"I have similar abilities, which I once used on your little sage," he replied, and ignored Chane's darkening expression. "But I find the individual must be relaxed, perhaps trust in me somewhat, before it is effective. Such powers grow with practice, and I do not practice often."
Welstiel rose, donning his cloak. "Stay and write. I will not be long."
"You go to feed?" Chane asked.
Welstiel picked up his smaller pack and slipped out of the room.
The common room downstairs was nearly empty, but the inn was located in a wealthy district. Late in the evening, most patrons would retire to their rooms or be out seeking entertainment. The street outside was equally quiet but for a small group of guards in their red surcoats. Only once along his way did he spot two others in their pale yellow, lingering under the eaves of a public house.
Welstiel slipped along the streets until he saw no one in any direction, then turned into the alleys and unlit sideways as he headed for the poor district on the city's outskirts.
Killing did not trouble him. He'd committed several brutal acts back in Bela to lure Magiere. Even as a mortal, ordering executions and using violent means to suppress peasant uprisings had been simply part of his duties. What was necessary was sometimes repugnant, just the same.
Food for a mortal was a matter of absorbing life, in one fashion or another. The body consumed materials it could break down and use. Relishing cheese and bread and bits of roasted mutton served on elegant plates had never caused Welstiel to stop in his life and contemplate the nature of sustenance.
The method of nurturing his new existence was far less pleasant.
A drunken bargeman staggered from a tavern door. Welstiel remained in the shadows of the narrow walkway between the tavern and next building. When the bargeman passed by, he grabbed the back of the man's coat and pulled him in.
Welstiel struck the base of the man's skull with his fist, and his prey slumped to the ground unconscious. Though he hated even touching such a lowborn creature, much less needing it, feeding on the better half of society was unacceptable unless there was no other choice. Kneeling down, Welstiel removed an ornately carved walnut box from his pack and opened it.
Resting in fabric padding were three hand-length iron rods, a teacup-size brass bowl, and a stout bottle of white ceramic with an obsidian stopper.
Welstiel took out the rods, each with a loop in its midsection, and intertwined them into a tripod stand. The brass bowl's inner surface was etched with a pattern of concentric rings all the way to its Up, and between these lines were the characters of his conjury. It had taken half a year to fashion it from what little he remembered of working upon Ubad's vat, a task of years in itself. He had not understood all that he had seen; not all, but enough. Though the cup had not the power of that vessel, it served Welstiel's limited needs. He placed it carefully on the tripod.
The white bottle contained thrice-purified water, boiled in a prepared copper vessel whenever he had time to replenish the fluid. He pulled the stopper and poured just enough to fill half the cup.
Welstiel rolled the bargeman over on his back. So much life energy was lost in bloodletting that little was actually absorbed by an undead who drank it. His method was far more efficient and less debasing. He slipped out his dagger, made a shallow puncture in the man's wrist, and let blood collect on the blade's tip. Tilting the blade, he let one red drop strike the water in the cup.
As it thinned and diffused, he began to chant.
The air around him shimmered as in a desert heat, yet he felt it grow humid, more so than even Droevinka's climate could produce. The bargeman's skin started to shrivel and dry from the outside, collapsing into desiccation. When his heart stopped, so did Welstiel's chant. The bargeman was a brittle shell. Even his eyes were dried sockets.
The water in the cup brimmed to the Up and was so dark red, it would have appeared black to a mortal's limited eyes. Welstiel lifted it carefully from the tripod. He tilted his head back and poured the liquid down his throat.
So much life force taken in this pure form was not pleasant. It tasted of ground metal and strong salt if allowed to linger on the tongue. And then it burst inside him to rush through his body.
Welstiel set the cup back in place with a wavering hand, then flattened both palms upon the ground to brace himself into stillness. As a youth, he'd gone out with the captain of his father's guard to the local tavern and drank his first tall ale. It felt good, until he stood up too fast. What he had just swallowed was far stronger, and he had not yet climbed to his feet.
He waited for the worst to pass.
When he picked up the cup to put it away, it was clean and dry, with no sign that anything had been in it. He packed away the iron rods and white bottle along with it.
T he corpse weighed far less than it had in life. He rolled it in his cloak. The river shore was but a short walk, where he stopped long enough to load the body's clothing with heavy stones. When he was certain the dock was deserted, he carried the body to the end planks and let it slip into the depths of the Vudrask.
Welstiel walked back to shore and stood there alone, tainted with familiar disgust and self-loathing. However, capturing every last dram of the mortal's life would sustain him for over half a moon, perhaps longer. It would be a while before he needed to feed again, and this was some comfort.
He closed his eyes and reluctantly gave thanks to the black-scaled patron in his dreams for guidance and assistance. Soon, Magiere would reach the end of her fruitless search and move on, leading him to an artifact that made his own creations mere toys by comparison.
And he would never need to feed again.
He did not put his cloak back on as he walked to the inn. He would have it laundered first. Returning to his room, he found Chane still at the small table, quill in hand, red-brown hair tucked behind one ear.
Across the room was a tall oval mirror on a stand, and Welstiel studied his reflection. His eyes were clear and alert. No sign of fatigue remained in his bearing.
"You seem much improved," Chane said. "I was becoming concerned."
Welstiel suppressed a grimace. Chane believed he had been out feeding at the throat of some peasant. Let him believe what he liked.
He sat again in his chair by the fire. "What have you recorded so far? I spent many years in this country. Perhaps I can provide more detail."
Chane raised one eyebrow. 'Truly? What can you tell me of how the noble houses collectively select a new grand prince?"
An unsettling wave of satisfaction passed through Welstiel, from both the pleasure and the scholarly interest on Chane's face. He turned his chair from the hearth to face his companion, and they spent the remainder of the night immersed in Droevinka's political history.
Crouching behind a stable near the castle grounds, Leesil felt his discomfort grow. But this had been his idea. Han-tucked under a helmet, and dirt smeared on his face, he wore the bright red surcoat over his hauberk.
"You look fine," Wynn assured him. "The helmet shadows your eyes, and most of the Varanj soldiers will be tired from longer duty, now that more of them are needed. It is doubtful they all know each other."
Leesil found Wynn's confidence almost as unsettling as Magiere's reluctance. Chap sat next to the sage, and she carried the pack he'd prepared for when they were all inside. Among its contents were his box of tools and a slender rope. His punching blades would draw attention, so he'd left them at the inn, arming himself with wrist-sheath stilettos and a stout dagger in each boot.