"Yes, yes," Tilswith said, "best solution! When?"

Lanjov sighed. "I will see that the council takes the opportunity to address your concerns. But at the moment there are simply no funds available for a project of this size."

Wynn glanced about the office, as did Tilswith, and she couldn't help a suspicious frown. Lanjov shifted uncomfortably.

Deep blue tapestries trimmed in soft cream covered the walls. On one wall hung a portrait of Chesna, his daughter, and on the opposite a portrait of the king. The imported Suman rug was thick enough to sleep on, and a porcelain tea service, with matching pitcher and washbasin, rested on a cherrywood stand by the chamber's side door. Lanjov's inkwell and the tip of his crystal-handled quill were crafted in matching silver.

"Yes," Tilswith said. "We see problem… with money."

Wynn felt her previous hope fade as Lanjov's expression turned from polite frustration to one of dismissal.

"I respect your presence here, and am personally glad of it," he said seriously, "but truly, Tilswith, we have more pressing matters. No-don't look at me as if I'm deaf. There are other matters… criminal matters which require the council's attention."

These words the domin understood, and he paused in silence.

"I sorry your daughter," Tilswith said. "She kind girl… in… innocent."

Wynn, too, felt sympathy. Lanjov was a private man, and the recent murder of his daughter-on the front porch of their home, no less-weighed heavily upon him. She had heard little in detail, but the brief descriptions of the body were more than she cared to know.

"I help if can," Tilswith added.

Lanjov nodded stiffly. "Yes, I know you would. We are doing what we can to find her killer. The council has sent to Miiska for a dhampir." He then paused. "Do you know of such?"

Both sages stared at him for a moment. Tilswith frowned in confusion and then leaned closer to Wynn, seeking an explanation.

Wynn looked back to Lanjov. "What is a dhampir?"

"A hunter of the dead-or the undead," he answered. "Yes, yes, I know it's distasteful and superstitious-sounding, but…" He stopped, clear discomfort rising in his eyes. "An unnatural creature murdered my daughter. I have no doubt of this, and the city needs an equally unusual agent to hunt it down."

"But what is a dhampir?" Wynn repeated.

Lanjov sighed again. "From what I've been told, legend has it that such a person is the offspring of a vampire and a mortal and, by nature, capable of exterminating these creatures."

Wynn paused, uncertain of what she heard, and then translated. Domin Tilswith scoffed.

"Child tales," he said. "We have like in stories call ar-dadesbarn."

"You would say ‘dead's child, " Wynn explained, "though it is the offspring of a revenant, not your vampires. How much did you pay this… dhampir?"

"Tales of this person drifted along the coast," Lanjov said, ignoring the issue of payment. "It seems those stories are true to a point, as much as any rumor holds some grain of truth. She and her companion hunted down at least three undeads in Miiska. That she has killed at least three is verified by Miiska's town council." Lanjov shook his head slowly. "Undeads… the mere thought that such things are more than peasant superstitions…"

Tilswith shook his head sympathetically and scoffed again, but Wynn was curiously intrigued. A half-undead?

Domin Tilswith appeared on the verge of returning to the issue of new guild quarters, when a knock sounded at the side door.

"Come in," Lanjov called out, sounding rather eager.

Crias Doviak, council secretary, put his head around the door.

"She's arrived, sir," Doviak said. "The council is gathering in the main chamber now."

Lanjov quickly rose. "Thank you. I will be in directly."

Doviak nodded respectfully and left.

"I apologize," Lanjov said to Tilswith, stepping briskly around the desk. "Duty calls me away."

Tilswith sputtered, but Lanjov nearly lifted him out of the chair while shaking his hand in farewell. He placed a hand on Wynn's shoulder as well, propelling them toward the main chamber door.

"We will continue addressing your concerns as soon as possible."

Surprised by this sudden rush out of Lanjov's office, Wynn instinctively tried to plant her heels in the floor, but the councilman's large hand slipped down the center of her back with a quick shove. Before she could offer a polite good-bye, the door closed in their faces.

"H'neaw hornunznu!" Tilswith spit back at the closed door.

Wynn was relieved she did not have to translate such an utterance.

Leesil slowed his step as they approached the council hall, overwhelmed by its sheer size. The lengthy, three-story building also served as the city's central courthouse and hall of justice. It was bound to be more than the back room of the Velvet Rose used by Miiska's own council-but this he hadn't expected. The entrance doors were wide enough to pass through with arms outstretched. When he stepped inside, Leesil felt an anxious spasm for every questionable act he'd ever committed in his entire life.

Once inside the cathedral-like entryway, he, Magiere, and Chap waited as an interior guard sent a youthful attendant to fetch their escort, Crias Doviak, secretary of the council. The paned window arch above the doors spilled light across stone walls stained in soft green to complement a marble floor with veins the color of jade. Above them, raised into the domed ceiling, hung an iron chandelier with polished brass fittings that held at least two dozen oil-lamp receptacles in glass globes.

Leesil adjusted the faded scarf on his head and surveyed his attire in somber dismay. He felt like a dolt who'd walked home through the town market not realizing he'd sat in cattle droppings. Normally, he didn't care what anyone thought of his appearance, but this was a whole other world. They were here to play hunters of the dead-for real this time.

Magiere was oblivious, pacing in short steps back and forth around the polished floor. After Leesil left her to find a weaponsmith, she'd gone with the pier boys to a moderate inn called the Burdock in the lower-class merchant district. The inn turned out to be owned and run by Vatz's uncle but was suitable in all other respects. When Leesil caught up with Magiere, they'd barely had time for soup before leaving to meet with Bela's council.

"Don't worry," he said to her. "All we do is find out about the death of this councilman's daughter, get an idea where to start looking, and Chap can take us from there. Just like in Miiska."

"I'm not worried," she answered.

Chap whined and pushed his nose into her palm as she passed him in her pacing.

"Stop it," she said, pushing the dog's muzzle aside. She gave Leesil a disdainful look. "I've dealt with enough village elders back when we were on the game. I know how this is played."

Yes, Leesil thought, but we're not in a Stravinan village.

These weren't superstitious peasants awed by floating powders, clanging urns, and a half-elf dusted in flour. They were in the king's city, and this wasn't a game anymore.

He simply nodded and said nothing.

Magiere's attire was less disheveled than his own. She wore her black breeches, a loose shirt that needed a wash, and a leather vest. Her hair was pulled back in its usual tail, and her falchion rested comfortably on her hip. She appeared relaxed-except for the constant pacing.

Down a side hall came a short, well-tailored man at a brisk trot, his heels clicking on the floor. Leesil assumed this to be Crias Doviak, the council secretary. Two armed guards accompanied him, and their longer legs made their steps seem slower and more deliberate.

"The council has gathered and awaits you in the main hall," Doviak said with a slightly affected lisp. His light brown hair was purposefully curled into small, uniform ringlets.