Chane carefully surveyed the hovel. The door and all windows were still closed. He focused on the sound until it nearly resounded in his hearing, and then he faced down the street, separating the shadows with his sight.

Something moved quietly along the buildings, and Chane slipped across the street to follow.

The cloaked figure avoided the few dim pools of light from street lanterns, heading out of the city. He was stopped by the guards at the outer gate. Under the gatehouse's bright lanterns, Chane saw the elf's face inside his gray cowl. The elf exchanged brief words with one guard, opening his cloak for inspection, and then moved on his way.

Waiting a moment more, Chane stepped out and followed.

There was actually a mix of men at the gate. In addition to four surcoated Strazhy-shlyahketne, there were two armed men in plain clothes, likely from the local constabulary.

"And where might you be going at such an early hour, sir?" asked one of the guards.

Chane remained polite, but gave the man a slow and appraising glance that made the guard shift uncomfortably.

"I was visiting the home of some workers of mine and simply stayed too late," he answered. "And with the night almost gone, I thought to walk for a while until one of the local inns opened. Too little night left to return to my bed."

The guard made a cursory appraisal of Chane, glancing back down the street, and nodded.

"Very well, sir," he said stepping to one side. "But best keep to the main streets and well-lit ways. A good night to you."

Chane moved on, staying as close to the buildings as he could, slipping into a side street now and again just long enough to let his quarry stay ahead of him. It was actually easier to trail his target outside the city, as the buildings and huts became sparser, giving way to small fields and groves of trees. The elf moved furtively, finally stepping off the road and heading into the thick woods. Chane followed from tree to tree, watching as the elf wove his way.

The forest grew dense. Chane crept forward, low to the ground, working his way wide to the right of where the elf had passed, but he could not find an alternative path through the brush. Crawling under the lowest branches of a tree, he carefully cleared the earth in front of him so as not to make more noise than necessary.

The elf stood near an old fir rising high into the night. Its lower limbs were sparse and sheared away, exposing its trunk. The elf dug within his cloak and withdrew a simple object. An oblong shape ending in narrow points, it was no longer than the man's palm, light yellow in color, and its surface shimmered, polished smooth.

Placing it against the tree's trunk, the elf flattened one hand over it to hold it in place, and appeared to whisper to himself, over and over. Then he spoke, and a stream of words in his own tongue came out in a halting pattern.

Chane grew more intent. It appeared the elf now held a kind of conversation with the tree. No, his eyes were turned aside, staring vacantly through the woods.

The elf spoke through the tree-to someone else.

Chane knew a little of the elvish tongue from scant texts he seen over the years but had rarely heard it spoken. He tried to listen carefully, wishing he possessed Wynn's gift for language.

"Bithasij fuile letheach ag'us ag meanna, gye sapdjasij Anmaglahk colhtaseach!"

The words jumbled in Chane's mind as he tried to pick out what he could recognize. Part of one word, lethe, meant half in the masculine form, but half of what? The half-blood perhaps. Ag meanna meant "not of us." But most curious was one emphatic word-Anmaglahk-which seemed to be a name or title. Perhaps the person to whom the elf spoke? Several phrases slipped by before Chane focused again.

"Tridlhina Ihos ag me. Urkharasej tii aonec."

The best Chane could guess was "not depart plan or purpose"-and an emphatic "send one more," but one more of what?

"Leanave faodeach вg a bitheana ahk bith so cuishna. Vorthasej so true! "

The stream of words stopped suddenly, and the elf slipped the polished sliver back into his cloak. He turned and headed back the way he came. The last thing that Chane could make out was about someone's parent, a mother perhaps, and taking the life of a "traitor."

It seemed there was much more to this half-elf that Toret feared.

Gray streaked the night sky as Chane crept out from under the tree to trot back to the city, slowing briefly as he passed through the gatehouse once again. Instead of traversing Hovel Row, he swung toward the waterfront, reaching the low-end merchant street where a few coaches could be found. He could not arrive home empty-handed.

Urgency was always dangerous, but there was no time for cautious selection. Walking the side streets, he watched for signs of movement in the alleys and listened carefully for heavy breathing. He found a drunken sailor behind a tavern, curled soundly asleep against the building's side. Chane walked purposefully over and struck the man hard enough across the jaw to be sure he would not awaken anytime soon.

He flagged down a coach while supporting the sailor with one arm.

"Too much ale," he said to the driver. "I must get my friend home."

He gave an address two city blocks away from the house. He would walk the rest of the way and not risk the driver seeing his destination. As the carriage wheels clattered away, he rolled one word over in his mind.

Anmaglahk.

Chapter 10

Near dawn, Magiere and Leesil still sat on the bed next to Chap's sleeping form. Their talk strayed from past to present and to more comfortable topics like strategy or any possible way to find the nobleman in her vision. In spite of all that happened this night, Magiere wasn't dismayed by Leesil's confession. His obvious guilt and self-revulsion for his earlier life made her want to comfort him, but she didn't know how. One phrase kept ringing in her ears.

Until I met you, and we began a whole new round of killing.

Guilt was an emotion she'd rarely experienced, but in the last few months, enough of it had poured through her for one lifetime. Perhaps this was a cord that bound them together no matter how much she feared accepting a deeper bond.

"How is the swelling?" she asked, watching Chap.

"Better-he's a quick healer," Leesil answered. He lifted the cold compress to inspect Chap's head. "A good night's sleep and some breakfast will put him right. Oh, that reminds me." He pulled the ripped scrap of lavender silk from inside his shirt. "This won't help find your nobleman, but it may help us find our wayward undead from last night. If the two are somehow connected, so much the better."

Looking at the silk scrap, Magiere felt a moment's ire return, but she knew it was poorly placed.

"You really didn't know that doxy was an undead?" she asked, trying to keep venom from her voice.

"I didn't even look at her enough to notice she was somehow familiar," Leesil answered defensively. "Not until she dropped in my lap two breaths before you and Chap burst in."

Magiere felt her face flush. She was about to change the subject, when a knock sounded at the door.

"I don't remember ordering breakfast in bed," Leesil quipped.

Magiere saw his right wrist tense slightly, ready to slip a stiletto into his palm. Now that she knew where and how he'd learned such things, the movement sent a chill up her spine. He got up, cracked the door, and then opened it all the way.

Standing in the hall was the gray-robed young woman who'd addressed Leesil in the corridor of the council hall. She was small, with a long brown braid hanging forward across her shoulder.

"Excuse me for this early intrusion," she said. She had a soft, almost guttural accent to her voice that Magiere couldn't place. "My master sent me to speak with you."