"Tell him I'm not here."

Tibor turned to go back to the door, and a cold voice rose audibly from the foyer.

"I think you should see me."

The stranger entered, impeccably dressed in a long black cloak and well-fitting gloves. Toret felt a small flare of righteous resentment.

"This is my home," he said. "I'm not well and wish to be alone."

"Yes," the stranger responded in the same cold tone. "From what I understand, you were wounded by the half-elf. That is hardly befitting someone of your station."

His station? A sickly, humorous comment. Toret looked at Tibor.

"Wait in the dining room. This won't take long."

Tibor nodded and left, and Toret stood up.

"Where are the dhampir and her half-elf now?" the stranger asked. "Even with my resources, I cannot locate them."

Toret wondered about the man's age, though he looked to be in his mid-forties. He also appeared a bit haggard and tired, perhaps from a lack of sleep-quite different from his last visit. Why was he so interested in the dhampir, and why did he expend all this effort with warnings? Suddenly the answers didn't matter.

"I've no idea, and I don't care. I am taking my family away from here tomorrow."

"Away?" The stranger appeared stunned. "Where? Destroying her is the only way to ensure your survival."

Toret almost smiled, but not quite. "I once knew someone who thought like that. His bones are dust under the dhampir’s tavern. Vengeance is expensive."

Open anger slipped into the stranger's voice. "The guards now lock up the city at dusk. No one gets in or out. Even the sewer gates into the bay are sealed both day and night. And scaling all the city's walls would be difficult at best."

Toret turned away, and the hollow hunger of his existence became acidic.

"If you think I can't find my way around a few mortal guards, you have no idea what I am. Get out. You're no longer welcome here."

He heard footsteps coming toward him and spun about. The stranger stood close. His expression was intense, watchful, an unknown decision being made.

"Should I call Tibor to escort you?" Toret added.

The stranger's lips parted and then closed quickly. His mask of composure returned as he stepped back.

"As you wish."

He turned and left. Toret followed and bolted the door behind him.

"Tibor!"

The undead sailor came to the foyer. "Yes, master?"

"When Chane returns, let him in, but no one else. If that man appears, send him away. Understand?"

"Yes."

Toret climbed the stairs to the top floor. He was tired and drained, and badly needed to feed, but he was finally seeing his world clearly. At the top floor, he walked into Sapphire's room without knocking. She was dressing in front of her oval mirror.

"Oh, Toret," she said, as if surprised at his presence. She looked him up and down.

He knew he appeared paler than usual, and his one eye was crushed closed, but in his fresh tunic, no one could tell his body was damaged. She was lacing herself into a red velvet gown, and the sight of it touched him. Teesha had worn red velvet at times, though not as brilliant a shade. Sapphire's round face shifted between pouty and indignant. In a flash, she smiled and came to put her arms around his neck.

"You look better," she said, petting his shoulder. "I simply couldn't abide all those wounds and mess last night. I'm much too delicate."

Yes, perhaps she was, and he drank in the sight of her. She might not be Teesha, but she was his.

"You must feed," she said. "I'll finish dressing, and we'll go find you a treat. You should have anything you want." She smiled again, perhaps thinking herself quite generous to consider his desires.

"Chane is out," he said. "He will bring something back for me."

"So we're staying home?" she asked, a pout returning. "I've been trapped in here since that horrible hunter attacked me."

"You're going to be busy all night-packing," he said softly. "We leave Bela at dusk tomorrow. I'll make the arrangements tonight."

It took a moment for his words to sink in, and then she laughed.

"You can't be serious. I'm not leaving Bela. This place is paradise. There's nowhere in the country with better inns."

"We're leaving," he repeated. "If we don't, the dhampir will track us down, douse the place with oil as we sleep, and light it on fire in broad daylight. Still sound like paradise?"

His seriousness slowly dawned on her, and for a moment she didn't even speak. Then a scream burst from her ripe, snarling mouth, and she grabbed a porcelain vase off the wardrobe and threw it.

Toret ducked as it shattered on the wall behind him.

Welstiel sat in Calabar's inn, waiting for Lanjov. The last dream had been suffocating, and he felt weary. His carefully woven web was being cut apart thread by thread. He had lost track of Magiere after the fire at the Burdock, and now Rat-boy planned to flee. He sipped at his tankard of wine and willed calm into his thoughts. Lanjov would come soon, as requested by messenger. If anyone knew where Magiere now hid, it would be Lanjov.

Possibilities remained, if he could only delay Ratboy and unobtrusively assist Magiere in her hunt-but not too much assistance. If she found Ratboy's home before nightfall, she would have the advantage of daylight and not be forced to engage multiple opponents and the conjuror as well. Her training must proceed.

A stout woman with graying hair came up to his table.

"Are you Master Welstiel?" she asked. "A boy just delivered a message."

When he nodded, she held out a small folded paper, and he took it. His own name was addressed upon it. The woman glanced at his missing finger.

"Thank you," he said, not taking his eyes off of her as he waited.

She grunted and left.

Welstiel turned over the paper. A wax seal held it closed, and he split it, opening the letter.

To my dear friend:

I regret not joining you tonight at our favorite inn. Events in Bela demanding my attention grow ever more pressing. I fear my own time has become so limited I will have the leisure to meet you at neither the Knight's House nor Calabar's inn.

By now, you may have learned of Lord Au'Shiyn's death. I have reconsidered your counsel and retained the dhampir's services, so there is no need for us to discuss this matter further in my offices.

Rest assured she has both the services of the city guard and the sages to assist her. Thank you again for your guidance. I do not know when we will be able to meet again.

I remain your humble friend.

Alexi Lanjov

Welstiel read the note again, though every word was clear the first time.

In the polite manner of a gentleman, Lanjov had just informed him that he was no longer welcome at the council hall, and any relationship outside of there had also ended. Lanjov had severed their acquaintance.

The calm in Welstiel's mind withered. He read the note again, this time pausing at the mention of the sages. Lanjov had spoken of them ensconced in a decommissioned barracks.

Welstiel placed a silver penny on the table, not waiting to have his change returned. He stepped into the street and hailed a passing coach.

"Do you know of the new sages and their location?" he asked the coachman. "Take me there, now."

Chane emerged from a sewer grate somewhere in the city's second ring. He had lost the dhampir back at the sages' barracks, but much still troubled him. Wynn, as well as Tilswith, would now know what he was.

He had emerged in one of the poor districts west of the moderate merchant area and still needed blood for Toret. A trio of prostitutes hung together upon one street corner near a tavern, but Chane never chose anyone from a group. Across the way stood one lone young woman outside an alley. She was small, with limp, dirty hair. Her muslin dress was threadbare but mended. Her eyes were clear and unclouded by ale.