"Forgive me," Faris said with a submissive nod. "I followed the hunter as you asked. There was another disturbance. This one more public and not far from the Bronze Bell. Lord Geyren's mistress, Marianne a'Royce, was killed."
Darmouth turned toward Faris, his anger growing.
Marianne a'Royce was an empty-headed and spoiled girl. However, she was a favorite of the other "ladies." Lord Geyren was excessively fond of her, and Geyren collected taxes and tribute from nearly a third of the provinces lands north of Venjetz. This death had consequences Darmouth couldn't afford.
"The hunter told the truth about one of her companions," Paris continued. "The dog picked up a scent and tracked the killer. But by the time I caught up in the chase, the dhampir had lost her quarry in the alley behind the Ivy Vine."
Darmouth stared at him. "What of the girl in the sheepskin coat?"
"She wasn't there," Paris answered, and the lilt of his voice suggested some private doubt had been confirmed. "There was a man in her place with a glowing amulet on his chest. I never saw his face clearly, but he was quick, skilled, and knew the city well. He took shortcuts even a regular visitor might not know. When they returned to their inn, I followed."
"You remained… in disguise?"
"Of course, and it seems they stay at the inn of the very man who found her for us-Byrd, one of your longtime agents. Convenient, isn't it?"
Darmouth disliked coincidence, though Byrd had been useful through the years. Such things often warned of betrayal in the making.
"What else?" he asked.
"I thought you'd want the news of Lord Geyren's mistress right away."
Darmouth pulled one of his daggers and stepped in close to Faris. "Go back to the inn and get inside, you half-wit! Can you make yourself small enough?"
Faris went rigid but didn't back away. "Yes… Byrd has a weakness for homeless cats. He wouldn't be concerned at one more."
"Then get to it." Darmouth added, "Report back before morning."
Faris glowered briefly as he bowed and backed toward the door. Darmouth didn't care if his servants hated him, so long as they obeyed.
Welstiel gripped the shoulder of Chane's tattered shirt so that both their presences were hidden by the power of his ring. He crouched below the window until he was certain that Magiere was long gone, then stood up. Chane did not move.
"Are you injured?" Welstiel asked.
Chane stared into the room's darkness with a blank expression. There was blood on his face and shirr. Westiel took the basin and water pitcher from the table. He set them on the floor.
"Clean up and get out of those rags and back into your own clothes."
"He wept for her," Chane rasped, still staring at nothing.
Welstiel had no idea what this meant. "Get up!" he ordered.
Chane blinked and a haughty, offended expression came over his long features. He climbed to his feet, picking up the pitcher and basin.
"I'm not leaving this room without my sword again, and I'm not wearing these rags. An old cloak with a heavy hood will do, if need be."
Welstiel grew hesitant. If need be? Chane did not wish to go hunting again?
"What happened? Did Magiere catch you off guard?' he asked.
"The dog sensed me from a short distance," Chane rasped back. "I was unarmed and couldn't fight all three of them. I had to run."
"You were not supposed to fight," Welstiel threw back at him.
Chane set the basin back on the table. He poured water from the pitcher too roughly, and droplets splashed over the rim. He slapped a hand towel into the water and turned on Welstiel.
"And it occurs to me that I take all the risks to get Magiere to do your bidding, to move on in search of your prize, whatever it is. I won't wait much longer for you to tell me more. Or you can serve your own secret needs by yourself!"
He snatched up the wet towel, wiping blood and coal dust from his face, then stripped away the soiled clothing, dropping pieces to the floor. Welstiel saw the layers of lash scars covering Chane's back, a gift of discipline from his father in life.
Welstiel considered cowing Chane into obedience, but he did not. He was too relieved that his companion's ire appeared to bring back his former wits. In spite of Chane's haughty nature, he had once been resourceful and far more useful. Welstiel would have him so again, but he had no intention of revealing any more than necessary, and especially not about the patron of his dreams.
Chane dunked his hair into the basin, scrubbing with his fingers. He dried his hair out, soiling the towel, and then pulled on his shirt and breeches. His hair was jaggedly cut and a few patches were still black, but his own red-brown color showed through.
"When do you think this assassination attempt will occur?" This was at least an intelligent question, rather than mindless muttering about some weeping man.
"Soon," Welstiel answered. "Perhaps in a few days." Chane nodded, and Welstiel began putting the room in order. He stuffed the more usable remains of Chane's peasant attire in a pillowcase and shoved them into his pack, in case the disguise might be needed again. He dumped the basin's blackened water out the window. When he turned around, Chane sat at the table with the blank parchment and feather quill.
He did not write but stared at the wall in front him, quill poised in his hand. Even so, the sight brought Welstiel another moment of relief.
The inn's front door creaked open, and a stab of winter-night air rushed into the common room.
Wynn lunged from her seat at the nearest table and ran to the door as Chap slipped in-and Magiere and Leesil. Waiting by herself had left her more anxious than was bearable.
"Did you find it?" she asked. "Did you destroy it?"
One look at Magiere's face gave Wynn her answer. Chap grunted and dropped his rump to the floor. Leesil pulled the quarrel case and crossbow off his back, and Wynn tried to assist.
"Close," Leesil said. "I hit him with a quarrel, but then he just vanished."
He looked haggard and sweaty, as if he'd run several leagues. Magiere was worn as well, but her fatigue seemed to come from within rather than from physical exertion.
"Go upstairs and put your things away," Wynn said. "I will find some food. You can tell me all while we eat."
Byrd stepped out through the kitchen curtain, his yellow scarf slightly askew. "Ah, you're back. Did I hear something about food? Come on, Wynn, and I'll dig something out."
Leesil took the other crossbow off Magiere's back and set them both on the bar. Wynn placed the quarrel case next to them. She was about to join Byrd when she noticed Leesil's gaze fixed on something behind the bar.
"Wynn…" Magiere said slowly. "Make us some spiced tea, please.
Leesil lifted his eyes, but he didn't look at her. "Yes, hot tea… and sausages for Chap."
Wynn sensed that her companions needed to collect themselves before they could talk, so she slipped off to the kitchen as they headed for the stairs. She took her time with the late-night supper. Byrd cooked pork sausages while she loaded a bowl with dried fruits and some pickled vegetables from the vinegar barrel. They sliced day-old bread and stoked up the fire to boil water. Once all was ready, she and Byrd carried the hodgepodge meal out to the common room.
Magiere and Leesil were back downstairs again, out of their gear, and all weapons and equipment from the hunt stored away. They sat at the table nearest the front door, and Chap lay between its legs. Wynn took one of the tin plates she carried and placed two sausages on it. When she leaned down, one sausage disappeared into Chap's snapping jaws before the plate touched the floor.