by Barb Hendee
She now knew her father had been one of the Noble Dead. For some reason, her father had left her the tools to fight his own kind, but she didn't know why.
So much time had passed since the days with Aunt Bieja. Sitting in her new room, Magiere leaned her head against the edge of the open chest. There was little she needed to pack. Tonight's profits would be left with Caleb to keep the Sea Lion running until she returned. With or without Leesil.
Outside in the hall she thought she heard soft footsteps and the sound of Leesil's door quietly opening and closing.
Toret lounged on a mauve velvet divan in his lavish sitting room, feeling quite satisfied with the state of his domain. He fixed his eyes on his glorious beloved. His beautiful Sapphire paraded before a large oval mirror in her new mustard yellow satin gown. Dark blond ringlets framed her round and sensuous face.
Chane, his servant and bodyguard, stood near the dead hearth, leaning against the solid stonework and looking as bored as always. Although useful, Chane had little imagination, rarely spoke, and spent most waking hours sporting a flat, dour expression. He was quite…
What was the word? Tedious? Yes, he was quite tedious, really.
But Toret didn't care. He'd come so far in the span of two moons. Was it only two since he had abandoned Rashed and Teesha in Miiska? It seemed much longer, and puzzling that he'd lived under Rashed's oppression for so many years, never realizing how capable he was of creating his own perfect world.
Traveling up the coast to Bela, he discovered the joy of a large city. He killed and fed at will, stole money from his prey, and remade himself anew, dressing as Rashed had dressed, like a nobleman—only better. Then one night, while hunting near a brothel, he saw the most perfect woman in the world, with brilliant eyes that made him think of the bright daylight sky he hadn't seen in many decades. He could never destroy her, never simply consume her. She must belong to him. His Sapphire.
She was a goddess.
She stirred his desire to remake himself anew. He changed his name from Ratboy—an insulting label thrust upon him by his own undead maker—back to Toret, his given mortal name left behind long ago.
But Sapphire had needs and desires beyond what he could afford. When Toret found and turned Chane, a spoiled and arrogant young noble, their situation was safeguarded. Chane had come into his inheritance, and the amount was substantial enough to keep them all in comfort. Toret used part of the wealth to purchase their three-story stone house on the edge of an elite district of Bela inside the second ring wall. Why hadn't he struck out on his own sooner? Why had he endured all those years under Rashed's command? Well, now Rashed was dead, or so Toret had heard, and so much the better.
"Isn't it perfect?" Sapphire asked, looking blissfully at the folds of her new gown. It was cinched so tight a mortal woman wouldn't be able to breathe, but the effect raised the tops of her smooth breasts high into view through the plunging lace bodice.
"Yes," he answered. "But you would look perfect in anything… or nothing."
Chane made a strange sound as if choking.
Toret looked over in mild concern as the taller undead appeared to clear his throat. He made that sound so often that Toret wondered if he'd carried some physical defect from life into afterlife. But since the problem didn't interfere with Chane's ability to serve, Toret never bothered to ask.
This room pleased Toret more than any other except for the bedroom he shared with Sapphire. She, of course, had her own room for her jewelry, clothing, and accoutrements, but he insisted she rest with him by day.
Chane had ordered the furnishings for the sitting room, and Toret approved of his choices. When they bought the house, this room already boasted fine craftsmanship in its gray hearth and hardwood overlaid floors. Chane had thick Suman carpets of amber and soft russet delivered, and Droevinkan pastoral paintings graced the stairway walls leading to the upper floors. He contrasted light oak tables with dark mauve velvet furnishings.
If Toret hadn't known better, he would've sworn Chane took a modicum of pride in the finished effect. But there'd been that one tense moment when Toret hung a life-size portrait of Sapphire in an ornate bronze frame on the sitting room's west wall. What could be more beautiful, more the finishing touch to anything, than Sapphire?
The house had belonged to a wealthy but solitary merchant who died of consumption. Ownership reverted to the city, and it had been for sale nearly a year when Toret bought it. One attraction was a hidden passageway in the wall adjacent to the staircase, making him wonder just what the old merchant had been involved in. But one thing Toret had learned from Rashed was the absolute need for alternative escape routes. Each floor possessed a hidden entryway to the passage at the landings of the main stairway, and all three members of the house knew where each entry existed.
Since he and Sapphire both kept rooms on the top floor, the second floor was empty. The main floor consisted of the lavish sitting room and the dining chamber and the kitchens. The main area of the cellar was where they practiced sword-play, and Chane kept his own things squirreled away in a smaller room behind this.
Turning away from the mirror's reflection, Sapphire beamed at Toret.
"Are we going out tonight? I want to show it off."
"We hunted last night. None of us need to feed yet."
Her smile faded. "I didn't say anything about feeding, did I? I said I want to go out in my new gown."
Toret found just "going out" to be quite dull. If he refused, she was going to pout all night—and possibly throw things—but he felt like staying in.
"Chane, could you?"
His servant appeared lost in thought, but the last of the conversation caught suddenly in his awareness. For a second, a flicker of fright crossed his lean features.
Toret stared at him. Chane probably didn't care to take Sapphire out to frolic any more than he did. But Chane seldom displayed any expression besides boredom—except when he was hunting, and then there were moments when his nature surprised even Toret. Chane stood at full height and crossed his tightly muscled arms.
"I was to finish some studies tonight, master." Chane fingered what appeared to be a small brass urn or vial on a chain about his neck.
Sapphire's pout shifted dangerously toward impending temper.
"Yes, yes," Toret acknowledged quickly, "but that can wait. Your lady wishes to be entertained, and you don't want her to be unhappy?"
All he really need do was give an outright order, but Toret had always hated being ordered around, so he tried to avoid doing it whenever possible.
Chane blinked, his gaze shifting between Toret and Sapphire. He was about to speak when a knock sounded from the front door.
Toret frowned. In their charade as landless gentry, there were social contacts they'd made in order to keep up a good front—some even as high up as the city council—but it wasn't likely any would come calling here. This was probably another delivery for Sapphire. He'd tried to stop this, but the more money she got her hands on, the more baubles and garments she ordered.
"Chane, could you get that?" Toret said.
"I was going to my rooms to study," his tall servant answered.
All of Chane's dour nature had returned, and Toret's irritation got the better of him.
"Get the door," he said more slowly.
Chane's muscles jerked once. Toret saw him shake off the compulsive sensation and, once composed, walk instantly into the foyer. When Chane returned, he handed Toret a small folded paper sealed at the center with wax.
"This was delivered for you, master."
A message? Toret was tempted to have Chane read it to him but was worried that might make him look weak. He broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and read one short line.
I will visit you near the mid of night with information regarding your past in Miiska. Be alone.
There was no signature.
"What is it?" Sapphire asked. "An invitation? Is there a party?"
Toret's reading skills wer
e limited, and he read the note twice before fully comprehending every word. Anxiety overran him.
Rumors had spread through bayside taverns and inns that a "hunter" in Miiska had destroyed all of its undead, which wasn't exactly true. Toret had survived. He heard enough variations on the tale that his amusement had waned and he'd tired of it. It was seldom repeated these days. But as he stared at the note, his imagination worked feverishly. No one knew of his time spent in Miiska. What if he hadn't been the only one to escape?
What if Rashed, the desert warrior, had actually survived and come to Bela, tracking his old companion—the one who'd run out on him?
That pompous, arrogant, sand-born, bastard of a… Images of the tall, perfect Suman undead smothered all other thoughts, wiping away Toret's contentment. Rashed with his crystal-blue eyes, so unnatural for his mortal race, and his ridiculous code of honor, and his ability to command. The idea of Sapphire coming under such influence made Toret squirm in agitation.
How long before the apex of the moon?
"Chane," he said quickly, "get your lady's cloak and take her wherever she wants to go."
Sapphire frowned briefly, then brightened. Toret knew she didn't relish Chane's company, but at least she could take her new dress out on the town. Chane hesitated.
"Now!" Toret barked.
Chane twitched again, glowering openly as he headed for the foyer.
"I don't want a cloak," Sapphire whined. "It'll wrinkle my dress."
"You'll look odd without one," Chane said. "Ladies wear cloaks."
"When I want your fashion advice, I'll ask you," she snapped.
"He's right," Toret said. "Put it on."
Sapphire obeyed, taking her cloak from Chane's long, outstretched arm.
"Hurry," Toret said. "The night is half-over. It's not long before the inns close."
Chane glanced suspiciously at him and at the folded paper. Toret stuffed it inside his runic and grasped Sapphire's pale hand to kiss it.
"Bring me back some entertaining stories, my love."
Sapphire returned Toret only a slight smile, apparently uncertain whether to be angry because he was sending her off with Chane or content to have her way.
"I'll have to go someplace expensive to be appreciated. Some extra coin would be helpful."
Anxiety was turning to fear. Toret jerked the purse from his belt and pushed it into her hand. "Here, this should be more than enough."
With a gasp of delight, Sapphire flounced out the door with Chane following.
"Take care of her," Toret called after him. And they were gone, and he was alone.
He had a little time to think. Perhaps he jumped to ridiculous conclusions. Rumors regarding Miiska's undead had usually been consistent. Everything pointed to the fact that Rashed's charred bones were buried in the remains of that accursed hunter's tavern. But if Rashed were dead, who else could have sent the note? No one in this city knew he came from Miiska.
A knock came at the front door. Toret hesitated.
Despite his rationalizations, he half expected to open the door and see Rashed towering over him. Ratboy would run for the back door, but Toret wouldn't be driven from his own territory, and Rashed be twice damned! He walked to the door, gripping the latch firmly, and opened it.
A stranger stood before him. Taller than Toret, the man was not nearly Rashed's height. Middle-aged, with clean features and dark brown hair, he had stark white patches at each of his temples. An expensive black cloak was wrapped around his frame.
"Good evening," he said in a cultured voice. "Thank you for sending your companions away. I have news of your past you may not wish them to hear." He paused and took in Toret's appearance. "You've changed a great deal. May I come in?"
Caught off guard by this stranger's familiar manner, Toret stood uncertainly in the doorway, but curiosity nagged him. How did this man know him? If nothing came of it, Toret could, of course, just kill him and be done with it. He stepped back.
"Of course, come in."
The stranger entered and walked to the parlor to look around.
Toret sniffed the air deeply to sense the man's blood, his presence. He forced in air, letting it fill his head as his irises opened wide to expand his range of vision. He focused on the stranger with all his senses keyed to their fullest extent.
And he felt nothing.
There was no scent, no tingle to the air. There was no thrum of heartbeat or blood rush inside the man's body. That in itself made Toret suspicious, but he sensed nothing else as well, not even tepid temperature. Even Noble Dead generated a presence, but except for his physical appearance, footfalls, and the rustle of his clothing, it was as if this strange visitor weren't here at all.
"Who are you?" Toret asked bluntly.
The man stepped to the hearth, examining the stonework, then turned to take in the life-size portrait of Sapphire with one raised eyebrow.
"A friend," he said. "I followed you from Miiska. I watched what happened there, what the hunter and her halfblood companion did to your home and comrades." He almost smiled. "I came to warn you—the hunter is coming here, and you must prepare."
Toret's throat closed, an old mortal reaction that had stayed with him, though he no longer needed to breathe. The only person in the world he feared more than Rashed was the hunter.
"How… how do you know this?"
"I've made it my business to know."
The man's features were serious, earnest, and yet so distant. He had the same practiced stance as Chane, straight-backed, head high enough that the back of his neck touched his collar. This visitor was noble or had lived among nobles at one time. But Toret was not so easily dominated.
"How do you know… and why are you telling me?"
The man paused, weighing his words.
"Bela's council made an offer she could not refuse. She is coming here to destroy the night creatures the council believes plague the city. You must be ready to fight. Your servant, the petulant one, deals in certain forms of the arcane arts, yes?"
Toret nodded slowly.
"Use him. The dhampir hasn't faced magic, real magic. And this time will be much harder than the last. She will not make the same mistakes twice, and neither will her companion. Do not try to repeat previous tactics, or you will pay for it."
With that, the man swept past Toret toward the front door.
"Wait," Toret nearly cried out, losing any control he might have gained over the exchange. "Why are you telling me this? What's in it for you?"
The man stopped briefly.
"Prepare yourself," was the only answer Toret received as the stranger slipped through the front door and closed it behind him.
Toret rushed after him, flinging the door open and stepping out into the night. Standing upon the front steps, he peered up and down the street, his vision stretched to its full range once again until he could distinguish the varied shades of black in the thickest night shadows.
The street was empty.
Chapter 3
The sun rose on a crisp, clear morning as Magiere stood with Leesil and Chap on Miiska's docks preparing to board a schooner for departure. They'd waited several days to find a ship heading north that could carry them, and a handsome, two-masted vessel floated gracefully on the waves near the harbor's mouth. It was too large and deep-keeled to dock in Miiska's shallow waters, so a skiff would take them out to begin the voyage up the coast.
Magiere's hair was pulled back in a tail with a leather thong, and she wore black breeches and a russet shirt, along with thick leather boots. Her falchion was once again on her hip, and the two amulets hung in plain view. Her few extra clothes and a new pack, as well as hauberk, supplies, and Leesil's toolbox, were stored in the small chest from her bedroom, which now sat on the dock beside her.
Leesil, as always, gave little thought to his attire and wore an old pair of loose, faded breeches, soft boots worn thin, and an oversize banded-collar shirt that been hand-mended one too many times. He carried
no visible weapons, but that was the deception he carefully maintained. Magiere knew there would be stilettos sheathed upon his forearms, and perhaps other small blades hidden in places from his bulky shirt to his boots. He was, however, wearing his green scarf about his head to hold back his hair and cover the tips of his ears. They'd passed through Bela a number of past times but had never seen any of his mother's people. Leesil preferred to mute his appearance and not draw too much attention.
"You don't need that yet," she said, gesturing to his scarf. "We haven't even boarded the ship."
"I'm practicing my disguise," he responded. "It gives me something to do."
At another time she would have smiled or scowled, or referred to his highly visible and oddly colored eyes, but his humor wasn't welcome this morning. They'd barely spoken since the night by the hearth. Now they were off to Bela, where she might become the dhampir once more. If she lost control again, and Leesil was close by…
Magiere shook off the thought. For once she wished he would be serious and say what he was truly thinking. He was almost as wryly playful as he'd been all those years in the backwoods of Stravina. Perhaps that was what gnawed at her the most. He looked forward to the journey, to an adventure—to anything besides life at the Sea Lion.
The long dock stretched back to the shore as they awaited a large square-bowed skiff coming toward them to collect passengers. All around them flat-bottomed barges and smaller ships were docked for cargo transfer.
"Hullo!" a voice called, and Magiere turned to see Karlin trotting toward them.
She was glad of it, although she'd never admit it under the circumstances. He was a symbol of what she held dear regarding life in Miiska. His generosity of spirit and calm ability to see an answer to any problem gave her faith in the world, in people.
