"Should we stop for today?" No aGarrogh asked, dropping the stack of reports on the desk.

Rodian looked up. Two whitish stains stood out on the lieutenant's tunic from last night's seafood stew. He was suddenly disgusted with his second—with the entire lot of sages—but most of all, with the interference of Duchess Reine.

Garrogh must've mistaken his expression for frustration and leaned forward. "They say this Suman knows more about poisons than anyone."

Rodian glared at him. "And who are 'they'?"

His second in command shrugged, clearly having achieved the wrong effect. "A couple of the royal guards… just what I've heard."

"You've been talking to the Weardas?"

"A few asked about our progress," Garrogh said. "I wouldn't make much of it. With sages being murdered in alleys, the whole city is starting to talk."

Rodian sighed. Rumors were like a disease upon wisdom. And he would look like a fool for his failure. But if this physician was indeed an expert on toxins, why was he employed by the royal family? The Âreskynna had little to fear of being poisoned. They were beloved by all, with a few exceptions in their ancestry. Perhaps this foreigner had other skills they valued, like that strange and silent elf the duchess kept in her company.

A knock came at the door, and both Rodian and Garrogh sat upright, exchanging expectant glances.

"Come," Rodian called.

Guardsman Lúcan stuck his head in the door. "Captain, are you free? That Suman physician is asking for you."

Rodian ducked around his desk before Garrogh made it off his stool.

"Get a journal," he told his second, "and take notes."

He didn't wish to be distracted by doing so himself. An instant later they were out the door and hurrying down the twisting passageways toward the kitchens. The bodies had been temporarily stored in the cold cellar.

Rodian walked as quickly as he could without appearing anxious, slowing only as he passed through the large kitchens to the scullery beyond. Pulling open the heavy door to the cellar, he was down the stairs, boots clomping on the stone floor, before Garrogh even closed the upper entrance.

The physician stood with his back turned, leaning over a short chopping-block table.

Rodian had met him earlier that morning, but they'd exchanged few words. The man was slender, with dusky skin, dark hair, and a neatly trimmed goatee. He wore clean muslin robes of a sandy color, and a cloth wrap was held about his head by a twined braid of amber cord. He didn't look old enough to be an expert on anything.

Miriam's pallid body was laid out naked upon the chopping-block table, like some unskinned side of pork.

All Rodian could see around the physician's bulky robe were her head and shoulders and her thick calves and feet. Her eyes had been closed, but this did nothing to soften her twisted features locked in horror. Shots of ashen gray ran through the natural brown of her hair.

And then Rodian noticed a bloodied curved knife. It lay near where the Suman leaned a hand upon the table. But Rodian was too eager for answers to give it immediate thought.

"Well?" he demanded without a greeting, for he was tired of remaining polite.

The physician turned, exposing a clear view of the table, and Rodian's mouth went dry.

The girl's torso was split open from her throat to her privates. The skin across her chest and abdomen had been peeled back, exposing internal organs and ribs.

Behind Rodian, Garrogh whispered something under his breath.

"What have you done?" Rodian began, and then he went mute.

The Suman frowned, openly perplexed by his visitors' reactions. "I was told to make a thorough examination."

Rodian found his voice. "Yes, examination… not mutilation!"

This young girl had died horribly. She'd been violated enough in that alley. And now he'd unwittingly authorized this butchery.

"Without an internal assessment," the physician said coldly, "I cannot provide any dependable conclusions."

Rodian took three weak breaths, trying to regain his calm.

He was dealing with a Suman—like il'Sänke—who saw no connection between the body and the sentient spirit. Humans of all races, and dwarves and elves, were the highest of living beings in the eyes of Toiler, Maker, and Dreamer. Even the body—the vessel—was sacred. This Suman could never begin to comprehend such truth.

Rodian would have to go to temple and pray for this mistake of oversight.

"What have you learned?" he demanded. "How did she die?"

The physician wiped the girl's gore from his hands with dampened burlap. He stepped to the table's head, scowling down at Miriam's tormented face. About to speak, he stopped and leaned lower, as if inspecting some overlooked detail. Then he shook his head and began again in his thick accent.

"Upon initial examination, I felt certain the cause was poison. You must have noted the grayed flesh and lack of injury?"

Rodian didn't respond. He could only stare at Miriam's split flesh.

"I searched for methods of introduction," the Suman went on, "hoping to lift traces of any substance used. There are quick-acting compounds that can be introduced by breath, contact with the skin, or even through orifices other than the mouth."

"You found something?" Rodian asked, his anxiety building. "You must have."

Some gain had to be achieved for this atrocity.

"No," the physician answered.

Rodian forced his eyes to follow as the man pointed inside the girl's opened torso.

"Her lungs are whole and healthy," the Suman continued, "as is the lining of her throat. There are no signs of chemical or particulate damage to her internal organs. I found nothing in the nostrils or ears or anywhere upon her skin. Anything introduced to the eyes might have thinned in tears but would also have left traces for such a quick death."

The physician shook his head, huffing through his long beak of a nose, and his frown deepened.

"Then what?" Garrogh demanded, the journal and a shaft of writing charcoal in his hand.

"I do not know what killed her and caused such discoloration and discomfort. She simply died suddenly."

Rodian felt his throat closing up.

The girl had been mutilated for nothing, and the sound of Garrogh scribbling notes didn't resume. Rodian whirled for the stairs, hurrying to get out of this cold, dim space.

"Sir," Garrogh called. "Where are you going?"

"The guild. Please see our guest back to the royal grounds."

He nearly ran up the stairs, out through the scullery and kitchen, not caring if the staff saw his state. He didn't slow until he reached the courtyard and the stables along the south wall. Breathing fresh air as fast and deep as he could, he strode past the stable warden and saddled Snowbird himself. He patted her when she tried to nuzzle him, but then quickly swung up on her back.

Rodian tried to wipe the image of the cold cellar from his thoughts as he urged Snowbird into a canter down the second castle's gatehouse tunnel. He couldn't get the sight of Miriam out of his head, but he felt equally tangled in the strands of some web. It held him in place, forcing him to do little but watch, like a bound and useless spectator.

How could Duchess Reine, or the rest of the royal family, send him that Suman butcher?

The Numan Lands had seen no war in Rodian's lifetime, but he had seen battle in his younger days. One tour of duty had placed him near, and even beyond, Malourné's far eastern border. Even farther out were the Broken Lands—wild terrain with little to no civilization, stretching nearly to the eastern coast. Sometimes straggling bands of hulkish little beasts on two legs wandered into the farthest farmlands and forest communities.

He had seen soldiers bashed and torn apart, for those things ate nearly anything digestible. Hence their name—goblins… the little "gobblers."