by Barb Hendee
Return and reiterate what you record.
Sau’ilahk released the great seal from his mind’s eye. The servitor shot away, slipping through the top crack of the shop’s door.
The repulsive apothecary eyed Chane carefully.
“Jasmine and heartsease for a love potion?” she asked. “To win your lady from a rival?”
“No.”
He stepped closer through the haze of airborne dust illuminated by lantern light. One did not simply walk into an apothecary’s shop and ask for poison. Or did one in a place like Drist?
Chane pulled a pack from his shoulder and dug out a slip of paper. “I need everything on this list, especially that last item.”
She took the torn half sheet in her bony fingers with their long, yellowed nails. For the most part, there was nothing on it that could not be found in a typical apothecary’s shop. Nothing truly unusual, from glass vessels, a small oil burner, wood alcohol, and varied components he had guessed at.
He watched her, waiting for her to spot the Numan reference at the end to the deadly flower he knew as boar’s bell.
She read it as if it were nothing, but her eye—her one real eye—flickered before she looked up.
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
Chane did not feel any warning within.
No rumble from the beast sounded inside him. No tightening prickle ran over his skin. But he had not cleared his head to listen for deception in her words. Still, it was not necessary in order to know that she would lie. Even here, a poisonous substance would not be sold openly to a stranger.
Chane drew out the pouch that High-Tower had given to Wynn and jostled it once, making it clink.
“Yes, you can,” he whispered. “You will sell it to me . . . or I will find it here myself.”
This time, her eye did not flicker, though she did not appear intimidated by his close presence and height. Still leaning on her walking rod, she raised her other hand, shaking the paper slip and her head at the same time.
“No need for poor manners,” she chided.
Without warning, she snapped her hand with the paper out.
White powder exploded from her ragged sleeve into Chane’s face, filling his eyes and nostrils. With startling nimbleness, she rushed backward, watching him expectantly.
Chane wiped a hand down his face, clearing his eyes. He briefly wondered whether the powder was lethal or merely something to incapacitate the unwary. For the first time since he’d entered, the wretched woman appeared uncertain as he took another step.
“Bring me everything on this list.”
She studied him closely, perhaps waiting to see whether the powder took some latent effect. When it did not, she slowly smiled, a gruesome expression. She obviously suffered no moral dilemma over what he’d requested.
It would be so much easier to just kill her.
But word of a dead or missing apothecary, her shop ransacked, would spread by morning when the other businesses opened nearby. There was no telling how long before Ore-Locks found them passage south. Wynn might remember one shop with a simple sign that Chane had paused at on their way through the city. She would remember the particular night that he had been out on his own.
The old crone leaned her cane against the wall, now amply nimble without it as she made her way around the shop, assembling his needs upon the front counter. It was a larger burden than Chane had estimated.
“Do not touch corpse-skirt with your bare hands,” she warned without real concern in her voice.
“And the grain alcohol . . . for purifying equipment?” he asked.
She glanced at him from the corner of her one good eye and reached under the counter to pull out a brown glass bottle.
“Perhaps instead you wish to remove a rival or two?” she said. “Clear the way to your heart’s desire, the one you covet?”
Her ironic needling bothered him. The one he coveted was so much farther beyond his reach than something that simple. His rival, if any, was only himself—what he was. That was something Chane could never clear away between himself and Wynn. Without reply, he counted out coins, stacking them on the counter.
When he finished, the old woman smiled again and shook her head.
Chane counted out more until he’d gone through nearly half the coins in the pouch.
It would have been so much simpler—more satisfying—to just kill this decrepit wretch.
Sau’ilahk watched Chane step out of the shop. The vampire paused to shift his pack to a more settled position, and then he took something shiny from his pouch and extended a finger.
Chane slipped on a brass ring.
Sau’ilahk almost lurched out of the awning’s dark shadows as Chane’s undead presence vanished from his awareness. In a thousand years, he had rarely been surprised like this. Was it as simple as a ring?
For all that he had discerned of Chane’s skills, he had never seen this undead display an aptitude for artificing. Chane had not displayed talent enough to make such a device. Why would a vampire need such a thing, when the living would never know what it was until too late?
But Sau’ilahk could see its use. For those brief instances, when he manifested himself fully, that ring could hide him, as well . . . from Chane and the dog.
A shift of air broke his obsessed thoughts. The servitor returned and immediately began reiterating all sounds it had recorded inside the shop.
Sau’ilahk listened, though there was little of use that he heard—except perhaps for one term. The servitor vanished with a puff of a breeze, its task fulfilled, but Sau’ilahk continued to ponder.
What could Chane possibly want with corpse-skirt?
He suddenly knew.
Chane sought a remedy to stave off dormancy.
Sau’ilahk had seen such a work only once, long ago in his time among Beloved’s Children. How had Chane uncovered this rare secret? Where had he learned it? Who could have possibly known in order to teach him?
Three times when Sau’ilahk had gone to Beloved beneath the mountain during daylight, one or more of the Children had been present, fully awake! Why was never clear, but it had nagged him so much that he had gone to the Eaters of Silence. He’d threatened that trio of mad servants to his god until they revealed the truth. One of them had assisted in the making of a concoction containing . . . What had it been called then? Something from Chane’s own region? Ah yes, Dyvjàka Svonchek—boar’s bell.
Perhaps Chane was nothing more than a common vampire, a mere dabbler in conjury with a growing bag of minor tricks. But did this make him more dangerous or more dependent on what could be taken away from him?
Sau’ilahk hung in the dark, uncertain.
Chane headed away from the waterfront district, realizing one more task was necessary before returning to Wynn. The apothecary had asked for more than he expected. Half the money from the guild was gone, and he had to replace it.
At a loud voice, Chane slowed and glanced left.
A sailor tumbled out of a tavern door, as if shoved, and stumbled into the middle of the side street.
“Curse you, Ramón!” the man shouted, slurring the words. “You cheat! You cheated me . . . and I won’t forget it!”
A shorter, more sober man stepped in the doorframe, his features shadowed amid the light spilling out behind him from inside the establishment. A raucous mix of voices from inside could be heard as well.
“I never cheat, Dusin,” the second man answered. “I don’t have to. You’re too drunk to play the tiles as well as others . . . let alone against me.”
Chane kept a steady, slow pace as he crossed the intersection. He casually turned in against a building to peer back around the corner.
The drunken sailor, Dusin, charged and took a wild swing at the object of his rage. Ramón easily sidestepped, letting the door close, and hooked his assailant’s ankle with his foot. Dusin teetered, slamming face-first into the doorframe, and immediately flopped onto the building’s landing.
&nbs
p; “Sleep it off,” Ramón called over his shoulder as he walked away. “Try me later . . . when you’ve got enough coin.”
Dusin rolled on the landing, holding his face and moaning.
Chane caught the thin scent of blood in the side street’s shifting air. It was so good, that smell, but he had no interest in the loser—only the winner.
Ramón strolled up the way toward the intersection.
Chane flattened against the wall around the corner, watching him pass. He stayed there, waiting as Ramón headed straight onward. Once Ramón was beyond the intersection, Chane hurried to the far corner and looked around the edge.
He was not watching the man but trying to see beyond, to the closest alley or cutway. He was also overburdened, as he had not cared to leave his packs and possessions back at the hotel. Quietly, he set both packs against the wall of the corner shop and ducked around, eyeing his target’s back.
Ramón had his head down as he walked, and Chane heard the click of metal. In this of all places, the haughty winner of some game of chance counted his meager fortune alone in the night. Chane crept along the building fronts, nearer and nearer.
His quarry was only six paces from a narrow access between the buildings on the far side when Chane rushed into the street.
Ramón turned, still walking, at the sound of Chane’s boots.
Chane lashed out before the man’s eyes had focused upon him. His fist struck his target’s cheekbone, changing the man’s turn into a spin. Chane heard the chink of a coin pouch striking the cobblestones, and that sound cost him an instant of hesitation.
His quarry flopped down hard onto the street.
Chane grabbed the body by one arm and dragged it into the narrow cutway. Ramón lay against the alley’s sidewall—unconscious but breathing—as Chane glanced back.
The pouch lay in the middle of the street.
He crept to the cutway’s end, looking both ways along the street. It was empty, and apparently even Dusin had crawled off. Chane rushed out, snatched the pouch, and retreated into hiding.
The pouch was full of copper and silver, but only half the coins were from Malourné. Wynn would notice if he used foreign coins for the balance. There was no option but to put the Malourné coins into Wynn’s pouch. He dropped the rest back into the new pouch and tucked it into his belt.
Ramón still lay unconscious, a pulse pounding in his throat. The earlier scent of blood was still thick in Chane’s head.
This man was not like that old woman in the shop. How many were found dead in the streets of a place like Drist? No one would miss this man or connect his death to Chane, not even Wynn. All he need do was raggedly, recklessly slash the man’s throat once he was finished.
Chane pressed his hands against the alley wall above the man, hanging his head to stare down at the slumped form. He could smell life waiting for the taking.
Two bells rang in the night, and a third followed after a brief pause.
Chane lurched back to the alley’s far side, regaining himself. It was later than he realized, and Wynn would be waiting and wondering where he was.
“You have more luck,” he hissed at the slumped form, “much more than you will ever know.”
He ducked into the open street at a run, grabbing his packs along the way. When he reached the lavish brothel masquerading as an inn, he did not even acknowledge the guards or the attendant as he relinquished his weapons. Taking two steps at a time, he brushed past several young women along the staircase.
Opening the door to the room he shared with Wynn, he looked inside.
She was curled upon the bed, sound asleep. Shade lay at the bed’s foot, not even raising her head, though her half opened eyes never blinked as their crystal blue irises watched Chane.
Two empty plates lay on the floor beside a porcelain washbasin and pitcher. Wynn must have eaten, tried to wait up for him, and fallen asleep. She was dressed only in her cotton shift and wrapped in her short robe. Such tiny feet she had . . . and slender ankles at the end of sleek, olive-toned calves.
Chane stepped to the bedside and pulled the dangling side of the silk quilt up over Wynn. Shade was still watching, but she did not growl. He and she were both determined to protect Wynn.
They had that much in common, if nothing else.
Chane awoke upon the floor past dusk to the sound of Wynn already digging through their chest and repacking their belongings. Shade sat beside her, alternately watching him but watching Wynn even more, and only occasionally she sniffed at something wrapped in cheap paper.
“Are we leaving?” he asked.
Wynn jumped slightly and spun around to look at him.
“Yes. Ore-Locks went out this morning,” she answered. “I think he wants us out of this port as much as you do. He sold the crystal and found passage to Soráno on a larger cargo ship. The captain was eager for a little profit now that his holds are emptied.”
Wynn frowned anxiously, looking into the chest. “Chane, do you have our coin pouch? I can’t find it.”
He sat up quickly, for he had forgotten to put it back.
“Yes, I brought it in case I needed it when ordering your dinner last night.”
Wynn sighed in relief. “Oh, good. I thought I’d lost it. You keep it for now. I have some of the money Ore-Locks got in barter.” Then she paused, as if something else was wrong. “He was angry when you went out and left me alone.”
Wynn patted Shade’s head, looking away in a pensive moment.
“What else?” Chane asked.
Again she hesitated. “I think he’s getting close to demanding some answers. I wish . . . I wish he wasn’t with us. I don’t trust him.”
That much had been obvious from the beginning. Chane could not help a stab of guilt that she had been dealing with Ore-Locks on his behalf—especially considering the last part of his outing. But he would do anything to protect Wynn, at any cost.
“When do we board?” he asked.
She glanced at him, as if surprised by the change of subject. “As soon as we’re packed.”
CHAPTER 8
For Chane, this third sea voyage was a torment of trial and error. He disembarked at a few ports along the way, heading off alone just past nightfall, to collect small bottles from various shops.
Several times he sought out livestock, looking for collections of cattle or goats so that one missing animal would not raise immediate notice. He drank only once from the dark, life-giving substance gathered via Welstiel’s feeding cup. Overflushed with life, he began using the cup to fill his collection of bottles. These he stored in the bottom of his pack for times ahead when there might be less opportunity to hunt alone.
Soon, however, he came to a decision, one he could not put off. He began excusing himself from Wynn’s company on the ship to work alone in his cabin. He did not reappear for several nights. His first attempt at recreating Welstiel’s concoction was a painful failure.
He spent three delusional days and nights between dormancy and coherence, where fear of the sun escalated. Either he had not used enough corpseskirt—boar’s bell—or he had incorrectly estimated other ingredients. When the concoction’s effect wore off quicker than expected, he increased the amount of corpse-skirt by half.
The result was so much worse.
He squirmed in convulsions on his bunk, the sounds of waves pounding upon the ship’s hull nearly deafening him. During the days, he could not stop the sense of burning, as if sunlight crawled and wormed through the hull to seek him out.
Wynn repeatedly knocked every night, calling to him through the blocked door.
But on the fifth night of so much horror, even the beast within him fell silent as if dead and gone, and he knew he was closer to the correct formula. When he came out late on the sixth evening, still not having gone dormant, Wynn was on him in an instant.
“What are you doing in there? Why are you locking yourself in your cabin?”
Her tone was demanding, but her eyes were filled with worr
y.
“I need privacy,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back so she would not see them shake. “Soon we will be among crowds again. I take my solitude while I can.”
She looked sad and frustrated at his obvious lie, but she did not press him further. There was no way to tell her, not for the way she always viewed Welstiel’s pack of toys. That was always the way she would see it, or anything to do with him. And what would she think of Chane trying to recreate anything of Welstiel’s, the one who had plagued her and her companions across half a continent?
Three nights later, Chane tried again, though the last dose had not fully worn off. Worst of all, he was running out of thrice-purified water.
During the journey’s earliest part, he had caught clean rain in a bowl held out of a porthole. This was boiled in a glass vessel sterilized with wood alcohol, and he had to hold both glass and burner steady against the ship’s rolling. Steam rose into a ceramic, elbow-shaped pipe, cooling and dripping into another sterilized container. The process was repeated twice more with the same water. Less than a fourth of the rain remained in a thrice-purified form.
It had not rained again since before he had prepared the last dose.
Chane had only enough water for one more attempt, with no possibility to continue trial and error once they reached Soráno. When he finished the third batch before dawn, its color, consistency, purity, and opacity perfectly matched the remaining half vial that Welstiel had made.
Side effects seemed inescapable, though Chane was learning to bear the amplified terror, that paranoia of the sun just outside the covered porthole. But as he held up a vial’s capful, far less than the dosage he had first thought necessary, he hesitated with the draught a fingernail’s breadth from his lips.
How had Welstiel ever borne this . . . drug of the dead . . . without one sign of discomfort?
Chane watched the violet liquid in the cap betray his trembling hand. He threw the fluid into the back of his throat, washing it down with a gulp of water from the ship’s casks. As he stared at the three remaining vials made from this batch, he hoped he would not have to discard them like the last two.
