slow, deep breath and released half of it.

A gray flicker bobbed from a building to the left and along the cobblestones toward his target. Sgaile paused, releasing the rest of his inhale.

It was a dog or hound approaching the half-blood at a slow, limping gait. Sgaile settled again with another breath, in and halfway out. The dog circled the target as the two moved slowly down the street, and Sgaile pulled tighter on the bowstring.

The angle was no longer what he needed, and he raised his focus to the half-blood's temple.

The sheen of the dog's coat caught the glimmer of a street lantern.

Sgaile paused again, and this time his breath caught in his chest.

The hound limped along next to the half-blood, and Sgaile looked carefully at it.

The dog was blue-gray in color and taller than the forest wolves, its head narrower and muzzle longer than those wild beasts. Even from a distance, Sgaile caught the glitter of its crystal-blue eyes as it intently looked about. He lowered his bow, slowly releasing tension on the string, and sat in silence, watching the two figures recede down the street.

"Majay-hi" he whispered in disbelief.