"When could we, with Byrd hovering about?" Leesil returned irritably.
Magiere frowned at him before turning to Wynn. "Ordinary elves don't mingle with humans, and I'd guess the anmaglahk are even more reluctant. So how is it Byrd could get them involved in killing…" She did not say Darmouth's name either. "I know what it looks like, but I wonder if they're up to something of their own that Byrd isn't aware of. Some purpose that has nothing to do with his plans."
Leesil remained silent, head hanging, and Wynn found no denial in his cowl-shadowed face. He must have pieced together something from the drawings and talking alone with Byrd. His silence confirmed he had suspicions, but he clearly did not understand the repercussions of Darmouth's sudden death.
"We have to stop it," Wynn whispered.
Leesil lifted his head. Magiere's pale face grew astonished.
"Save a despot?" Magiere growled too loudly, then lowered her voice. "This has nothing to do with us. What new madness have you got running around in your head?"
Chap growled from under the table, his agreement clear.
"What happens once his death is known?" Wynn whispered back. "Every noble with armed forces will seek-"
"To take control of the province," Leesil finished. "It still has nothing to do with us. I came here to learn what happened to my parents, and Byrd has been little help."
Magiere's brow wrinkled and she sadly closed her eyes. Wynn could not spare anyone's feelings in this matter.
"We will not abandon the search," she said. "But think how many villages will be devastated by a civil war… how many people will die."
"Inside or out, it's the same," Leesil snapped. "Conscriptions are up. People flee for the border, as if military service were a certain death sentence. Why does Darmouth build up forces in such a reckless manner? Either he'll assault another province, or he's bracing for an invasion. Insurrection might come in either case. It doesn't matter how it happens-war is coming, from inside or outside or both. If he's dead in the mix, so much the better."
"Do you not see?" Wynn replied in a low voice. "Civil war breaks out in Droevinka. An anmaglahk was sent to Bela after you, Leesil. Now these elves assist humans to murder a warlord. It is beyond one more war for this region's namesake. It is not just happening in the Warlands. And Darmouth still holds this province together, no matter how vile he may be.'
Leesil turned slightly toward Wynn, and she saw his face-and his open disdain. Magiere sat back, dark eyes glancing about.
"Why would the anmaglahk get involved in this?" she asked.
"I don't know." Leesil remained silent a moment. "Perhaps that's not their only purpose here."
A dull-eyed serving maid in a filthy apron pressed through patrons to their table. She thunked down four small bowls and rough clay cups, and a tin pot of brown water that was presumably the tea. Unfortunately, Magiere paid the woman before she looked into the bowls and saw what passed for porridge. When they were alone again, Magiere glanced sidelong with concern at Leesil and took a deep breath.
"Do you think Wynn is right about Byrd's plan?"
"Yes," Leesil answered, and set his own bowl under the table for Chap. "You heard me question him last night. He didn't answer, and that told me enough."
"And why is he so willing to let us study the drawings?" Wynn put in.
Leesil shook his head. "Some nonsense that it might help in my search."
"He works for Darmouth, yet he plots against him," Wynn contin-ued. "He is supposedly the only friend of Leesil's father, yet he works with these elves who have imprisoned Nein'a. And giving his cat a share of the profits… indeed! His eccentric acts are just that-an act."
Magiere raised both pale hands. "All right, we hear you."
Chap let out a vicious snarl from under the table, and Wynn jumped in her seat.
Other patrons glanced toward them and then down beneath their table. A few quickly got up and left, and a half-breath later, Leesil jerked up a foot as if struck.
A pottery bowl shot across the dirt floor and bounced between table and stool legs, splattering porridge all about.
Leesil twisted away, ducking his face, as Magiere shrank down, casting glances about at the other patrons staring at them. She turned a glower downward to beneath the table.
Wynn's jangled nerves gave way, and she lightly kicked out the toe of her boot. It collided with something soft but firm, and Chap growled in response.
"I have seen you eat worse," she whispered harshly. "Now stop it!"
"Will we ever eat in public," Magiere whispered with bowed head, "without causing a spectacle?"
No one answered her.
"I say we keep looking into the fate of Leesil's parents," Magiere continued, "until we uncover more of Byrd's scheme… and how to stop it without getting hanged from the city walls."
"Yes, good," Wynn said, relieved that for once Magiere was clearly on her side. "Leesil?"
This time he remained silent for so long that Wynn's patience was about to run out, and then he simply nodded.
"Back to Byrd's," Magiere said. "No matter what else, at least he can cook."
No one smiled at her joke. She grasped Leesil's hand, and his fingers slowly gripped down on hers.
"We should purchase a few supplies," Wynn suggested. "It would look strange to return with nothing after our excuse of leaving."
They left the eatery, which was now half-emptied, thanks to Chap's tantrum, and headed back to the open market. Wynn's mind was not on purchasing supplies or taking note of Venjetz and its people. Her thoughts were filled with how to uncover the rest of the tangled web that Byrd had woven around himself.
Chane awoke that evening to Welstiel once again murmuring in his dormancy. He sat up and swung his legs over the bed. His robin drank from a small tin cup on its cage floor, the cage placed securely on the little table in the room.
The Ivy Vine inn was a far cry from the Bronze Bell in both decor and service, though the Bronze Bell, supposedly the best in Venjetz, barely matched the middle-class establishments of Bela. And Welstiel had rented the only room left with two beds. It was clean but shabby, with a chipped water pitcher and basin resting on an uneven table.
Chane did not care. It was still preferable to another day in their makeshift tent covered over with brambles and branches. He wondered where Wynn was on this evening, what she might be doing, and if she was safe. Welstiel murmured again, and Chane stepped closer to peer down at his self-righteous companion.
"In… the high… ice," Welstiel whispered. "Orb… never feed… again."
Chane's resentment wavered. For the first time since rising from his second death, he felt something besides rage or hunger or lingering fear- curiosity.
In their travels, he had occasionally caught a few words of Welstiel's dormant mumblings. Something assisted Welstiel in searching for whatever he sought. Chane knew little more, other than that Magiere was somehow essential. Never feed again? Did Welstiel seek something made for a Noble Dead? An "orb" to sustain him without a need to hunt and feed?
He crouched on the balls of his feet and stared at Welstiel's languid face. Would that be a desirable state? Never to feed again?
Welstiel rolled, and his eyelids half opened.
Chane backed away to his bed, picking up his vestment from where it draped over the footboard. Welstiel sat up.
"What now?" Chane asked, as if the previous night had never happened and this was but another monotonous night in their tagalong behind Magiere.
"For now, you do nothing," Welstiel answered, rubbing his face with both hands. "I have an audience with Lord Darmouth. If all goes well, I will turn you loose on the city. You can savage as much of it as you like. That will flush Magiere into the open, and perhaps give me an opportunity to end this wasteful search for the half-blood's past." He looked Chane over, inspecting him from head to toe. "We must alter your appearance to avoid anyone providing an accurate description of you. Oh, and I felt it safer to give myself a false name, so I used your family's. Do not forget."