The white bottle contained thrice-purified water, boiled in a prepared copper vessel whenever he had time to replenish the fluid. He pulled the stopper and poured just enough to fill half the cup.
Welstiel rolled the bargeman over on his back. So much life energy was lost in bloodletting that little was actually absorbed by an undead who drank it. His method was far more efficient and less debasing. He slipped out his dagger, made a shallow puncture in the man's wrist, and let blood collect on the blade's tip. Tilting the blade, he let one red drop strike the water in the cup.
As it thinned and diffused, he began to chant.
The air around him shimmered as in a desert heat, yet he felt it grow humid, more so than even Droevinka's climate could produce. The bargeman's skin started to shrivel and dry from the outside, collapsing into desiccation. When his heart stopped, so did Welstiel's chant. The bargeman was a brittle shell. Even his eyes were dried sockets.
The water in the cup brimmed to the Up and was so dark red, it would have appeared black to a mortal's limited eyes. Welstiel lifted it carefully from the tripod. He tilted his head back and poured the liquid down his throat.
So much life force taken in this pure form was not pleasant. It tasted of ground metal and strong salt if allowed to linger on the tongue. And then it burst inside him to rush through his body.
Welstiel set the cup back in place with a wavering hand, then flattened both palms upon the ground to brace himself into stillness. As a youth, he'd gone out with the captain of his father's guard to the local tavern and drank his first tall ale. It felt good, until he stood up too fast. What he had just swallowed was far stronger, and he had not yet climbed to his feet.
He waited for the worst to pass.
When he picked up the cup to put it away, it was clean and dry, with no sign that anything had been in it. He packed away the iron rods and white bottle along with it.
T he corpse weighed far less than it had in life. He rolled it in his cloak. The river shore was but a short walk, where he stopped long enough to load the body's clothing with heavy stones. When he was certain the dock was deserted, he carried the body to the end planks and let it slip into the depths of the Vudrask.
Welstiel walked back to shore and stood there alone, tainted with familiar disgust and self-loathing. However, capturing every last dram of the mortal's life would sustain him for over half a moon, perhaps longer. It would be a while before he needed to feed again, and this was some comfort.
He closed his eyes and reluctantly gave thanks to the black-scaled patron in his dreams for guidance and assistance. Soon, Magiere would reach the end of her fruitless search and move on, leading him to an artifact that made his own creations mere toys by comparison.
And he would never need to feed again.
He did not put his cloak back on as he walked to the inn. He would have it laundered first. Returning to his room, he found Chane still at the small table, quill in hand, red-brown hair tucked behind one ear.
Across the room was a tall oval mirror on a stand, and Welstiel studied his reflection. His eyes were clear and alert. No sign of fatigue remained in his bearing.
"You seem much improved," Chane said. "I was becoming concerned."
Welstiel suppressed a grimace. Chane believed he had been out feeding at the throat of some peasant. Let him believe what he liked.
He sat again in his chair by the fire. "What have you recorded so far? I spent many years in this country. Perhaps I can provide more detail."
Chane raised one eyebrow. 'Truly? What can you tell me of how the noble houses collectively select a new grand prince?"
An unsettling wave of satisfaction passed through Welstiel, from both the pleasure and the scholarly interest on Chane's face. He turned his chair from the hearth to face his companion, and they spent the remainder of the night immersed in Droevinka's political history.
Crouching behind a stable near the castle grounds, Leesil felt his discomfort grow. But this had been his idea. Han-tucked under a helmet, and dirt smeared on his face, he wore the bright red surcoat over his hauberk.
"You look fine," Wynn assured him. "The helmet shadows your eyes, and most of the Varanj soldiers will be tired from longer duty, now that more of them are needed. It is doubtful they all know each other."
Leesil found Wynn's confidence almost as unsettling as Magiere's reluctance. Chap sat next to the sage, and she carried the pack he'd prepared for when they were all inside. Among its contents were his box of tools and a slender rope. His punching blades would draw attention, so he'd left them at the inn, arming himself with wrist-sheath stilettos and a stout dagger in each boot.
Magiere assessed him and unstrapped her falchion. "Put this on. All the guards are armed."
"I'm armed," he said.
"With visible weapons," she growled at him.
"Oh." He strapped the sword around his waist. "I'll show you where the hatch is, but you can't sit by it and wait for me. Someone will see you."
He crept into the street along the castle's side wall and led them to where it met the edge of a corner tower near the river.
"This is where nobles are supposed to escape?" Magiere asked.
"Yes, it's a good choice," Leesil replied, and flattened one hand against the stone wall where he knew the hidden opening would be. "The river is close, which would be the first option. If that is blocked, there's a chance to slip into the city through the nearby buildings. Do you see where my hand is?"
"Yes," Magiere answered, "but I don't see any hatch."
Leesil patted the stones. "Keep your eyes on this spot, and you will. Go back and stay low behind this row of shops on the riverside. I shouldn't be too long."
Chap headed for their hiding spot with Wynn close behind him. Magiere grabbed Leesil's arm, and a tense silence passed between them. She wouldn't let go.
Leesil touched her fingers. "I'll be peeking out that bolt-hole before you know it."
She released him and slipped off to follow Chap and Wynn.
Leesil crept along the river's edge the other way, passing by the castle and farther down to reenter the city. He cut inward to a main road and back toward the castle gates as if he'd come from the heart of Keonsk. Four Varanj soldiers out front were deep in conversation as he strolled up. The two walking the ramparts to either side of the gatehouse did not even pause.
"Hallo," he said. "Long night?"
One soldier smoking a short-stemmed clay pipe offered it to Leesil. "We been here since nightfall. You heard word about relief squads?"
Leesil took a pull on the pipe. The leaf the man smoked burned too hot. It tasted old and stale.
"No, I was sent with a message for Captain Marjus. My sergeant hasn't been able to find him, so he told me to head for the barracks."
Another solider frowned. "Marjus? That snooty straight-back who talks like he's a lord?" He suddenly cleared his throat as he eyed Leesil. "Pardon if you count him a friend, but he's no such among us."
"Yeah, that's him," the first soldier said, taking his pipe back from Leesil. "Haven't seen him tonight, but that don't mean nothing. " He tilted his head to look up to the wall walkways. "Positions! Messenger coming through!"
A creaking sound came from within the gatehouse. As the large gate slid upward and opened, the soldier's companions on the ground fanned out, spears ready. Though they'd appeared relaxed upon Leesil's arrival, he could see these men were veterans.
Another group of soldiers met him inside.