Xaphira Matrell stumbled into a narrow alley and against the back wall of a net mender's rough wooden shanty, where she slumped down behind a small stack of barrels, her left leg throbbing in pain. In the near-darkness of the moonlit night, she held still, hoping the clammy mists and the shadows of her hiding place were deep and dark enough to keep her concealed from pursuit. The salty scent of the bay was heavy, tantalizing her with the nearness of the quay, where she could gain refuge aboard a ship in the harbor.

Beyond her hiding place, along the fog-shrouded street that went past the alley and down to the docks of Arrabar, a trio of armed watchmen jogged into view, their booted feet slapping loudly on the damp cobblestones. They paused there, peering into the alley uncertainly. Xaphira held her breath and tightened her grip on the crossbow in her hands, ready to fire if it became obvious that she had been spotted.

One of the soldiers muttered something low and unintelligible to his companions, who both shook their heads. Just when it seemed that the trio was about to move closer and begin searching, a shout, muffled by distance and the muggy air, turned their attention away from Xaphira's location. They turned and sprinted out of sight. When the woman could no longer hear the sounds of their footsteps on the street, she sighed heavily in relief and closed her eyes.

The immediate danger past, the woman's attention was forcibly turned once more to the excruciating pain in her thigh, where she could see the silhouette of a crossbow bolt protruding from it. She knew she was going to have to yank the missile free, yet she hesitated. It was not so much out of fear of the pain. That she could handle. It was the fear that she would cry out and give away her hiding place that stayed her hand for the moment.

She leaned back, brushing aside the rivulets of sweat that drenched her face, keeping them clear of her eyes. Then she closed those eyes in weariness and sorrow and slumped against the rough wooden wall of the shanty, half listening for the inevitable sounds of soldiers coming into the alley and thinking back to the beginning of the evening, when her nephew had first approached her with his terrible news.

"Aunt Xaphira," Vambran Matrell said softly, his voice tight with fear as he approached his father's younger sister. "I think I killed someone."

Xaphira Matrell gasped softly as she jerked her head to stare at her nephew. He was standing beside her on a secluded patio overlooking the Lord of Arrabar's gardens, a finely crafted crossbow in his hands, the stock inlaid with silver and lapis. The matching quiver with its blue-fletched bolts hung by its strap from one shoulder. She recognized the weapon instantly, a recent gift from an uncle. Two of his friends-Adyan Mercatio and Horial Rohden, both proud scions of merchant families themselves- flanked him, staring with wide, round eyes. Behind her, inside the Generon, the palace of the Lord of Arrabar, the din of other guests attending Eles Wianar's annual Night of Ghosts festival began to fade as the twelve-year-old boy's words made the blood pound in the young woman's ears.

Xaphira grasped Vambran by the shoulders and held his gaze firmly.

"How?" the mercenary officer said, clenching her jaw and fighting to keep her voice low so that no one could hear. "Where?"

The younger man's face was faintly illuminated by both a series of rounded, pierced silver lanterns sitting in a row along the top of the balustrade and the waxing moon shining down upon the port city arrayed below them. Even in the dim light, the woman could see that his visage was grave and pale.

"It was an accident," Vambran whispered fiercely as the implication of his own deed hit him squarely. "We were just shooting plantains out of the trees, I swear!" he insisted, pointing down into the palace gardens below. "We didn't mean to…"

The boy's words faded away as he understood the futility of explanations.

"Are you certain?" Xaphira asked her nephew, locking eyes with him still. "Or is it just a trick of the festival? Someone playing at ghosts?"

Vambran shook his head and replied, "No. I fired a shot, and we heard it hit someone; they yelled in pain. We ran to see what happened and found a man."

"He's over there, in the trees," Horial offered softly, pointing down into the orchard that was part of the garden.

Xaphira groaned to herself, lamenting her nephew's ill fortune. And foolishness.

Shooting blindly into trees…

"Has any one else seen you?" she asked, straightening and peering around the balcony to see if other guests were near. "Was anyone else down there in the gardens with you?"

Vambran shook his head no.

"Have you told anyone else?" Xaphira demanded.

"No," Vambran replied.

"Are you certain he's dead?"

"He was bloody," the boy replied, shrugging helplessly. "When we saw, we just ran."

"Then take me to him," Xaphira insisted. "Show me where he is."

Despite her calm, firm demeanor, Xaphira's heart was pounding in her chest. She felt pity welling for Vambran, pity mixed with the devastated disbelief that something so tragic could have befallen her family again. She feared they would not recover from another setback.

Waukeen, please let him still breathe, the mercenary silently pleaded. Don't let my nephew have to live with a death on his hands.

The tiles beneath Xaphira's boots were slick with humidity as she followed the three boys toward broad, shallow stairs that would lead down into the gardens, leaving the sounds of the party behind them.

Just as the four of them reached the top of the steps, a voice called to them from behind, "Xaphira, there you are." It was Dregaul, the mercenary officer's older brother. The functioning head of House Matrell strolled closer as Xaphira and the three boys halted. "I've been looking for you. I wanted you to meet someone back inside. He's a-"

"There's been an accident," Xaphira cut in, keeping her voice low and motioning for her brother to do the same.

Dregaul cocked his head to one side quizzically, then his eyes widened slightly in surprise. "What?" he asked.

"Just come on," Xaphira said, turning back and gesturing for the boys to lead on. "Someone's hurt."

"Oh, by Waukeen, what's happened now?" Dregaul murmured softly as he fell into step beside his sister. "What's going on?"

"Vambran might have accidentally injured someone," Xaphira replied as she and Dregaul followed the trio, staying close as the boys led the way onto the vast expanse of grass that demarcated the beginning of the gardens. "They're taking me there now."

"What?" Dregaul said with a strangled cry, stopping and turning to face his younger sibling. "How did this happen? Vambran, what in the Nine Hells were you doing?"

"Shh!" Xaphira whispered insistently. "Keep your voice down or others will find out." She stared at her brother until he got the point and snapped his mouth shut. "He didn't know," the mercenary added.

"Didn't think, is more like it," Dregaul hissed. Out of the corner of her eye, Xaphira could see Vambran flinch. "Are you trying to ruin us, boy?" Dregaul added, shaking his head in disbelief. "Pray your victim still lives."

The five of them continued on, and none of them said a word. Indeed, Xaphira peered around as they progressed, watching and listening for any signs that others were nearby, others who could discover the victim and raise the cry before she and Dregaul could get the situation in hand. The Lord of Arrabar had invited many guests, and the Generon and its grounds were overflowing that night, but thankfully, no one seemed nearby at the moment.