“Sod off, and we won’t kill you.”

His mouth opened and closed. Two of his men laughed. Reeno didn’t.

Vree reached into her belt pouch and pulled out a square of leather stamped with a black sunburst. “This is your last warning,” she sighed and tossed it onto the packed dirt between them.

Reeno whimpered.

“I’m guessing he served,” Bannon noted from where he was leaning against the candler’s wall. “And these three got deferments for being in the governor’s guard.”

“Orin!” Reeno grabbed the big man’s arm. “They’re…”

“…not armed with nothing but knives, and they’re runty,” Orin grunted. “Soldiers die on leave all the time, accidental like.”

Vree smiled at Reeno who whimpered again and ran.

That night, Hy Sa’lacvi went to another tile game, and Bannon came back to the room smelling faintly of cloves.

“We can’t keep this up indefinitely,” Vree sighed as they followed Hy Sa’lacvi while he shopped.

“We could kill him.”

“No,” she flicked an apricot pit at a street performer. He shrieked and grabbed his crotch. The crowd applauded. “Our orders say we have to be sure.”

“So?”

“So we force his hand.”

They laid a black sunburst on the sarong he wore out in the evening. Mirrin looked up at them, yawned, and went back to sleep.

“He probably doesn’t know what it is,” Bannon reminded Vree when Hy Sa’lacvi returned to the shop in his sarong, apparently unaffected by the square of leather he carried in one hand. “He’s a foreigner, remember? Don’t worry,” he added as the square was passed to the woman in his shop. “She’ll…”

Her shriek could be heard clearly across the street in the ale house.

“…know.”

They got to their regular place on the roof in time to see Hy Sa’lacvi carefully stack the contents of his worktable into one covered basket and frantically shove a fistful of clothes and Mirrin into another. The calico kept up a steady protest as he pounded back down the stairs, through the shop, and into the street.

“Sounds like he’s got a demon in there,” Bannon snickered as they followed.

“Looks like he’s heading straight for the docks,” Vree pointed out.

“The Astoblite ships.”

“He ran right to his co-conspirators.”

“So we can kill him now?”

“Works for me.”

Hy Sa’lacvi was in the cabin of the farther ship with the Astbolite woman he played tiles with. His baskets on the floor at his feet, he was clutching her arm and speaking so quickly in Astbolite it sounded like one long, hysterical word.

“Speak Imperial!” she snapped at last. “Your accent is terrible at the best of times!”

Tucked in the shadows outside the louvered window, Vree doubted his Imperial was any better. Although she could hear separate words, hysteria gave them unintelligible inflections.

“Why are assassins trying to kill you?” the woman demanded at last.

“My carpets.”

“What about them?”

“I sell cheap because pay no duty!”

“You’re smuggling carpets into the South Reaches?” she asked as Bannon mouthed, He’s smuggling carpets? at Vree.

“Hide them with sorcery!”

“Oh, give it a rest, you’re no more a sorcerer than I am.”

Which was when Mirrin finally got the lid of the basket open. Yowling indignantly, she leaped up onto the table, scrambled through the piles of paper, knocked over the lantern, and threw herself out the window.

The lantern landed on the second basket.

Clutching the furious cat who’d landed in her arms, Vree danced along the railings, leaped to the other ship, skipped past an astounded group of sailors, and was on the dock before the purple flames had reached the top of the first mast.

Bannon was a heartbeat behind her.

“At least there’s no invasion,” he said as they slid into an alley while bells tolled and people yelled and Hy Sa’lacvi and the Astbolite captain’s voice could be heard screaming contradictory orders as the purple fire spread. “I think it’s time we left.”

“Past time,” Vree agreed, wiping her bleeding cheek on her shoulder as Mirrin settled in her arms and began to purr.

“You going to take her back to the shop?”

She glanced at the burning ships. The purple fire had chased both crews onto the docks and seemed to be following them. “No, I think I’d better take her with us.”

“What are we going to do with a cat?”

“Give it to Marshal Chela.”

“Well, if we’re bringing her something, we’d better get something for Commander Neegan, too.”

“So the Ilagian sorcerer was not the vanguard of an Astoblite invasion although he might have precipitated one since Prince Aveon is likely to be more than a little annoyed about losing those two ships. Half of the South Reaches has been reduced to purple ash and rubble, three of the governor’s personal security force are dead, someone named Big Eylla has sent me a bill for half a dozen full-body rubs…” Marshal Chela grabbed Mirrin just in time to keep the inkwell from going off the edge of her desk. “…and I seem to have acquired a cat. Did you have anything to add, Commander Neegan?”

“Just that this,” he told her, holding the souvenir dagger between thumb and forefinger, and staring down at the dangling shells in disbelief, “is exactly why assassins do not take leave.”

BLOODLINES by Jim C. Hines

Jim C. Hines has been writing for over a decade now, though he tries not to think about that. His humorous fantasy novels Goblin Quest and Goblin Hero are both available from DAW. His short fiction has appeared in over thirty magazines and anthologies, including Realms of Fantasy, Turn the Other Chick, and Sword & Sorceress. Jim lives with his beautiful wife and two wonderful children in Michigan, where he is patiently waiting for fame and fortune to arrive. They haven’t shown up yet, but Jim remains hopeful. He suspects they took a wrong turn in Albuquerque. If you see them, please direct them to www.jimchines.com so they can get in touch.

TO ONE ATTUNED, the scent of dark magic was unmistakable, even through the sweat and dust permeating the stamp mill. Valerica Eminescu rested her sledgehammer on the floor and wiped dust from her eyes, wondering if she had imagined it. Already the tang of burning blood, sharp and coppery and hot as the devil’s forge, had begun to fade. Her hand tightened around the handle of her hammer as she searched the crowded mill for anything unusual.

“You all right, Val?” asked Jim Daley, as he dumped another shovelful of crushed ore into the pans.

Before Valerica could answer, Jim’s shovel clattered from his hands, and he lurched forward.

Valerica tried to catch him. Her fingers brushed his coverall, and then he twisted sideways, staggering like a man too drunk to walk. Another miner shouted, but it was too late. Jim fell against the machinery and didn’t move.

There was no way for her to stop the riverwheel from rotating, lifting, and releasing the heavy weights of the mill. Designed to pulverize crushed ore, the stamps smashed down before Valerica had taken two steps.

She grabbed Jim’s arm and dragged him back. Blood spurted from his ruined right hand, spraying Valerica and darkening the dusty floor. Jim stared dumbly at his hands. Splintered bone protruded from the broken fingers of his right. His left hand hung limp. The stamps had torn skin and muscle near the wrist, and already his entire sleeve was dark with blood.

Someone shoved her aside, wrapping a belt around Jim’s left arm, then twisting a sheathed knife through the belt to tighten the tourniquet. Another miner handed him a steel flask and forced him to drink.