Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

Sau’ilahk listened, though there was little of use that he heard—except perhaps for one term. The servitor vanished with a puff of a breeze, its task fulfilled, but Sau’ilahk continued to ponder.

What could Chane possibly want with corpse-skirt?

He suddenly knew.

Chane sought a remedy to stave off dormancy.

Sau’ilahk had seen such a work only once, long ago in his time among Beloved’s Children. How had Chane uncovered this rare secret? Where had he learned it? Who could have possibly known in order to teach him?

Three times when Sau’ilahk had gone to Beloved beneath the mountain during daylight, one or more of the Children had been present, fully awake! Why was never clear, but it had nagged him so much that he had gone to the Eaters of Silence. He’d threatened that trio of mad servants to his god until they revealed the truth. One of them had assisted in the making of a concoction containing ... What had it been called then? Something from Chane’s own region? Ah yes, Dyvjàka Svonchek —boar’s bell.

Perhaps Chane was nothing more than a common vampire, a mere dabbler in conjury with a growing bag of minor tricks. But did this make him more dangerous or more dependent on what could be taken away from him?

Sau’ilahk hung in the dark, uncertain.

Chane headed away from the waterfront district, realizing one more task was necessary before returning to Wynn. The apothecary had asked for more than he expected. Half the money from the guild was gone, and he had to replace it.

At a loud voice, Chane slowed and glanced left.

A sailor tumbled out of a tavern door, as if shoved, and stumbled into the middle of the side street.

“Curse you, Ramón!” the man shouted, slurring the words. “You cheat! You cheated me ... and I won’t forget it!”

A shorter, more sober man stepped in the doorframe, his features shadowed amid the light spilling out behind him from inside the establishment. A raucous mix of voices from inside could be heard as well.

“I never cheat, Dusin,” the second man answered. “I don’t have to. You’re too drunk to play the tiles as well as others ... let alone against me.”

Chane kept a steady, slow pace as he crossed the intersection. He casually turned in against a building to peer back around the corner.

The drunken sailor, Dusin, charged and took a wild swing at the object of his rage. Ramón easily sidestepped, letting the door close, and hooked his assailant’s ankle with his foot. Dusin teetered, slamming face-first into the doorframe, and immediately flopped onto the building’s landing.

“Sleep it off,” Ramón called over his shoulder as he walked away. “Try me later ... when you’ve got enough coin.”

Dusin rolled on the landing, holding his face and moaning.

Chane caught the thin scent of blood in the side street’s shifting air. It was so good, that smell, but he had no interest in the loser—only the winner.

Ramón strolled up the way toward the intersection.

Chane flattened against the wall around the corner, watching him pass. He stayed there, waiting as Ramón headed straight onward. Once Ramón was beyond the intersection, Chane hurried to the far corner and looked around the edge.

He was not watching the man but trying to see beyond, to the closest alley or cutway. He was also overburdened, as he had not cared to leave his packs and possessions back at the hotel. Quietly, he set both packs against the wall of the corner shop and ducked around, eyeing his target’s back.

Ramón had his head down as he walked, and Chane heard the click of metal. In this of all places, the haughty winner of some game of chance counted his meager fortune alone in the night. Chane crept along the building fronts, nearer and nearer.

His quarry was only six paces from a narrow access between the buildings on the far side when Chane rushed into the street.

Ramón turned, still walking, at the sound of Chane’s boots.

Chane lashed out before the man’s eyes had focused upon him. His fist struck his target’s cheekbone, changing the man’s turn into a spin. Chane heard the chink of a coin pouch striking the cobblestones, and that sound cost him an instant of hesitation.

His quarry flopped down hard onto the street.

Chane grabbed the body by one arm and dragged it into the narrow cutway. Ramón lay against the alley’s sidewall—unconscious but breathing—as Chane glanced back.

The pouch lay in the middle of the street.

He crept to the cutway’s end, looking both ways along the street. It was empty, and apparently even Dusin had crawled off. Chane rushed out, snatched the pouch, and retreated into hiding.

The pouch was full of copper and silver, but only half the coins were from Malourné. Wynn would notice if he used foreign coins for the balance. There was no option but to put the Malourné coins into Wynn’s pouch. He dropped the rest back into the new pouch and tucked it into his belt.

Ramón still lay unconscious, a pulse pounding in his throat. The earlier scent of blood was still thick in Chane’s head.

This man was not like that old woman in the shop. How many were found dead in the streets of a place like Drist? No one would miss this man or connect his death to Chane, not even Wynn. All he need do was raggedly, recklessly slash the man’s throat once he was finished.

Chane pressed his hands against the alley wall above the man, hanging his head to stare down at the slumped form. He could smell life waiting for the taking.

Two bells rang in the night, and a third followed after a brief pause.

Chane lurched back to the alley’s far side, regaining himself. It was later than he realized, and Wynn would be waiting and wondering where he was.

“You have more luck,” he hissed at the slumped form, “much more than you will ever know.”

He ducked into the open street at a run, grabbing his packs along the way. When he reached the lavish brothel masquerading as an inn, he did not even acknowledge the guards or the attendant as he relinquished his weapons. Taking two steps at a time, he brushed past several young women along the staircase.

Opening the door to the room he shared with Wynn, he looked inside.

She was curled upon the bed, sound asleep. Shade lay at the bed’s foot, not even raising her head, though her half opened eyes never blinked as their crystal blue irises watched Chane.

Two empty plates lay on the floor beside a porcelain washbasin and pitcher. Wynn must have eaten, tried to wait up for him, and fallen asleep. She was dressed only in her cotton shift and wrapped in her short robe. Such tiny feet she had ... and slender ankles at the end of sleek, olive-toned calves.

Chane stepped to the bedside and pulled the dangling side of the silk quilt up over Wynn. Shade was still watching, but she did not growl. He and she were both determined to protect Wynn.

They had that much in common, if nothing else.

Chane awoke upon the floor past dusk to the sound of Wynn already digging through their chest and repacking their belongings. Shade sat beside her, alternately watching him but watching Wynn even more, and only occasionally she sniffed at something wrapped in cheap paper.

“Are we leaving?” he asked.

Wynn jumped slightly and spun around to look at him.

“Yes. Ore-Locks went out this morning,” she answered. “I think he wants us out of this port as much as you do. He sold the crystal and found passage to Soráno on a larger cargo ship. The captain was eager for a little profit now that his holds are emptied.”

Wynn frowned anxiously, looking into the chest. “Chane, do you have our coin pouch? I can’t find it.”

He sat up quickly, for he had forgotten to put it back.