by J. C.
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."
"Who are you?" Magiere asked.
"I am Wynn Hygeorht, apprentice in the Guild of Sage-craft under Domin Tilswith, my teacher and head of our branch here. We reside in the old guard barracks of the inner ring. The domin was playing Hounds and Foxes with Councilman Lanjov last night when word of the disturbance at the Rowanwood reached them."
"Well, that was quick," Leesil mumbled, and he stepped back to allow her in. "Thought we might at least make it through breakfast before anyone caught up with us. So who brought word? The city guard?"
"Yes," she answered. Her attention was diverted by Chap's sleeping form. When she saw the water bowl and rag, her expression became instantly concerned. "Is your dog ill?"
"A thump on the head, but he'll be all right," Leesil said.
"I might be able to help. We have medicines of many types at the guild."
She knelt down next to the bed, eyeing Chap curiously, and then put her hand out. Leesil was about to stop her, when Chap opened his eyes, lifted his muzzle, and lapped her fingers once before settling himself again. Wynn took her hand back with a smile.
"He appears well enough," she said. Her brow wrinkled slightly as her smile faded, and she stood up to face Leesil again. "The day in the council hall, when I… spoke to you…"
She appeared embarrassed and briefly dropped her eyes before returning her gaze to Leesil's tan face.
Magiere felt a sudden flare of ire again. How many strange women were going to fawn over Leesil before they got out of this cursed city?
"I was surprised that you do not speak Elvish," Wynn said. "One of your parents was of that race, yes?"
"I was never taught," he answered flatly.
Again Wynn appeared embarrassed, and then confused.
"I see. I was only commenting on how beautiful your dog was and wondering what breed, as I have never seen his like before."
Leesil merely shrugged. "My mother gave him to me when I was boy and he was just a pup."
"You mother, she was your elvish parent?" Wynn asked.
"Yes." Leesil leaned down and stroked Chap's back. "He's probably just a mutt of some kind. We mixed-breeds tend to be the smartest."
Chap rolled his head at Leesil's touch, shifting for comfort on the bed.
"There was this loon of a man in Miiksa," Leesil added, "who called him a majay-hi."
Wynn's head tilted. "Majay-hi?" she asked, the word smoother and more rolling than Leesil's pronunciation.
"Yes, that sounds about right."
"Perhaps a colloquial reference or a regional nickname for the breed." She shook her head in what appeared to be quaint amusement. "In the Elvish dialect that I know, it might mean something like ‘fay hound' or ‘hound of the elementals,' though I have never seen his kind before. He seems a very amiable creature."
"You don't have to hunt with him," Magiere said under her breath. "Now, what was Lanjov's reaction to what he heard?"
The barest hint of disapproval surfaced on Wynn's face as she looked at Magiere.
"Councilman Lanjov was quite upset. He seems to think the creature that killed his daughter is to be found among the common folk and cannot understand why you keep plaguing respected members of society."
Magiere rose and sighed. "Did he mention dismissing us?"
"I do not recall this," Wynn answered. "But my domin was interested in the event. A woman dressed in silk"—she faltered, and swallowed hard—"speared a house guard through the throat with only her fingers. And your dog was reported as turning savage toward the woman and frightening the patrons. Then all of you pursued her into the back alley."
Magiere grew more uncertain as to what this young woman wanted.
"Do you believe in undeads?" she asked.
"I've read of such," Wynn answered politely, "though only in my homeland's legends. Having heard Councilman Lanjov's story, I looked into what little I could find of this land's folklore, though we have yet to begin setting up a proper library and collecting texts. In my tongue there are fables of the atheldeth, which surprisingly means almost the same as Noble Dead in your language."
"So you do believe," Magiere said.
"To study a concept is not same as believing it," Wynn continued. "Domin Tilswith considers Lanjov superstitious, but we have learned more since meeting him, and I began searching for what I could learn. The Noble Dead are accounted as the highest forms of the undead. Unlike lesser forms, they retain all memories, consciousness, and self-awareness from their mortal life. Among them are your vampires, high revenants found in our legends, some wraiths, and the like."
"What about methods for destroying these Noble Dead?" Magiere asked, turning the conversation to her own agenda. "We know most of the myths and superstitions, such as a wooden stake through the heart, which we now have reason to doubt."
Wynn shook her head and returned Magiere a dubious but polite scowl.
"Most works on the subject are legends, fables, and stories. Some accounts involve staking the creature in its burial place and beheading it. Perhaps the stake was intended to pin the creature, keeping it from escaping, and that became a further superstition as a way to destroy them. There really is no way to be certain… if one believes any of this."
Magiere fell silent. All their skills in battling undeads had been learned through trial and error, along with the cryptic advice of Welstiel Massing back in Miiska, who seemed obsessed with the Noble Dead. But this young woman appeared to know a bit and was far more open than Welstiel had ever been. Magiere pulled out the stool.
"Please sit. Would you like some tea? The kitchen folk are probably up and about by now."
Wynn smiled openly and shook her head.
"I cannot stay, but the domin and I are interested in your experiences. In return, we offer the support of the guild's resources, though our materials are scant compared to the main branch in our homeland. I will help translate any document I can."
"We don't have time for schooling," Leesil put in. "And it won't help track… unless you can access recent deeds on houses purchased in Bela, those of middle to upper quality."
"This information should
be available," Wynn answered with hesitation. "If the local city government keeps such records."
Leesil smiled. "Oh, I'm fairly certain this city does."
"What are you up to now?" Magiere asked.
Leesil settled on the bed next to Chap. "The woman we chased last night said she had a three-story house. Chetnik's reports of her go back only a few moons. There's a great deal of old money in the city, so buying and selling that kind of dwelling won't be too common."
Magiere quickly caught up to where Leesil's thoughts had turned.
"We find recent purchases," she added, "and pick up a trail or even locate this woman's exact hiding place—if she wasn't lying." She looked at Wynn. "Can you help us with this?"
"Yes, but I must speak to my domin first. He is interested in your exploits in Miiska and seeks an exchange of information."
A thought occurred to Magiere. "This domin of yours was at Lanjov's last night? Lanjov told us he never has visitors."
"Oh, Domin Tilswith visits now and again to play Hounds and Foxes with the councilman. But I believe Count Lanjov discourages other visitors."
Magiere glanced toward Leesil, who now wore an irritated frown.
"What does Domin Tilswith look like?" she asked. "Is he noble? Does he wear black gloves?"
Wynn laughed. "No, he dresses as I do. Why do you ask?"
"We believe Chesna knew her killer," Leesil answered. "So if no one besides your domin visits, and he doesn't fit the description, then where and how did Chesna meet this man?"
At that, the young sage's oval face grew puzzled.
"Most nobles acquainted with Count Lanjov would be on the council as well. Perhaps his daughter went with him to the hall or to his bank."
The scope of events was changing, and it did little to ease Magiere's mind. This young scholar was open and unbiased, and appeared to have no hidden agenda. It might pay to keep her around.
"Tell your domin we'd be glad to talk," Magiere said, and then turned to Leesil. "We should sleep awhile and then have a visit with Lanjov at his bank."
Leesil nodded and got up to open the door for Wynn.
Magiere waited for the young sage to leave before discussing anything further with Leesil. She caught Wynn Hygeorht glancing back as the door closed. At first Magiere felt another tinge of ire, thinking the glance was for Leesil, but instead the woman's eyes dropped briefly toward the bed and the sleeping dog.
* * * *
After too brief a rest, Leesil found their plans changed slightly. A note for Magiere from Captain Chetnik had been left with the innkeeper. It simply read, I need to speak with you about the incident at the Rowanwood.
They both decided to put off that meeting as long as possible. Leesil was anxious to check on the progress with his new weapons, but Magiere wanted to stop at the sage's guild to provide Wynn with as much information as possible regarding the type of dwelling to search for. Stone constructions with cellars would be foremost. To Leesil, Magiere seemed a bit too relieved by the young sage's apparent willingness to help. The girl could prove useful, but they knew nothing about these supposed scholars from across the ocean.
He agreed to meet Magiere at Lanjov's bank by noon, and then he headed out for Balgavfs smithy, Chap trotting at his side. As they approached the smith's shop, Chap slipped in ahead toward the scent of burning forges and the noisy clang of metal.
The sudden hiss of steam from the forge room filled Leesil's ears upon entering the outer stall. To his surprise, he found Chap dancing along a row of weapons on the west wall. An assortment of spears and swords and even metal quarrels hung in plain view, and the dog was determined to sniff every one of them. The bear-sized smith in his leather apron looked up to see Leesil and the prancing hound, but instead of showing annoyance, Balgavi grinned.
"He yours? A hunter breed?"
"Something like that," Leesil answered. "Chap! Leave those alone and come here."
"Knows his weapons," the smith said. "Keeps coming back to that boar spear. Could skewer a full-grown bull with that."
"Come here, Chap," Leesil insisted.
There were times Chap's presence was a blessing. At other times, the dog's behavior was embarrassing. Chap bounced over, but sniffed everything along the way. He looked up at the smith and wagged his tail.
"Fine animal, rather tall," the smith said. "I've never seen fur like that. My father kept wolfhounds, but their coats turn coarse as they grow up. What breed is he?"
"I don't know. He was a gift," Leesil answered coldly. "Are my weapons finished?"
Balgavi was slightly taken back by his tone. "One's done. Still working on the other."
"You told me you'd have them done in a matter of days," Leesil snapped. "That stiletto I traded is worth ten times the amount of two punching blades."
The smith's face, shiny with steam, clouded over, and he turned on his heel. Walking to the blackened worktable, he picked up an odd spadelike shape in a matching sheath.
"I took two journeymen off paying work to get this done for you. If you can find better than this in two days, take your stiletto back and be my guest."
Pulling the blade from its sheath, Balgavi held it out.
Leesil took it from the smith's hands, examining it carefully. The forward end was shaped like a flattened spade, though slightly elongated to the tip. At its base was a crosswise, oval opening, allowing the blade to be gripped by the backside for punching. The oval's base was the handle, painstakingly wrapped in woven leather for the grip. When held, the blade's outside edge continued in a gradual curve that extended the full length of Leesil's forearm, ending just past his elbow.
Gripping it, Leesil swung his arm slowly.
It was heavier than he'd expected, and he'd have to compensate for loss of speed. It wouldn't be the same as infighting with short blades, but it was exactly what he'd envisioned.
Chap wagged his tail and barked, staring up at Leesil. Balgavi watched them both curiously, his annoyance slipping away.
"What do you plan to fight with that thing?"
Leesil realized he was being a difficult patron and changed his manner.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, but this is everything I'd hoped for. How long on the second one?"
"Another two days, perhaps. You mentioned staying at the Burdock? Vatz passes by often enough, so I'll have him bring you word when it's ready."
Leesil nodded. "My thanks."
He feinted forward again, punching straight outward at an imagined pale-skinned throat.
* * * *
Magiere paced in front of the bank. It was no surprise that Leesil was late, as his sense of time was annoyingly flexible. Her frustration nearly had the better of her when a small coach pulled up, and out hopped Leesil with Chap at his side, tail in the air with a cheerful countenance.
"Sorry," Leesil offered. "One of my weapons was finished, and I stopped by the inn to store it. I'd rather not wear it, as we already make Lanjov nervous enough."
Passersby cast them an occasional wary glance, and Magiere realized that Lanjov wasn't the only one they made nervous. Leesil had a dark red scarf tied around his head.
"I thought you weren't going to bother with that anymore," Magiere said.
Leesil just shrugged. "Habit. The eyes are obvious, but my ears and hair are a dead giveaway from a distance."
Magiere turned toward the bank doors. "We don't exactly fit in this part of town. We could put a scarf over your face, and people would still stare at us. I miss Miiska."
"We'll be headed home soon enough," he said, but his words brought Magiere no comfort.
The bank's interior wasn't as lavish as the council hall, but the floor was polished speckled granite, and two narrow pillars of the same stone framed the large entryway, more as ornament than support. A few uniformed, armed men in gray tabards stood along the sidewalls. To the right was a row of clerks upon a long raised platform lined with a polished cherrywood counter. All were busy with parchments and quills. On
the left was a matching wood partition rising chest-high, and to Magiere's surprise, Doviak, the foppish council secretary, sat at a desk in the walled-off space.
As Lanjov's main occupation was running his bank, serving on the council being only proper for a gentleman of his station, Doviak must serve as secretary for both the council and Lanjov's business.
The wispy little man looked up and locked eyes with Magiere, and disbelief turned to dismay. He scurried around the partition's far end with his shoes clicking upon the floor like a cricket.
"Mistress Magiere… I… how… may I assist you?"
Magiere wavered at the poorly hidden distaste in his voice. In the council hall, she'd been summoned as "the dhampir," assuming her familiar role of convincing village or town elders that she was their only salvation. In this place, amidst a faltering investigation, she was as lost as a peasant among old-blood nobility. She remembered the hatred and distrust from her home village and suddenly felt swallowed by uncertainty. She blinked and summoned her mask—her dhampir persona—once an illusion but now a reality.
As if sensing her struggle, Leesil stepped forward.
"We've come to speak with Councilman Lanjov."
Doviak's lips parted slightly, and his perfectly curled hair swayed forward as he pretended to check the appointment log he carried.
"Oh, he does have a full schedule. Perhaps if you make an appointment for another day, he can fit—"
"This won't take long," Leesil cut in. His politely disarming manner vanished. "We'll see him now."
Whenever Leesil's voice turned threatening, most people backed down. Rather odd, since he was neither large nor imposing. Doviak straightened his spine without even a flinch, either brave or merely stupid.
"No one," Doviak said coldly, "not even the king, would expect to see Councilman Lanjov without an appointment. His duties serve the city, and his schedule is set well in advance."
Leesil smiled and took one step toward Doviak.
"I'm not the king, you little dandy. I was hired to investigate a murder. And where were you the night Chesna was killed?"
