She was not about to go out and kill someone in cold blood to test out her knife; she had never killed anyone and didn't particularly care to start. But she might kill something. She thought that over carefully as she peered around the doorframe at the man she had stabbed.
That feeling of increased strength had been pleasant, while it lasted. She wanted it back.
She slipped away from the door of the Drunken Dragon and headed northwest on Wall Street, into Northangle.
Probably the easiest nonhuman creature to find-other than bugs or worms, which she didn't count-would be a rat, and she certainly wouldn't mind killing rats, but for one, they were hard to catch, and two, they were vicious, and three, a rat's strength added to her own wouldn't amount to very much-if that was, in fact, what the dagger's magic did. She might not even be able to tell anything had happened upon killing a rat.
She needed something bigger than that-a pig would do, or a goat, or a dog.
A dog…
Dogs were not particularly common in Ethshar, but Tabaea had met a few; watchdogs were an occupational hazard for burglars. Killing somebody's watchdog would be a pleasure.
Of course, she couldn't do it legally, but she even knew which dog she wanted to kill-a big black one that guarded a house in Morningside that she had once tried to rob, one night a year or so back when she had been feeling unusually ambitious. The damnable beast had waited until she was inside, then had stalked her through the house and almost cornered her, all in utter silence. It was only when she turned and fled that it had started barking and awakened its master.
This time, she would be ready for it, and it wouldn't get a chance to bark. She smiled unpleasantly to herself and stroked the hilt of the black dagger.
However, she was going in the wrong direction to reach Morningside. The district took its name from its location, just east of the overlord's palace, near the center of the city, while Northangle was against the city wall. Tabaea turned left at the next corner and headed south.
When she reached Morningside she found her way into the quiet residential neighborhood she sought, where fine houses lined either side of the street. Lintels and cornerposts were carved and painted; polished brass fittings gleamed on doors, shutters, and windows; walls were brick or stone, not plaster.
But there were still alleyways to the courtyards in the rear. Gates closed off the alleys, but Tabaea could sometimes climb gates, or squeeze between the bars.
This one, she remembered, was one she could climb.
The walk from the Drunken Dragon had taken almost an hour, getting through the gate and onto the roof of the kitchen took five minutes.
Tabaea knew that she had to hurry with this part; she was exposed as long as she was on the roof, and despite her black tunic and skirt, anyone staying up late who came out to the courtyard and glanced in the right direction might see her. She scampered up the slope, her bare toes hooking over the joints between tiles to keep her from slipping.
At the top she worked her way carefully along the wall, checking each of the three windows. All three were shuttered for the night; in the first, faint golden light shone between the slats, while the other two were dark.
Peering through the glass of the third window, she was pleased to discover that she could see cobwebs in the corners-the shutters had not been opened recently.
That was good. This was how she had entered previously, so she knew it to be a little-used storeroom; the cobwebs indicated that the occupants had not rearranged the household, or taken to checking the room. Quite probably, they didn't even know that a burglar had broken in before.
The window was locked, but she had brought her shun; she had the latch open in seconds. The hinges were stiff, and they creaked, but she swung the casement wide, ignoring the sound.
The latch on the shutters was even easier than the one on the casement; she flipped it up effortlessly and slid into the darkness of the house's interior.
The storeroom was just as she remembered it-linens and blankets stacked on painted shelves, a row of closed trunks along the wall on either side. The trunks were locked, but she had picked one when she was here before and found nothing but old clothing, broken toys, and the like. She hadn't bothered with the others, and she didn't bother with them now; instead she opened the door slowly and carefully until she had a crack a few inches wide. She squeezed out through the narrow opening and emerged into the upstairs hallway, alert for any sign of danger.
Light leaked out from under one of the other doors; she could hear voices, as well. No one was in sight, though, and she heard no footsteps, no clicking latches, no squeaking hinges.
Prowling a house while the residents were still awake was not part of her ordinary routine, but the voices gave her the distinct impression that those residents wouldn't be emerging right away. Besides, she was here, and she wanted to get it over with, before her nerve gave out.
Remember that strength, she told herself, and she crept to the top of the stairs.
Last time, she remembered, the dog had been hiding under the stairs. She had gone down to the dining salon, looking for silver or other valuables, and it had come out behind. Looking down toward the front room now she didn't see it-it was probably lurking under the stairs again. She smiled, drew the black dagger, and started down the stairs, moving step by step, slowly and carefully, her eyes constantly shifting.
When she got to the bottom, the dog still hadn't emerged; she took three steps toward the dining salon-and then whirled, knife raised.
The dog was there, halfway out from its hiding place. It growled menacingly, and bared its teeth.
Tabaea didn't wait for it to attack, or to start barking; she jumped on it, knocking the animal to the floor.
The dog tried to get away, but she flung her left arm around its neck and hauled it closer. Without hesitating, she yanked its head back with her left arm and slashed its throat with her right.
Strength flowed into her like sudden fire; she slashed again, to be sure, and almost removed the dog's head-her arm was already stronger, much stronger.
And that wasn't all. The creature's vitality burned through her with a force that made the strongest oushka seem like a pale shadow, and when it reached her head the whole world seemed to change around her. For a moment all the color drained away, and then it was back, but washed out, like an old, faded tapestry. Meanwhile, outlines sharpened, and the darkness that filled the room seemed suddenly less. The last twitch of the dog's hind leg caught her attention far more sharply than motion ever had before; she almost started at the intensity of it.
And then the smells hit-the hot red stink of the dog's blood, the pungency of its fur, the oily reek of the polish on the wooden floor, the smoky odor of the lamp that was burning upstairs, a hundred, a thousand, a million other scents were spilling through her nose, so clear and sharp and distinct that they were like a painting of the house. It was like a banquet spread before her, each odor unique.
Her hearing was suddenly sharper, too-at any rate, she could hear the woman's voice upstairs say, "Did you hear something?"
The sound was distorted, though; she was unsure whether that was because of the distance and intervening corners and doors, or because something had changed about her hearing.
Whatever had happened, there could be no question that the Black Dagger's magic was not used up. Moving quickly, she rose and headed for the front door, the quickest way out, leaving the dead dog lying on the floor in its own blood.
She knew blood was all over her hands and tunic, as well, but she couldn't afford the time to do anything about it until she was well away from the house. She fumbled with the latch and bolt, then swung the door wide and stepped out onto the stoop.
The smells of the city washed over her like a great storm-driven wave, and she paused for a moment, drinking them in, sorting them out; then she remembered herself and ran.