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With a heavy sigh, Shaimin d’Thuranni sauntered back to the window and bounded across the rooftops of Fairhaven. He moved with animal grace, traveling with no undue noise or hesitation, drawing no notice from the citizens in the street. When he felt he was sufficiently distant from the duchess’s house as to draw little suspicion, he paused and concentrated on the elaborate dragonmark scrawled across his shoulder blades. His senses expanded from his body, giving him a view of the alley below as if he were there. Confident that no undue bystanders were watching, he dropped gracefully to the ground. He smoothed his black silken cloak over his shoulders with a feline fastidiousness, pursing his lips in frustration.

“Do you plan to follow me for the rest of the evening?” Shaimin asked. “Or are you quite satisfied with what you have seen?”

“I am quite satisfied,” was the answer. The air rippled. A robed figure appeared from nothing. He was a tall, pale-skinned humanoid with pink burns on one side of his face.

“Hello, Shaimin.”.

Shaimin moved his finger off the trigger of the small crossbow he held beneath his cloak. A smile split his pale features. “Thardis,” he said with a malevolent grin. “I never believed you were dead. It is good to see you again.”

“My name is Marth,” the changeling replied. “I am pleased to see you as well, though I fear I am not here to renew old friendships.”

“I thought as much,” Shaimin said, his interest piqued. “A friend wouldn’t spy on me while at work; he’d just meet me at the theater afterward. You wished to ensure that my skills had not deteriorated since last we met.”

“And I am not disappointed, Shaimin,” Marth said.

“I should hope not,” Shaimin said stiffly. “This is regarding Ashrem’s legacy?”

The changeling nodded.

“Then walk with me,” the elf said, gesturing to the road. “Let us speak of old friends and unfinished business …”