He had a little time to think. Perhaps he jumped to ridiculous conclusions. Rumors regarding Miiska's undead had usually been consistent. Everything pointed to the fact that Rashed's charred bones were buried in the remains of that accursed hunter's tavern. But if Rashed were dead, who else could have sent the note? No one in this city knew he came from Miiska.
A knock came at the front door. Toret hesitated.
Despite his rationalizations, he half expected to open the door and see Rashed towering over him. Ratboy would run for the back door, but Toret wouldn't be driven from his own territory, and Rashed be twice damned! He walked to the door, gripping the latch firmly, and opened it.
A stranger stood before him. Taller than Toret, the man was not nearly Rashed's height. Middle-aged, with clean features and dark brown hair, he had stark white patches at each of his temples. An expensive black cloak was wrapped around his frame.
"Good evening," he said in a cultured voice. "Thank you for sending your companions away. I have news of your past you may not wish them to hear." He paused and took in Toret's appearance. "You've changed a great deal. May I come in?"
Caught off guard by this stranger's familiar manner, Toret stood uncertainly in the doorway, but curiosity nagged him. How did this man know him? If nothing came of it, Toret could, of course, just kill him and be done with it. He stepped back.
"Of course, come in."
The stranger entered and walked to the parlor to look around.
Toret sniffed the air deeply to sense the man's blood, his presence. He forced in air, letting it fill his head as his irises opened wide to expand his range of vision. He focused on the stranger with all his senses keyed to their fullest extent.
And he felt nothing.
There was no scent, no tingle to the air. There was no thrum of heartbeat or blood rush inside the man's body. That in itself made Toret suspicious, but he sensed nothing else as well, not even tepid temperature. Even Noble Dead generated a presence, but except for his physical appearance, footfalls, and the rustle of his clothing, it was as if this strange visitor weren't here at all.
"Who are you?" Toret asked bluntly.
The man stepped to the hearth, examining the stonework, then turned to take in the life-size portrait of Sapphire with one raised eyebrow.
"A friend," he said. "I followed you from Miiska. I watched what happened there, what the hunter and her halfblood companion did to your home and comrades." He almost smiled. "I came to warn you-the hunter is coming here, and you must prepare."
Toret's throat closed, an old mortal reaction that had stayed with him, though he no longer needed to breathe. The only person in the world he feared more than Rashed was the hunter.
"How… how do you know this?"
"I've made it my business to know."
The man's features were serious, earnest, and yet so distant. He had the same practiced stance as Chane, straight-backed, head high enough that the back of his neck touched his collar. This visitor was noble or had lived among nobles at one time. But Toret was not so easily dominated.
"How do you know… and why are you telling me?"
The man paused, weighing his words.
"Bela's council made an offer she could not refuse. She is coming here to destroy the night creatures the council believes plague the city. You must be ready to fight. Your servant, the petulant one, deals in certain forms of the arcane arts, yes?"
Toret nodded slowly.
"Use him. The dhampir hasn't faced magic, real magic. And this time will be much harder than the last. She will not make the same mistakes twice, and neither will her companion. Do not try to repeat previous tactics, or you will pay for it."
With that, the man swept past Toret toward the front door.
"Wait," Toret nearly cried out, losing any control he might have gained over the exchange. "Why are you telling me this? What's in it for you?"
The man stopped briefly.
"Prepare yourself," was the only answer Toret received as the stranger slipped through the front door and closed it behind him.
Toret rushed after him, flinging the door open and stepping out into the night. Standing upon the front steps, he peered up and down the street, his vision stretched to its full range once again until he could distinguish the varied shades of black in the thickest night shadows.
The street was empty.
Chapter 3
The sun rose on a crisp, clear morning as Magiere stood with Leesil and Chap on Miiska's docks preparing to board a schooner for departure. They'd waited several days to find a ship heading north that could carry them, and a handsome, two-masted vessel floated gracefully on the waves near the harbor's mouth. It was too large and deep-keeled to dock in Miiska's shallow waters, so a skiff would take them out to begin the voyage up the coast.
Magiere's hair was pulled back in a tail with a leather thong, and she wore black breeches and a russet shirt, along with thick leather boots. Her falchion was once again on her hip, and the two amulets hung in plain view. Her few extra clothes and a new pack, as well as hauberk, supplies, and Leesil's toolbox, were stored in the small chest from her bedroom, which now sat on the dock beside her.
Leesil, as always, gave little thought to his attire and wore an old pair of loose, faded breeches, soft boots worn thin, and an oversize banded-collar shirt that been hand-mended one too many times. He carried no visible weapons, but that was the deception he carefully maintained. Magiere knew there would be stilettos sheathed upon his forearms, and perhaps other small blades hidden in places from his bulky shirt to his boots. He was, however, wearing his green scarf about his head to hold back his hair and cover the tips of his ears. They'd passed through Bela a number of past times but had never seen any of his mother's people. Leesil preferred to mute his appearance and not draw too much attention.
"You don't need that yet," she said, gesturing to his scarf. "We haven't even boarded the ship."
"I'm practicing my disguise," he responded. "It gives me something to do."
At another time she would have smiled or scowled, or referred to his highly visible and oddly colored eyes, but his humor wasn't welcome this morning. They'd barely spoken since the night by the hearth. Now they were off to Bela, where she might become the dhampir once more. If she lost control again, and Leesil was close by…
Magiere shook off the thought. For once she wished he would be serious and say what he was truly thinking. He was almost as wryly playful as he'd been all those years in the backwoods of Stravina. Perhaps that was what gnawed at her the most. He looked forward to the journey, to an adventure-to anything besides life at the Sea Lion.
The long dock stretched back to the shore as they awaited a large square-bowed skiff coming toward them to collect passengers. All around them flat-bottomed barges and smaller ships were docked for cargo transfer.
"Hullo!" a voice called, and Magiere turned to see Karlin trotting toward them.
She was glad of it, although she'd never admit it under the circumstances. He was a symbol of what she held dear regarding life in Miiska. His generosity of spirit and calm ability to see an answer to any problem gave her faith in the world, in people.
At the sound of Karlin's voice, Chap dashed off to meet him. When the two of them jogged up together, Magiere noticed Chap fidgeting, nearly beside himself looking out at the approaching skiff.
"Not you too," she muttered at him.
Leesil blinked. "Too? What about him?"
Chap stopped and looked up at her, ears stiffly attentive.
"Nothing," Magiere answered.
"We came to see you off," Karlin puffed, out of breath.
His apron was covered in stains of melted butter and dusted with streaks of flour.