Chapter 14

As the light of the Burdock's flames faded in the southern merchant district of Bela, a different light shimmered unnoticed near the north point of the Outward Bay.

A large ship skimmed the water, rounding the point, long and sleek, its iridescent sails reflecting the crescent moon's light. Sails began to fold, and it slowed well away from the harbor to slip as close to shore as the bay's depth allowed. A small shape bobbed upon the water, moving away from the vessel.

Slender as its parent, the longboat glided into shore with four cloaked forms aboard-one to the stern, two at the oars, and the last at the bow. As the boat drifted to a stop, the forward passenger leaped out upon the gravelly sand.

His cloak was colored between charcoal gray and forest green. He wore a scarf around the lower half of his face and a cowl covering his head. Large amber almond-shaped eyes gazed back at the longboat. He raised a slender gloved hand.

His companion in the stern returned the gesture and called out, "D'creohk."

"To an end," he repeated back in the language of the land he now stood upon.

"And good hunting, Sgaile," his companion added.

The longboat drifted back toward the ship, and Sgaile fled into the shoreline trees.

A light rustle of autumn leaves and pine needles on the forest floor followed in his path, with no thump of footfall or crack of twig. When the nearest of Bela's outerlying villages was in view across the fallow fields, he settled upon the mulch carpet between the trees. He would wait and enter the city by daylight amongst its populace on the streets.

Sgaile sat still in contemplation. Word had passed to the homeland from the city's watcher, and then to the ship where he'd been assigned.

"A half-blood?" he whispered.

So few such aberrations existed in this world. He was mystified why this particular one distressed the watcher enough to call through the trees across the continent. Sgaile had never met a half-blood. Traitor, this one had been labeled, and in that there was possible sense. For the only one he heard of had been born years ago to another traitor to his people… a traitor to her people.

Aoishenis-Ahare-Most Aged Father-was wise beyond comprehension in ancient memories, and as leader of Sgaile's people, knew more reasons than his descendants why they should fear the humans. It was not Sgaile's place to challenge such wisdom, though it concerned him that he did not know how or why his target had been judged.

He untied the cloth strap running crossways over his chest and pulled its end until the narrow bundle it held to his back slipped from under his cloak and into his lap. He unfolded the cloth, arranging his belongings with care, and made sure each piece was in proper condition.

Picking up a tube of silvery metal and two double-curved lengths of polished, tawny wood, he assembled the short-bow and strung it. Five arrows with teardrop points also lay on the cloth. His stilettos were strapped to his forearms beneath his shirt.

Setting the bow across his lap, he reverently picked up his last possession, a plain but finely crafted wooden box as long as his forearm, wider than his palm, its depth less than the thickness of his wrist. When he opened it, he carefully inspected each item within, from the strangling wire to the bone-cutting blade, to the delicate struts, hooks, and implements hidden beneath a second panel in the lid.

Traitor, this half-blood had been called. The only other Sgaile knew of who'd borne such judgment was now dealt with. And her child, if that was truly who this one was, would not receive the mercy she had been granted by her people-or by her kind, the anmaglahk.

Magiere and Leesil trudged through the late-night streets to the front door of the sages' barracks. Lanterns to either side were extinguished, but Magiere banged upon the door anyway.

By good fortune, her breeches and boots were in the chest, so she hadn't had to walk the streets half-naked waiting for some guard to arrest them for indecency. She was certain her hair was a wild mess. Her shirt hung loose, black smears and spatters across it. There were no marks of her own blood, but her ribs and hip ached where she'd been kicked. She was about to pound on the door again when it cracked open.

To Magiere's relief, Wynn Hygeorht peered out, clutching her robe closed. She held up a lantern, its light somehow brighter than any Magiere had seen.

"Oh," she said, "it is you."

She took sight of Leesil's state of undress and his gashes, and the massive gray form of Chap in his arms. Magiere knew she didn't look much better. Wynn's eyes widened in alarm.

"Spare a little bread for a few beggars?" Leesil jested.

Wynn jerked the door open. "Come-come inside."

It was then that Vatz stuck his head out from behind Leesil. Wynn's surprise grew, but she motioned the boy in as well.

"What happened? Why are you carrying Chap? Is he all right?" Wynn asked all at once.

"He's alive," Leesil answered, "but can't seem to walk on one front leg."

Without another question, Wynn ushered them down a hallway, then along another passage that emptied out into a kitchen. Magiere imagined the room probably looked similar to when it served the city guard, but now narrow wooden poles hung from the ceiling with a variety of harvested herbs arranged there to dry.

"Lay him on the table," Wynn said. "I must find Domin Tilswith. He has more medicinal knowledge than I."

Setting the lantern on the table next to Chap, her hand hesitated, about to touch the hound lightly on the head. Instead, she hurried away back down the passage.

Vatz walked up to Chap but didn't touch him either. "He won't die, will he?"

There was a bit of concern in the boy's voice beneath his general fuming. For half the walk to the barracks, he'd spouted a never-ending barrage of angry questions and foul exclamations over the fire at the Burdock. Magiere had bitten her tongue more than once. As much as Vatz had every reason to be upset, it wasn't helping matters. They could only apologize so many times in one night.

Leesil shook his head adamantly at Vatz. "No, absolutely not. You won't believe how soon he'll be up and around again."

"Good. I thought that vampire was gonna kill him."

At the word "vampire," Magiere closed her eyes for a few breaths. Small for his age, probably due to poor diet, Vatz couldn't be more than ten years old and yet spoke so matter-of-factly about something she'd only recently come to accept.

"Well, you saved him," Leesil said. "A good shot."

"I was aiming for the bastard's eye."

Leesil roughed up the boy's already frayed hair.

"Knock that off," Vatz snarled. "I'm not your dog!" But he remained at Leesil's side.

Magiere felt a stab of loneliness and the desire to see little Rose at the Sea Lion again. She'd never really paid attention to how children so easily attached themselves to Leesil-even those who didn't show it openly. Though in all honesty, Vatz didn't behave much like a child.

After they fled the inn, the boy roused the locals, and a fire brigade was organized faster than Magiere thought possible. The local constabulary arrived, and Leesil gave them a story about brigands raiding the inn. The Burdock's bottom floor was lined on the outside with stone, and one-story buildings bordered it. With enough people at hand, the fire was kept from spreading, and a portion of the ground floor might be salvaged.

So far, no one had located Milous, the innkeeper, and Magiere dreaded facing him. She planned to ask Lanjov for council money to rebuild the Burdock. If he refused, then the cost would come out of her and Leesil's final payment. Milous and Vatz couldn't be left homeless and without a livelihood.