"Any records to be had," he said, "aren't going to be lying about. I may have to get us around some restrictions once we're inside the castle grounds."
"Inside?" Wynn sat up, worry growing on her round face. "How are we going to get past the gates?"
Leesil smiled. "I'm going to walk right through them."
A chill settled in the hollow in Magiere's stomach.
She snatched up Leesil's pack, digging inside, and withdrew a large wad of red cloth. She dropped the pack on the bed so she could shake out the fabric. It was Varanj surcoat, the emblem of a rearing stallion plain to see. For a moment, she couldn't speak and then drew a long breath.
"Leesil, are you mad? You'll never pass as a castle guard. Your hair-"
"That is likely what this helmet is for," Wynn said, and she pulled it out of the pack's bottom, looking it over before she gazed at Leesil with sudden concern. "Did you hurt someone for this?"
"Nothing lasting," he answered. "A bit of pressure to the throat, and I left him resting in a doorway. He'll have a headache in the morning, that's all."
"How does this get the rest of us inside?" Wynn asked.
"It doesn't," Leesil replied. "Once I'm inside, I'll let the rest of you in through the bolt-hole."
"I'm afraid to even ask," Magiere said, and she dropped down on the bed beside Wynn. "A bolt-hole?"
"A hidden exit on the river side of the castle wall," Leesil said. "Most fortifications have at least one, in case the place falls to a siege, and they can be opened only from the inside. Tonight, I'll walk in with the guards or even on my own, slip away, and let you in."
"What if you're caught?" Magiere insisted. "You won't end up in some Belaskian or Stravinan jail. You might not make it there alive."
"No one is going to catch me," Leesil said with a hint of resentment. "Just get your cloak."
Magiere crouched down beside him, still angry.
"Listen to yourself! If the need were dire-if one of us had been captured-I might agree to this. But I won't risk your life on a thin chance of finding my father's name. There are other ways. I came here for answers, not for your funeral."
Leesil's brow furrowed. Magiere's frustration made her almost weary, trying to get him to understand that she couldn't risk losing him for anything.
"If you still want those answers," he said quietly, "this is the only way-and don't think of suggesting we find you a surcoat, too. We've seen no women among the guards."
"Leesil, it's not worth-"
"When we head north to look for my mother, I don't want to watch you suffer, wondering what might have been found that we left behind. Now we need to go, before someone discovers that Varanj unconscious… or this will all be for nothing."
Magiere looked into his amber eyes and realized what drove him.
She didn't have his cunning and stealth, and she hated his recklessness in trying to acquire what she wanted. But in turn, when their positions reversed, she knew she would cut down anything in his path that tried stopped him from finding his mother.
Welstiel sat in a velvet cushioned chair by a warm hearth. He did not feel cold, so its heat brought no pleasure or relief, but he appreciated sensual trappings as remnants of a mortal life long lost.
Chane relaxed at a small mahogany table, scrawling on paper with a feather quill. They had procured individual rooms in a fine inn, but took their leisure together in Welstiel's room.
For twenty-six years, Welstiel had traveled alone, shunning his own kind. Chane had more in common with him than any Noble Dead he'd ever encountered. A scholar who both understood and practiced the arcane, Chane had also been a noble in life and spoke only when it was worthwhile. In spite of Chane's baser nature, Welstiel was developing an appreciation for companionship.
He felt fatigue creep in upon him. He needed to go off privately and seek sustenance.
"What are you writing?" he asked.
Chane looked up. "Notes on Droevinka and its current political structure. Once I secure relations with the guild, I may continue documenting this region."
Chane's current demeanor made it too easy to forget how savage and brutal he could be. Welstiel felt strangely at peace in spite of the distasteful act he was about to commit.
"I must go out," he said. "Please stay… carry on with your journaling. The city is in an uncertain state, and we should avoid too much activity that might draw Magiere's attention."
"She's here in the city? You are sure?"
"Yes, but the visit will do her no good," Welstiel answered.
"You knew this would happen when you killed Buscan," Chane said. "You knew the Varanj would lock down the castle, and the dhampir would not be allowed in."
"I suspected."
Chane swiveled, sitting sideways with one arm across the chair's high back. "But you weren't sure? My maker, Toret, could feed on prey and leave it alive, clouding its memory. Can you not do the same?"
"I have similar abilities, which I once used on your little sage," he replied, and ignored Chane's darkening expression. "But I find the individual must be relaxed, perhaps trust in me somewhat, before it is effective. Such powers grow with practice, and I do not practice often."
Welstiel rose, donning his cloak. "Stay and write. I will not be long."
"You go to feed?" Chane asked.
Welstiel picked up his smaller pack and slipped out of the room.
The common room downstairs was nearly empty, but the inn was located in a wealthy district. Late in the evening, most patrons would retire to their rooms or be out seeking entertainment. The street outside was equally quiet but for a small group of guards in their red surcoats. Only once along his way did he spot two others in their pale yellow, lingering under the eaves of a public house.
Welstiel slipped along the streets until he saw no one in any direction, then turned into the alleys and unlit sideways as he headed for the poor district on the city's outskirts.
Killing did not trouble him. He'd committed several brutal acts back in Bela to lure Magiere. Even as a mortal, ordering executions and using violent means to suppress peasant uprisings had been simply part of his duties. What was necessary was sometimes repugnant, just the same.
Food for a mortal was a matter of absorbing life, in one fashion or another. The body consumed materials it could break down and use. Relishing cheese and bread and bits of roasted mutton served on elegant plates had never caused Welstiel to stop in his life and contemplate the nature of sustenance.
The method of nurturing his new existence was far less pleasant.
A drunken bargeman staggered from a tavern door. Welstiel remained in the shadows of the narrow walkway between the tavern and next building. When the bargeman passed by, he grabbed the back of the man's coat and pulled him in.
Welstiel struck the base of the man's skull with his fist, and his prey slumped to the ground unconscious. Though he hated even touching such a lowborn creature, much less needing it, feeding on the better half of society was unacceptable unless there was no other choice. Kneeling down, Welstiel removed an ornately carved walnut box from his pack and opened it.
Resting in fabric padding were three hand-length iron rods, a teacup-size brass bowl, and a stout bottle of white ceramic with an obsidian stopper.
Welstiel took out the rods, each with a loop in its midsection, and intertwined them into a tripod stand. The brass bowl's inner surface was etched with a pattern of concentric rings all the way to its Up, and between these lines were the characters of his conjury. It had taken half a year to fashion it from what little he remembered of working upon Ubad's vat, a task of years in itself. He had not understood all that he had seen; not all, but enough. Though the cup had not the power of that vessel, it served Welstiel's limited needs. He placed it carefully on the tripod.