Leesil's expression darkened. Magiere reached out to touch his shoulder.

"If we haven't found something in the next few days, we should leave," she said. "Head up into the mountains and find our way to the elves… and hope Sgaile wasn't lying."

Leesil dropped his head in silence.

Chap had pondered this option to the point of frustration.

When Leesil had fled Venjetz eight years ago, Chap's place had been at his side. That was part of his purpose. Chap had never questioned his kin in this.

Gavril and Nein'a had played no part in what would come, in stopping the return of the ancient one known by differing names to the different people of this world. Wynn and her sages called it "the night voice" from the decayed Sumanese scroll they had uncovered. Ubad, that abomination to life, had prayed to it by the name of il'Samar. Leesil's parents had been expendable in the plan of Chap's kin. Now, like Leesil, something pulled at Chap. Leaving this city with no answers…

It would feel as if he abandoned Nein'a and Gavril again.

He rumbled, then looked back at the two beings now in his charge grunting once for their attention. Leesil stood up beside Magiere, and they began to make their way back toward Byrd's inn.

Dark streets caused little trouble for any of them, each with sight gifted in differing ways. Chap's thoughts were occupied with what he had seen in Magiere's feral expression as she looked at Leesil. Deep within her dhampir self, she still recognized him. Perhaps his presence and their bond now provided the strength she needed for control. It was comforting but troubling nonetheless. Chap had never intended that she delve so deeply, so soon, into her darker half.

Twice he heard small paws on wood across the rooftops. Somewhere out of sight, another odorous feline headed for the inn, and he paid it little attention. As they approached the door to Byrd's, he heard it a third time.

Chap turned to sniff the air. His nose wrinkled at the scent. In the dark he saw a black cat sitting on a barrel outside a tavern down the way, watching him.

"How about some late-night sausages?" Magiere asked him. "After all that running, you must be hungry."

Chap forgot the cat, and his ears perked at Magiere's words.

Oh, sausages!

Darmouth was lost in thought in the Hall of Traitors when Paris appeared in the far doorway and hesitated. Darmouth let him wait.

He disliked having his private thoughts interrupted. He'd been thinking of how best to approach Hedi.

He'd courted many women, but none like her. Polite and guarded and cold, she showed no interest in what he offered her. This was a far cry from the women of his early years, eager to please and beg favor. He could simply order the marriage to take place, and he expected it to go forward as planned during the winter feast, but he wanted more. He wanted the mother of his heirs to accept him by her own choice. He wanted the proper image of a royal family.

"What?" he finally barked at Faris.

The Mondyalitko quietly stepped in, passing between the stone coffins of Darmouth's father and grandfather. He stopped two paces away, and his attention shifted briefly to the back wall. Bare skulls leered within shadowy stone cubbies where the light of burning braziers around the room couldn't fully penetrate.

"Forgive me," Faris said with a submissive nod. "I followed the hunter as you asked. There was another disturbance. This one more public and not far from the Bronze Bell. Lord Geyren's mistress, Marianne a'Royce, was killed."

Darmouth turned toward Faris, his anger growing.

Marianne a'Royce was an empty-headed and spoiled girl. However, she was a favorite of the other "ladies." Lord Geyren was excessively fond of her, and Geyren collected taxes and tribute from nearly a third of the provinces lands north of Venjetz. This death had consequences Darmouth couldn't afford.

"The hunter told the truth about one of her companions," Paris continued. "The dog picked up a scent and tracked the killer. But by the time I caught up in the chase, the dhampir had lost her quarry in the alley behind the Ivy Vine."

Darmouth stared at him. "What of the girl in the sheepskin coat?"

"She wasn't there," Paris answered, and the lilt of his voice suggested some private doubt had been confirmed. "There was a man in her place with a glowing amulet on his chest. I never saw his face clearly, but he was quick, skilled, and knew the city well. He took shortcuts even a regular visitor might not know. When they returned to their inn, I followed."

"You remained… in disguise?"

"Of course, and it seems they stay at the inn of the very man who found her for us-Byrd, one of your longtime agents. Convenient, isn't it?"

Darmouth disliked coincidence, though Byrd had been useful through the years. Such things often warned of betrayal in the making.

"What else?" he asked.

"I thought you'd want the news of Lord Geyren's mistress right away."

Darmouth pulled one of his daggers and stepped in close to Faris. "Go back to the inn and get inside, you half-wit! Can you make yourself small enough?"

Faris went rigid but didn't back away. "Yes… Byrd has a weakness for homeless cats. He wouldn't be concerned at one more."

"Then get to it." Darmouth added, "Report back before morning."

Faris glowered briefly as he bowed and backed toward the door. Darmouth didn't care if his servants hated him, so long as they obeyed.

Welstiel gripped the shoulder of Chane's tattered shirt so that both their presences were hidden by the power of his ring. He crouched below the window until he was certain that Magiere was long gone, then stood up. Chane did not move.

"Are you injured?" Welstiel asked.

Chane stared into the room's darkness with a blank expression. There was blood on his face and shirr. Westiel took the basin and water pitcher from the table. He set them on the floor.

"Clean up and get out of those rags and back into your own clothes."

"He wept for her," Chane rasped, still staring at nothing.

Welstiel had no idea what this meant. "Get up!" he ordered.

Chane blinked and a haughty, offended expression came over his long features. He climbed to his feet, picking up the pitcher and basin.

"I'm not leaving this room without my sword again, and I'm not wearing these rags. An old cloak with a heavy hood will do, if need be."

Welstiel grew hesitant. If need be? Chane did not wish to go hunting again?

"What happened? Did Magiere catch you off guard?' he asked.

"The dog sensed me from a short distance," Chane rasped back. "I was unarmed and couldn't fight all three of them. I had to run."

"You were not supposed to fight," Welstiel threw back at him.

Chane set the basin back on the table. He poured water from the pitcher too roughly, and droplets splashed over the rim. He slapped a hand towel into the water and turned on Welstiel.

"And it occurs to me that I take all the risks to get Magiere to do your bidding, to move on in search of your prize, whatever it is. I won't wait much longer for you to tell me more. Or you can serve your own secret needs by yourself!"

He snatched up the wet towel, wiping blood and coal dust from his face, then stripped away the soiled clothing, dropping pieces to the floor. Welstiel saw the layers of lash scars covering Chane's back, a gift of discipline from his father in life.

Welstiel considered cowing Chane into obedience, but he did not. He was too relieved that his companion's ire appeared to bring back his former wits. In spite of Chane's haughty nature, he had once been resourceful and far more useful. Welstiel would have him so again, but he had no intention of revealing any more than necessary, and especially not about the patron of his dreams.