Where would they even begin looking for him?

Most likely in a cell at the local constabulary, if he didn't run afoul of the Varanj. And imprisonment seemed the best of outcomes, compared with what could happen to him now that tensions ran high in the capital over the assassin in their midst.

The room was sparse, with only a bed and no table. Wynn had set up a cold lamp atop their travel chest, and it lit the room in a dim white light.

"He will be all right," she offered. "Leesil and Chap can take care of themselves."

"Yes, but what are they doing?"

Wynn pursed her lips. "I might guess, though I doubt you will approve of Leesil's ethics."

Ethics were rarely a concern with Leesil. He did whatever he thought would be the quickest solution to a problem.

"What then?" Magiere asked. "What do you think he's up to?"

The room's door swung open, and Leesil fell inside before spinning to shut it, almost catching Chap's tail as the dog lunged in behind him.

He leaned against the closed door, panting and hugging his pack, which was far bulkier than when he had escaped Magiere's grasp. He was filthy from head to toe, like he'd been rolling around in the street. Chap dropped to his haunches and sat with his tongue dangling. He looked no better. His entire body was wet, and his legs, belly, and tail were splashed with mud.

Magiere's wave of relief passed instantly.

"Where did you go?" she shouted.

Leesil, still catching his breath, closed his eyes in resignation.

"And you!" Wynn cut in. "Now you decide to help, and this is how you start?"

Magiere's ire faltered, uncertain what the sage meant. Then she noticed Wynn was glaring at Chap and not Leesil.

"You did that on purpose," Wynn continued. "That little scene downstairs… that was so Leesil could get away, yes?"

Chap glanced up at Leesil, wrinkled his jowls, and turned away with a low growl.

"Duplicity is not enough for you," Wynn said. "Do you have to be so… so disgusting?"

"You're the one who said we were drawing too much attention," Leesil replied between breaths. "Better they look at him than you sprawling across our table."

"Don't try to toss this off on her," Magiere answered. "You're the reckless idiot here. What have you done?"

Chap stood, dripping, and rolled his shoulders, prepared to shake himself. Wynn cut in before Magiere could turn on the dog.

"Don't you dare do that in here!" she said, and Chap froze. "You want to go off and get dirty with Leesil, fine, but you will not share it with us."

Leesil and Chap groaned as the dog squatted on the floor again.

"Magiere… just get your sword," Leesil said. "Both of you get your cloaks."

He shoved off from the door and went to kneel at their travel chest. Setting the cold lamp and his pack on the floor, he opened the chest, dug through to the bottom, and pulled out the long, thin box that Magiere hadn't seen since Bela.

His assassin's tools. She felt a hollow grow in the pit of her stomach.

"What do you need that for?"

"Any records to be had," he said, "aren't going to be lying about. I may have to get us around some restrictions once we're inside the castle grounds."

"Inside?" Wynn sat up, worry growing on her round face. "How are we going to get past the gates?"

Leesil smiled. "I'm going to walk right through them."

A chill settled in the hollow in Magiere's stomach.

She snatched up Leesil's pack, digging inside, and withdrew a large wad of red cloth. She dropped the pack on the bed so she could shake out the fabric. It was Varanj surcoat, the emblem of a rearing stallion plain to see. For a moment, she couldn't speak and then drew a long breath.

"Leesil, are you mad? You'll never pass as a castle guard. Your hair-"

"That is likely what this helmet is for," Wynn said, and she pulled it out of the pack's bottom, looking it over before she gazed at Leesil with sudden concern. "Did you hurt someone for this?"

"Nothing lasting," he answered. "A bit of pressure to the throat, and I left him resting in a doorway. He'll have a headache in the morning, that's all."

"How does this get the rest of us inside?" Wynn asked.

"It doesn't," Leesil replied. "Once I'm inside, I'll let the rest of you in through the bolt-hole."

"I'm afraid to even ask," Magiere said, and she dropped down on the bed beside Wynn. "A bolt-hole?"

"A hidden exit on the river side of the castle wall," Leesil said. "Most fortifications have at least one, in case the place falls to a siege, and they can be opened only from the inside. Tonight, I'll walk in with the guards or even on my own, slip away, and let you in."

"What if you're caught?" Magiere insisted. "You won't end up in some Belaskian or Stravinan jail. You might not make it there alive."

"No one is going to catch me," Leesil said with a hint of resentment. "Just get your cloak."

Magiere crouched down beside him, still angry.

"Listen to yourself! If the need were dire-if one of us had been captured-I might agree to this. But I won't risk your life on a thin chance of finding my father's name. There are other ways. I came here for answers, not for your funeral."

Leesil's brow furrowed. Magiere's frustration made her almost weary, trying to get him to understand that she couldn't risk losing him for anything.

"If you still want those answers," he said quietly, "this is the only way-and don't think of suggesting we find you a surcoat, too. We've seen no women among the guards."

"Leesil, it's not worth-"

"When we head north to look for my mother, I don't want to watch you suffer, wondering what might have been found that we left behind. Now we need to go, before someone discovers that Varanj unconscious… or this will all be for nothing."

Magiere looked into his amber eyes and realized what drove him.

She didn't have his cunning and stealth, and she hated his recklessness in trying to acquire what she wanted. But in turn, when their positions reversed, she knew she would cut down anything in his path that tried stopped him from finding his mother.

Welstiel sat in a velvet cushioned chair by a warm hearth. He did not feel cold, so its heat brought no pleasure or relief, but he appreciated sensual trappings as remnants of a mortal life long lost.

Chane relaxed at a small mahogany table, scrawling on paper with a feather quill. They had procured individual rooms in a fine inn, but took their leisure together in Welstiel's room.

For twenty-six years, Welstiel had traveled alone, shunning his own kind. Chane had more in common with him than any Noble Dead he'd ever encountered. A scholar who both understood and practiced the arcane, Chane had also been a noble in life and spoke only when it was worthwhile. In spite of Chane's baser nature, Welstiel was developing an appreciation for companionship.

He felt fatigue creep in upon him. He needed to go off privately and seek sustenance.

"What are you writing?" he asked.

Chane looked up. "Notes on Droevinka and its current political structure. Once I secure relations with the guild, I may continue documenting this region."

Chane's current demeanor made it too easy to forget how savage and brutal he could be. Welstiel felt strangely at peace in spite of the distasteful act he was about to commit.

"I must go out," he said. "Please stay… carry on with your journaling. The city is in an uncertain state, and we should avoid too much activity that might draw Magiere's attention."

"She's here in the city? You are sure?"

"Yes, but the visit will do her no good," Welstiel answered.

"You knew this would happen when you killed Buscan," Chane said. "You knew the Varanj would lock down the castle, and the dhampir would not be allowed in."

"I suspected."

Chane swiveled, sitting sideways with one arm across the chair's high back. "But you weren't sure? My maker, Toret, could feed on prey and leave it alive, clouding its memory. Can you not do the same?"