"And you?" Chane asked.

"I will deal with the old soldier. Kill her quickly, and join me in the courtyard."

Chane slipped into the passage. Envisioning Osceline's throat was enticing. She was aggressive and sensual. He hoped she would fight.

He stood upon the narrow landing of a dark staircase and opened his senses to smell for blood, life. There were quick footfalls coming from below. Osceline was running, and that made Chane smile. A chase was always a welcome prelude.

The passage steps emerged well below in what appeared to be a prison beneath the castle. Chane stepped out into a passage of iron cell doors. At the passage's end was another hall running left and right. He no longer smelled Osceline and stopped to listen again. All was silent, and then a metal door grated softly.

Chane ran after the echo of metal against stone as he turned left at the connecting passage. At the end of this new path was a door left ajar. He jerked it open to find a chamber with a table and chairs, perhaps a guards' room. Across it, Osceline pulled one last time upon a locked door, trying desperately to open it. She gave up and turned to face him.

Chane was surprised by her countenance. She appeared small and mundane, no longer dangerous and desirable. And tired, as if her spell had taken much from her. Chane felt a twinge of disappointment.

"You don't need to kill me," she said. "I would only do myself harm by speaking a word about who murdered Cezar. My master will be displeased enough as it is."

Chane did not break stride as he stepped toward her, and Osceline held up her hand, palm outward.

A sharp pain sliced through Chane's temples and behind his eyes. His vision swirled to black for an instant. Disoriented, he blinked. The room returned to his sight, but it was hazy. Osceline stood before the door but shimmered in waves like summer heat upon an open field.

Irrational rage rose in Chane to smother all calculated thought. He wanted her dead and no longer cared how. He lunged and grabbed her by the throat.

At first he felt nothing, as if his fingers had closed on air. Then his grip tightened on warm and pliant flesh. Chane blinked.

Osceline's throat was in his hands, her swollen tongue pressing out between paled lips and green eyes frozen wide and vacant. He felt cracked vertebrae under her skin and muscle.

Chane blinked again, and she lay dead on the floor at his feet. He stepped back, a mix of satisfaction and fury clouding his awareness.

He vaguely remembered rushing Osceline as she raised a hand toward him. He snatched her throat, bore her down, and crushed the life out of her. Yes, that was what had happened. She was dead, and he could leave. He returned to the passage doorway but stopped and looked back.

Osceline still lay near the locked side door, and Chane looked down at his own hands.

He remembered the feel of her neck breaking, but he had not bothered to taste her life as it vanished, and he couldn't understand why. Perhaps in his anger and panic to reach her before she could flash-blind him again, his instinct had taken more expedient action.

Not wishing to wander the castle in retreat, Chane backtracked to the wood-paneled room and down through the passages the old soldier had guided them along. As he emerged in the main hall to head for the front entrance, Welstiel stepped from a side corridor.

"Did you find the old guard?" Chane asked.

"Yes… and the woman?"

Chane remembered that he had clearly seen Osceline's body. "Dead… I snapped her neck… and left her below in the keep's prison."

"Good." Welstiel nodded approval. "We will take the horses and walk them back out. I have seen no other servants up and about. No one will find Buscan until midmorning, as it appears he stays up late into the nights."

He reached out a hand to propel Chane toward the front entrance. Chane found this odd, as Welstiel rarely touched him.

"There is nothing more for us to do here," Welstiel said. "We wait for the dhampir to arrive. When she finds no records and no one to help her further, she will have no choice but to turn back."

A sudden connection occurred to Chane. Welstiel had come to hide records of his family, and Magiere searched for records of her own father.

"No records regarding the Massings," Chane said. "And none regarding her… How did that the captain put it, 'her family'?"

He turned and found Welstiel returning his steady gaze.

"Do not forget your place," Welstiel said in a voice stripped of all emotion. "You are here to serve the bargain we made, and that is all."

Chane's discovery would have to be handled carefully or he risked giving Welstiel further cause for conflict. He nodded calmly.

"We deserve some comfort," Welstiel said in a more sociable tone. "Let us find out if Keonsk boasts a decent inn. A bath and laundered clothing are in order, as well as comfortable beds for a change."

Welstiel's quick shift to placation left Chane wary as he followed his companion out to the horses. Again he pictured Osceline's body by the locked door with the smooth flesh of her throat still intact.

His own change of habit disturbed him.

Chapter 12

T he wagon rolled up to the gates of Keonsk at midday. Leesil dug through his pack and pulled out an orange paisley scarf. He pulled his hair back behind his ears and tied the cloth around his head. It was so large that the ends hung down to his shoulders.

Magiere wrinkled her nose as if she'd bitten into a rancid pear. "Where did you get that?"

"I traded with one of the Mondyalitko for some apples."

"You paid for that with our apples?" she asked. "Where's your gray scarf?"

"I lost it in the forest the night we fought Vordana."

"The color doesn't work."

"Of course it does. My shirt is brown."

"You look like someone lit your head on fire. You'll stand out like a fever blister. Take it off, and find something else."

"I don't have anything else."

"I think it's rather striking," Wynn put in.

"You would," Magiere muttered.

Port and Imp pulled to a stop as a guard at the gate stepped out and held up his hand. His expression was serious. Nine others stood inside the entrance in varied armor and red surcoats.

"Your business?" the guard asked.

'To the market… for supplies," Magiere said. "And one of our horses injured his leg. We need someone who knows horses to have a look at it."

The guard lost some of his harsh manner. "The township of Nesmelorash is a half-day south. It would be best if you could make it there."

Leesil saw genuine concern in the guard's wary expression, but he knew Magiere wasn't going to turn aside.

"We're heading east," he explained. "Is something wrong?"

"Pardon," the guard said. "Your business is welcome at market. But the grand prince is not in residence, and there is contention over who should take charge until he returns."

Leesil's nerves began to tingle. This guard wore good quality mail, and the scabbard of his sword bore a family crest. He was at least a captain, if not a minor noble, and likely educated, as most guards didn't use phrases like "in residence. " Why was he on guard duty at the city gate?

"What contention?" Leesil asked. "Why isn't someone in charge while the grand prince is away?"

The guard looked each of them over. Though he gave Leesil a serious inspection, he paused longest upon Wynn huddled in the wagon's back with Chap. The sight of her seemed to further soften the guard's manner.

"Baron Buscan, the city's protector, was assassinated last night," he answered. "Prince Rodek left an illegal contingent of his soldiers in the city, and other houses are using this and the lack of authority here to raise charges against the Antes. It's not safe."