Diran stood shivering on the raised wooden platform. He was dressed only in his breechcloth, and though the dank air raised goosebumps on his bare skin, it wasn't the cold that made him shiver. It was fear.
Standing next to him was a brown-haired man who also wore nothing but a breechcloth. Unlike Diran, the man's wrists and ankles weren't bound together by leather thongs.
"Take a good look at him, folks!" the man said. "He may be young, but he comes to us from the Lhazaar Principalities. Life's rough up there, so you know he comes from hardy stock!"
"He's too skinny!" someone shouted from the crowd.
Diran tried to see who it was, but while the platform he stood on had light-stones embedded along the edges, their radiance was somehow directed inward, illuminating only the platform itself. The area beyond was shrouded in shadow, and though Diran could tell that the chamber was crowded with people, they were only silhouettes in the darkness to him. He could hear some of them whispering to one another, and he could smell the tang of human sweat and nonhuman musk.
"True, but then he's only a child." The man turned to face the crowd and chuckled. "Which, of course, is why you've all come here tonight."
There was a scattering of dark laughter throughout the crowd. Before being brought here, Diran had spent several days in another chamber, bound in darkness within a large cage. He hadn't been alone. Inside the cage with him had been a number of boys and girls, some older than him, many younger, all similarly bound, all wearing only undergarments. They sat and talked in the darkness, with no food or water, and they saw no sign of their captors until tonight when an everbright lantern lit the chamber, carried by a grim-faced half-elf. He unlocked the cage door, entered, chose a child seemingly at random, and carried her off through a tunnel entrance, taking the light with him. The half-elf returned three more times, taking a different child every time. The fourth time he'd picked up Diran and carried him out of the cage, through the tunnel, and into this chamber where he was placed on this wooden platform next to the brown-haired man.
While Diran didn't know exactly where he was, he understood what was happening. This was a slave auction, and he was the one currently up for bid.
"I have no doubt he'll grow up to be a strong one," the slave-trader said, "assuming you're looking for a worker, that is." More laughter from the crowd. "But you don't have to take my word for it. See for yourselves."
The man's facial features began to blur, shift, and reform. His brown hair became thick and black, and he grew taller, his lean arms and legs taking on muscle. His chest became broader, his abdominal muscles more defined. When he was finished, he looked like a human male in his mid-twenties, with shoulder-length black hair, and a lean, almost wolfish face, with a penetrating intelligence in his gaze.
Diran couldn't believe it; the slave-trader wasn't human at all but rather a changeling!
Women in the crowd-and some of the men-let out appreciative whistles.
"Spare us the parlor tricks, Rawiri!" a voice called out. "Do you really expect us to believe you know what the boy will grow up to look like?"
The changeling turned to face the challenger. "You must be a first-timer-and a latecomer to boot." Though Rawiri appeared different-Am I really going to look like that someday? Diran thought-his voice remained unchanged. "This is the fourth time tonight that I've done this. I could defend my methods, but there are many buyers present this evening who have been valued customers of mine for years. They can speak to the accuracy of my predictions as well as I, if not better."
People spoke up from within the darkness that hid them from Diran's view.
"It's true!"
"The changeling has a gift for it!"
"I've been buying from him for the last twenty years, and he's never wrong!"
Rawiri bowed in appreciation of his audience's support. He straightened and said, "If you have no further objections, I will continue."
The challenger, whether convinced or merely silenced by the crowd's support of Rawiri, said nothing.
"Very good. Now, who wants to start the bidding at one hundred gold?"
People in the crowd began to call out offers. The changeling remained in Diran's form-or rather, his extrapolation of Diran's adult form-during the bidding, perhaps as a reminder to the audience of what they were buying. In the cage, Diran had heard some of the older children talk about what uses they might be put to after they were sold. Physical labor was the least of it. They might be put to work in brothels or used as pleasure-toys by their new owners. They might be sold to wizards for experimentation or to dark priests for sacrifice. There was even talk that they might be sold as food for those with very particular tastes. Whichever one of these awful fates might be his, Diran was determined to avoid it.
He'd done more during his time imprisoned with the other children besides listen to their dire predictions for the future. He'd worked slowly and methodically on loosening the leather thongs that bound his wrists and ankles, stretching, twisting, pulling, all the while feeling the leather chafe his skin raw. When the pain became too much to bear, he switched to gnawing on the thongs binding his wrists. When the pain become tolerable again, he returned to stretching and pulling. His plan was simple: when an opportunity came along, he'd break free of the weakened thongs around his wrists, then use his hands to pull off the loosened restraints around his ankles. After that, he'd run as fast and far as he could.
He'd been lucky so far. Neither the half-elf nor the changeling had noticed what he'd done, but Diran knew his luck wasn't going to hold out for much longer. If he was going to escape, he'd have to do it now, before he was bought and his new owner decided to inspect his purchase.
Diran rolled his eyes upward and allowed his body to go limp, not a difficult accomplishment given that he'd had nothing to eat or drink for several days. As he fell toward the platform's surface, he pulled his wrists away from each other, and the leather thongs tore like wet vellum. He hit the platform, reached down to his ankles, and yanked the loosened thongs over his bare feet. The leather straps were still tight enough to take skin with them as they came off, but Diran didn't care, didn't even feel it. All that mattered was he'd made his opportunity, and he knew he had only seconds to take advantage of it.
He jumped to his feet and scanned the darkness beyond the platform, hoping to detect some indication of a doorway or opening through which the crowd had entered the auction chamber. He saw no sign of a door in the chamber's gloom, though, and decided he had no choice but to rush into the crowd, shove his way through as best he could, and hope that he stumbled across a way out of this nightmarish place. Before he could take a step toward freedom, he felt a strong hand clamp down on his shoulder.
"Not so fast, my spirited young-" Rawiri was interrupted by Diran ramming the heel of his hand into the changeling's throat. The slave-trader's voice cut off with a wet glurk, and he staggered back, releasing his hold on Diran.
Diran didn't hesitate. He ran to the edge of the platform and leaped… right into the waiting arms of the half-elf. The changeling's partner enfolded Diran in a crushing bear-hug, pinning his arms to his sides so that he was unable to strike the slaver. Diran tried kicking, thrashing, biting, but the half-elf had seen what the boy had done to his partner and was careful to avoid Diran's attacks. Diran was considering trying to tear out the half-elf's jugular, but the man-as if reading Diran's mind or perhaps simply divining his intent from his gaze-pulled back his head and slammed his forehead into Diran's. Bright light flashed behind the boy's eyes and a roaring noise not unlike churning ocean waves sounded in his ears. Diran fell limp in the half-elf's arms, and the man carried him back to the platform and tossed him onto it none too gently. Diran hit the wood with a dull thump and lay there, struggling to hold onto consciousness, fighting to roll over onto his hands and knees so that he might make another grab for freedom, futile as it might be.
"How much for the boy?"
A man stepped out of the gloom and up to the edge of the platform. Diran looked at him, but his vision was blurry and all he could make out were the man's eyes: cold, sharp, gaze penetrating. They were predator's eyes, wolf's eyes.
Rawiri had reassumed the shape of a brown-haired human male once more, but when he answered, his voice was a raspy whisper. "This brat's not for sale." The changeling bared teeth that would've been at home in the mouth of a shark. "I intend to keep this one for myself."
From the tight fury in the slaver's voice, Diran didn't think the changeling planned to keep him as a servant.
Through eyes still blurry, Diran saw a flash of motion and heard a muffled clank-clink as an object landed on the platform only a few inches from where he lay. Coins, Diran realized, in a leather purse.
"If that's not enough to make you change your mind, I have more," said the man standing at the edge of the platform. His words were neutral enough, but his tone said that the amount had damned well better be sufficient.
Rawiri knelt to pick up the purse. He looked inside and grinned.
"That will do fine, Master Cathmore. Quite fine, indeed." The slave-trader tossed the purse to his half-elf partner, and the man snatched it out of the air as if he feared it might vanish if he didn't get a firm grip on it fast enough. "Mark my words: that boy is going to be nothing but trouble."
Diran's vision had cleared to the point where he could make out the feral smile of his new owner.
"I'm counting on it."
"… hear me, Diran?"
"Hmm?" The priest looked at Yvka as if just realizing she was present. "Sorry. I was just thinking about the first time I met Cathmore. My parents were fishers, and one day out on the Lhazaar, we were attacked by raiders. They killed my mother and father, but they let me live, not because they couldn't bring themselves to slay a child, but because they could make a profit on me. They sold me to a slaver who specialized in procuring children, and I ended up for sale in a secret slave market in Karrnath. It was Cathmore who bought me."
"What did Cathmore want with you?" Tresslar asked.
"Aldarik Cathmore is an assassin. He's also Emon Gorsedd's half-brother. They were partners-or at least, they were back then. Cathmore's job was to find new students for Emon's academy in Atur. Quite often these students were purchased from slavers, but sometimes they were simply abducted or in rare cases adopted after one of Emon's operatives killed the rest of their family. Cathmore did more than just find students for Emon, though. He also taught the new recruits, introducing them to life in the Brotherhood of the Blade."
"Then what's he doing in the Principalities?" Ghaji asked.
For that was the news that Yvka had come to deliver: the Shadow Network had learned that a man called Aldarik Cathmore had passed through Perhata several weeks ago, accompanied by an orc and a kalashtar. They'd purchased numerous supplies in Perhata, and the orc still made an occasional supply run, but as for Cathmore, no one-not a single operative in the entire Network-had any inkling of why the man was in the area or what he was doing.
"I can help a bit with the why," Diran said. "Cathmore and Emon had a falling out when I was still a child. Neither of them agreed on the best way to run the academy. Emon believed in keeping his organization small, lean, and mobile, while Cathmore wanted to expand the Brotherhood. Business was good during the final years of the Last War, and Cathmore hoped to establish his own academy elsewhere in Khorvaire. When Emon refused to support him financially, Cathmore tried to have him killed. After he failed, Emon gave his half-brother a choice: leave or die. Cathmore left." Diran paused, remembering. Then he pushed the memories aside and turned to Yvka. "What I don't understand is how you knew of my connection to Cathmore."
Yvka smiled. "I make it my business to know. I probably know things about you that you don't know yourself."
"Do you think Cathmore's running an assassins' academy here in Perhata?" Ghaji asked.
'It's possible. He's had twenty years to set himself up in business, and since Emon operates out of Karrnath, perhaps Cathmore decided to carve out his own territory here in the Principalities." Diran smiled grimly. "I wouldn't be surprised if he did so as a way of getting back at me, at least in part. He knew I hailed from here. Perhaps he even had hopes of luring me back."
"Why would he want to do that?" Hinto asked. "Because I'm the one who stopped him from killing Emon Gorsedd."
Eneas staggered down the street, but he had no trouble remaining on his feet. Like most Lhazaarites, he'd spent his lifetime on the deck of one sailing vessel or another, and he actually felt more at home on dry land when he was drunk. The way the world spun around him and the ground dipped and rolled beneath his feet felt not only natural but comforting, and Eneas could use some comfort right now. Not because of his run-in with the thrice-damned Coldhearts or the man in black with the steel-gray eyes-Eneas wasn't one to back down from a fight-especially when he'd swallowed a bit too much ale. Even so, though the man in black had interfered and sent him on his way, Eneas wasn't so drunk that he didn't realize the man had done him a favor. What bothered Eneas right now was what waited for him at the docks. That was the real reason he'd been drinking so heavily throughout the day.
The sun had already dipped below the Hoarfrost Mountains to the west, and night was settling over Perhata. Shadows lengthened, thickened, and deepened, like chill dark waters slowly seeping through the streets. The wind blowing in off the Gulf of Ingjald cut into Eneas's skin like tiny slivers of ice, and though he was a Lhazaarite born and bred, and cold normally didn't bother him overmuch, he shivered. He was a free-hire merchant, which meant that he'd haul any cargo for the right price and no questions asked. He owned a small sailing craft called the Boundless, and his boat-and the freedom she represented-meant more to him than anything in this life. Even so, he considered turning around, walking away from the docks, heading inland, and never returning to the sea or his beloved boat.
The shadows were omnipresent now, and though purple tinged the sky, it was beginning to edge toward black. Eneas used to love the night, used to love being out on the Lhazaar, sail billowing in the wind as he charted his course by gazing up at the canopy of stars above, but he didn't like the night anymore. He doubted he ever would again.
He reached the main docks of Perhata. There were private docks elsewhere, of course, but these were the ones where most residents and visitors moored their craft. This was also where the fishmarkets were located, as well as taverns so seedy they made the common room of the King Prawn look like the most elegant Sharn teahouse. Normally Eneas patronized these taverns-the ale was lousy, but there was always a rowdy good time to be had, along with an invigorating fight or two. Today, however, he hadn't been able to stand the thought of remaining close to the docks, so he'd been forced to go further into the city in search of refreshment. He wouldn't be returning now if he hadn't needed to. No, been compelled to.
He reached up, pulled down the collar of his tunic, and scratched at a pair of small bite marks positioned along the thick blood vessel between shoulder and neck. The marks itched and throbbed, but no amount of scratching provided relief. Eneas wondered if he'd ever know relief again.
By the time he'd walked down the dock to the slip where he'd moored the Boundless, full night had descended. At least he wouldn't keep his passenger waiting. Perhaps she'd release him out of appreciation for his promptness. Unfortunately, he feared she had other plans for him.
Fog was rolling in off the Lhazaar, and though everbright lanterns stationed at periodic intervals lit the dock, their softly glowing light did little to penetrate the mist. If anything, they only made visibility worse by coloring the fog an eerie, sour green, but Eneas didn't need to see to find his boat. He could feel it, or rather he felt her, calling to him, impatient for his return. He reached the slip where his vessel was moored. The Boundless wasn't anything special: one mast, small hold, even smaller cabin. The boat had a few minor touches added by a shipwright who was also an artificer, but nothing extraordinary-spells to make the mast stronger, the hull barnacle-resistant, the sail less prone to tears, that sort of thing. The Boundless was hardly an elemental galleon or a shard-racer, Eneas knew, but he loved the old boat as fiercely as he'd ever loved anything in his life. All he wanted now was to get rid of the creature that lay within her hold and have the Boundless all to himself again.
Eneas jumped onto the deck with a surprising grace that belied both his heavy frame and drunken state. The fog was moving in so fast now that he could barely see more than a foot in front of his face as he moved toward the hull, but he was on the Boundless and could find his way around her with both eyes put out if he had to. The fog seemed to cling unnaturally to his body, forming a slimy cold film on his flesh that set him to shivering. He opened the hatch and still trembling-though perhaps not entirely from the fog's chill now-he climbed down the short ladder into the hold.
Once inside, he reached into his tunic pocket and brought out a small light gem. He waved his hand over it, and the gem began to give off a flickering orange light not unlike that produced by a candle, though there was no heat. The hold was empty, save for a large obsidian object that resembled a coffin, only with rounded edges. Strange runes were carved around the sides of the sarcophagus, and if Eneas looked at them too long, his head would start to hurt.
He told himself that he didn't have to do it. Without him to unlock the sarcophagus and deactivate the enchantment suffusing the obsidian stone, she couldn't get out. She would be trapped forever, and he would be safe. He could haul the coffin out by a winch and dump it in the sea. If worse came to worst and he couldn't offload his strange cargo, he could scuttle the whole damned ship and let her go down to the bottom, taking the obsidian box and its inhabitant along as she descended into the cold, dark depths of the Lhazaar. He didn't have to obey-he didn't!
Nevertheless, he stepped forward, took hold of the lid's edge and raised it up an inch.
Eneas stepped back quickly as pale white fingers-feminine fingers-emerged. They curled around the edge of the lid and lifted it the rest of the way off the sarcophagus. The lid wasn't attached, and the heavy stone cover fell off to the side, striking the floor of the wooden hull with a loud thump that made Eneas wince. Then she sat up and stared straight ahead, motionless, unblinking, as if she wasn't aware of his presence. Then slowly she turned to look at Eneas, her head pivoting on her neck with unnaturally smooth precision, as if she weren't a being of flesh and blood but rather some sort of mechanical construct in human form. She blinked once, twice, and then awareness returned to her gaze. She recognized him, and she smiled, displaying long, white incisors.
Then, moving with the speed and grace of a jungle cat, she leaped out of the coffin and rushed at Eneas. He dropped the light gem, and as physical contact with the mystical object was broken, its illumination winked out. Eneas felt the woman's small hands take hold of him in grips of iron, felt her teeth sink into the soft flesh of his neck, and then a darkness far worse than the absence of light came for him and he felt nothing more.
Makala raised her head and with the back of a hand wiped a smear of blood from her mouth. She looked down at the fat man lying on the floor of the hold next to her, his skin pale, breathing shallow, blood oozing from the twin puncture marks on his throat. Without realizing it, she leaned forward, intending to lick the wounds clean, but she stopped herself. She might not be human anymore, but that didn't make her an animal.
She stood and took three steps back from Eneas, lest she be tempted to feed on him further. What she'd already taken from the man would have to suffice; if she drank anymore, there was a good chance he would die. There was a time when that wouldn't have made a difference to her, a time when she would've taken his life as casually as she might snap her fingers and for lesser reason than ensuring her own survival. Regardless of what she'd become, she was no longer a killer, at least, not a mindless one. If she was going to kill, then she would do so when and where she chose and for justifiable reasons-not simply because she was hungry.
She felt Eneas's blood suffusing her body, lessening but not alleviating the pervasive chill in her undead flesh. In many ways, that was the worst part about being a vampire. No matter the temperature, no matter how much she fed, she was always cold. She felt the boat rock beneath her feet as a wave rolled in to shore, and sudden nausea twisted her gut, threatening to make her vomit the blood she'd taken from Eneas. She clamped her mouth shut tight, and though she no longer had any reason to breathe, she took slow, even breaths until the boat stopped rocking and her nausea subsided.
For all their strengths, vampires had a surprising number of weaknesses, as Makala had found out over the last several months. One of those was an aversion to crossing running water. Why that should be, she didn't know, but she'd experienced the discomfort too often to dismiss it as merely her imagination. She'd been lucky, though. She'd discovered the obsidian sarcophagus on one of the elemental galleons that Diran and the others had left behind when they'd departed Grimwall after defeating Erdis Cai. Once a vampire lay inside and the sigil of Vol affixed to the lid was activated, he or she could cross running water without the least discomfort. She believed that the vampire sailor Onkar-once Edris Cai's first mate and the one who'd changed her-had employed the sarcophagus in order to continue plying the waters of the Lhazaar Sea. Unfortunately, the sarcophagus had one serious drawback: once the lid was sealed and the enchantment activated, it could not be opened from within. Whoever rested inside the sarcophagus was dependent on someone outside to release her, hence her need for Eneas. Not only did he transport her across water, he also released her when they arrived at their destination.
The attack of nausea had taken the edge off her hunger, so she felt safe in approaching Eneas and kneeling next to him once more.
"You've done well," she said in a soft, almost dreamy voice. "Now I want you to remain on the ship until I return. You will then seal me into the sarcophagus before dawn and release me once again the following sunset. Do you understand?"
Eneas's eyes fluttered open. They were wide and staring, but he nodded once.
"Very good. Rest now-you've earned it."
Eneas's eyes closed and a moment later he began snoring.
Makala stood and regarded her-for lack of a better word-servant. Then she turned toward the open hatch above her, crouched, and with an effortless grace leaped onto the deck. She silently disembarked the Boundless and walked down the dock to shore, her footsteps making no sound on the weathered wooden planks.
What are we going to do?" Ghaji asked.
He and Diran stood in the street outside the King Prawn. The others were still inside, watching as Yvka performed a juggling act for the inn's patrons. While the elf-woman was an operative of the Shadow Network-which officially didn't exist-she posed as a wandering player. It might be a disguise, but she was nevertheless a damn fine entertainer, and Ghaji wished he was inside watching her along with everyone else. Diran had asked him to step outside for a breath of fresh air, and since fresh air was difficult to come by in this part of Perhata, Ghaji had known his friend really wanted to talk to him alone, so here Ghaji was, standing next to Diran, his back against the stone wall of the inn, trying to ignore the sounds of laughter and applause drifting from the common room as Yvka performed.
Full night had fallen and a clammy fog was rolling in off the Gulf of Ingjald, turning the world into an indistinct ghostly image of itself. The fog muffled sound and defied even Ghaji's orcish night vision. He had the sensation that he and Diran were the only two living people left in Perhata, and though he knew it was only his imagination, the feeling was an eerie one and not easily dismissed.
"About what?" Diran said.
"Cathmore. Where do we start looking for him?"
Diran gazed into the fog, and Ghaji wondered what his friend saw in its roiling gray murk. "I'm not sure we should-at least not right away."
"I'm surprised. I thought you'd be ready to set out on the hunt right away."
Diran turned and smiled. "You've come to know me too well, Ghaji. You're right; ordinarily I would want to begin searching for Cathmore immediately, but I've been thinking about Asenka." He gave Ghaji a sideways look, then hurried to add, "I mean, ah, about what she told us regarding the origins of the enmity between Perhata and Kolbyr. Remember?"
"Sure, I remember. I especially remember the way the two of you looked at one another."
Diran scowled. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Ghaji grinned. "Of course you don't.
In truth, he was pleased that Diran seemed attracted to the commander of the Sea Scorpions and she to him. The priest hadn't shown any interest in women at all since the night Makala had died and been reborn as a vampire. While Ghaji regretted what had happened to Makala, he knew it wasn't healthy for his friend to mourn her loss forever. Perhaps Diran was finally showing signs of putting his grief behind him and getting on with his life. Ghaji could only hope so.
"What about the conflict between the cities?" Ghaji asked.
Diran looked relieved that Ghaji had abandoned his teasing. "Asenka said it stems from a curse-a curse that has been carried down to this day. If the curse could somehow be removed…"
"The conflict might end," Ghaji finished.
Diran nodded. "Or at least peace negotiations might become possible. It seems to me that we would do more immediate good by investigating this curse than by haring off after Aldarik Cathmore."
Ghaji considered this. "Perhaps, but the curse has lasted for almost two centuries. What would a few more days or even weeks matter?"
Diran smiled gently. "Don't you think two centuries is more than long enough for the people of two cities to be at war?"
Ghaji and Diran had both seen their share of conflict during the War-the half-orc as a mercenary soldier, the priest as a hired assassin-and both of them had participated in far too much mindless slaughter.
"Yes, I do." Ghaji sighed. "Very well, now that Yvka's here, perhaps she'll ferry us over to Kolbyr on the Zephyr. Once there…"
His voice trailed off as a familiar scent came to his nose: thick, musky, and earthy. He hadn't smelled this scent for close to twenty years, but he remembered it just the same. Orcs-even half-orcs-never forget a smell.
"Something wrong?" Diran asked.
"I'm… not sure. There's something I need to check out, Diran. Alone, if you don't mind."
The priest frowned, but he said, "Of course, but if you should need me…"
Ghaji nodded. "I'll let you know." He turned away from his friend and moved off into the fog, following the scent of a ghost from the past.
Diran watched his friend disappear into the gray murk, torn as to what he should do. It wasn't like Ghaji to run off on a whim, so something was up, and that something might well prove dangerous. Whether Ghaji wanted to admit it or not, there was a good chance he'd need Diran's help. But Ghaji had asked to go alone, and Diran had acquiesced. To follow Ghaji now would be to break a trust between them, and Diran didn't wish to do that if he could avoid it.
As he stood outside the King Prawn trying to make up his mind, he heard footsteps approaching. At first, he thought Ghaji had returned, but the sound of the boots scuffing against dirt sounded wrong-lighter, the stride measured and patient. Diran had no idea whether whoever it was approaching was friend or foe, but at the Perhata Docks, one encountered more criminals than anywhere else in the Principalities. He drew a dagger from his belt sheath and palmed it, just in case.
The footsteps continued coming closer until the vague outline of a human body could be seen. A woman.
Diran's heart seized in his chest, and he whispered, "Makala?"
"Is that a dagger in your hand, or are you just glad to see me?"
The woman took a few more steps toward him, and Diran could make out enough of her features to recognize the commander of the Sea Scorpions. With a fluid motion, Diran returned the dagger to its sheath. If Asenka had heard him call her by a different name, she made no remark on it.
"Good evening, Asenka. Don't tell me you've returned because you can't get enough of the King Prawn's delicious ale."
Her laugh was warm and cheerful, and the sound helped diminish the fog's chill. "Hardly. Today wasn't the first time I have run off Haaken and his crew. In the past, they've been known to sneak back and cause further trouble. I've been keeping on eye on the King Prawn, figuring that if they did come back, they'd come for you and your friend."
Diran felt a sudden pang of worry. Could Ghaji have detected the Coldhearts lurking about? His half-orc senses were sharper than Diran's human ones, so it was quite possible, but why would Ghaji have gone off on his own to investigate? The man could be impulsive at times, but he wasn't foolish.
"Any sign of the Coldhearts?" Diran asked, trying not to let the worry he felt for his friend creep into his voice.
Asenka shook her head. "Aside from the usual drunken scuffles between sailors, it's been quiet tonight. It looks like Haaken may have actually gotten the message this time."
Diran was relieved to hear that. Hopefully, whatever had lured Ghaji away was something the half-orc warrior could deal with on his own.
A silence settled between them then, more companionable than awkward, despite the fact that this was only their second meeting. After a bit, Asenka said, "I have a confession to make."
"Oh? It's a good thing I'm a priest then."
She smiled, but she didn't laugh this time. "Earlier, I acted as if I didn't know you, but I did. I've heard of you and your friend. The two of you have been in the Principalities only a short time, but you're already gaining quite a reputation in certain circles."
"What circles would these be?" Diran kept his tone light, but he was on guard.
Since coming to the Principalities, he and Ghaji had done what they could to battle evil, but neither of them was overly concerned about whose toes they had to step on-or on occasion, cut off-in order to get the job done. That meant that they'd managed to make more than a few enemies among the Lhazaarites, and it was possible that Asenka was one of them.
"Let's just say that word has spread among the barons to keep a sharp eye out for a dagger-wielding priest and a half-orc who carries an elemental axe. It's said that whenever they sail into port, trouble comes blowing in after them."
It was Diran's turn to smile. "I wouldn't dispute that, though I'd argue any trouble is present long before we arrive."
Asenka narrowed her eyes and regarded Diran. "Are you saying there's trouble in Perhata?"
Diran thought about what Yvka had told him regarding Aldarik Cathmore. "I'm not sure yet."
"Promise me something: when you are sure, you'll let me know before you start hurling daggers about and turning the citizens of Perhata into pin cushions."
"Why? So you can run Ghaji and me out of town, like you did the Coldhearts?"
"No, silly." She stepped forward until only a few inches of foggy air separated their bodies. "So I can help you." Then she pressed her lips against his and kissed him. Diran was surprised, but not as surprised as when he found himself returning her kiss.
Asenka pulled away, gave him a last smile, then turned and walked away until she was swallowed by the fog. Diran stood staring into the gray nothingness where she had vanished, glad that Ghaji hadn't been present. If he had been, the half-orc never would have stopped teasing him.
Makala crouched on the roof of the King Prawn, fingernails sharp as claws digging into the thatch. Though she was unaware of it, her mouth was open and her fangs bared. Thick as it was, the fog was no impediment to her inhuman senses, and she'd been able to see, hear, and smell everything that had occurred between Diran and that… that woman. Cold fury gripped her, so strong that it was all she could do to keep from launching herself into the air and following after Asenka. She'd already fed tonight thanks to Eneas, but her belly was far from full, and she still hungered, and who better to slake her thirst than that overeager tramp? The woman's words to Diran echoed in Makala's mind like a mocking whisper. No, silly. So I can help you.
Makala's muscles tensed, and she was about to fling herself from the roof, but she stopped herself. She hadn't seen Diran since that night in Grimwall when she'd become a vampire, and it had been years before that since they'd been lovers. Though she still loved Diran Bastiaan, she had no claim on him-could have none as long as he was human and a priest of the Silver Flame, dedicated to eradicating evil in all its myriad forms. As a vampire, she definitely qualified as one of those forms, though she had done her best these last several months to keep the evil inherent in her nature from controlling her, so while the predator in her might like nothing better than to tear out Asenka's throat and guzzle her hot, sweet blood, she would restrain herself.
But that didn't mean she couldn't have a little fun.
She concentrated and her body became insubstantial as mist. She merged with the fog and drifted on the breeze, following Asenka.
Ghaji moved through the fog-enshrouded street silent as a shadow. He gripped his elemental axe in his right hand, but he hadn't activated it yet. The flames would cut through the fog like a beacon, alerting the one he hunted to the half-orc's presence, and if Ghaji was right about the identity of the man he tracked, then he would need every advantage he could get.
He sensed more than heard movement from his left, and he spun away as a broadsword blade hissed through the air. The steel struck the stone wall of the building where Ghaji had been standing, hitting with a ringing clang and setting off sparks.
Ghaji didn't wait for his attacker to recover his balance. With a thought he activated his axe and stepped forward, flames erupting along the blade and haft of his weapon, though his hand felt no heat. He swung the axe in a sweeping sideways arc designed to connect with his attacker's sword arm. A trail of fire followed the axe-blade, burning away the fog and illuminating the face of Ghaji's would-be assassin.
He was an orc-tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled, an intimidating specimen even for one of his kind. His fur was thick and blackish gray, the skin underneath green. His beard was woven into a trio of braids, and a golden hoop earring dangled from his left earlobe. His lower incisors were massive, jutting up from his jaw and curving upward almost all the way to his small, hate-filled eyes. He wore a mail-shirt, black leather pants, and black boots, but his arms were bare to allow him freedom of movement in battle.
There were more strands of gray in the orc's fur than the last time Ghaji had seen Chagai of Striking Viper Clan, but otherwise he remained unchanged, which was too bad-Ghaji had hoped the son of a bitch would be dead by now.
Chagai didn't have time to bring his sword up to deflect Ghaji's strike, so he turned and took the impact on his chest. Fire flared bright as the flaming axe blade slammed into the mail shirt, driving Chagai back into the stone wall. The orc grunted as he collided with the wall, but he didn't cry out. There was no gushing blood, and worse yet, his mail-shirt didn't show the slightest sign of damage.
"Wearing enchanted armor these days, Chagai?" Ghaji said. "What would your clan say?" For an orc to use magical protection of any kind was considered a sign of weakness, an admission that one's own strength and battle skill weren't enough to defeat an opponent.
Chagai grinned. "I had to find something to replace the breastplate you stole from me."
Chagai swept his sword upward and knocked Ghaji's axe away from his chest. There was so much strength behind the blow that Ghaji had to move with the momentum lest he risk losing hold of his weapon. He took three steps to the side, giving Chagai the chance to move away from the wall and gain room to maneuver.
"You're a fine one to talk about my armor, half-blood," Chagai snarled. "You wield an elemental weapon!"
Ghaji turned to face Chagai and fell into a battle stance. "As you so often reminded me when we fought together, I'm only half-orc. I need every advantage I can get." He smiled grimly at his opponent. "So to what do I owe the displeasure of smelling your tick-ridden carcass again after all these years?"
"Unfinished business," Chagai growled.
He ran forward, broadsword raised, releasing the high-pitched cry known as the orc death scream. The sound was designed to terrify opponents so they died in fear. To an orc warrior, dying in a state of fright meant ultimate dishonor, denying one entrance to the afterlife. One's spirit would wander the world aimlessly for all eternity unseen, intangible, unable to interact with the physical world in any way. For an orc, there could be no worse fate.
Chagai, hardened warrior though he was, had always relied too much on his considerable strength and speed and not enough on skill, and the intervening years since they'd fought hadn't changed this. Ghaji sidestepped Chagai's attack easily, and the orc's broadsword whistled through empty air. Ghaji swung his axe, hoping to hit Chagai in the armpit where his armor didn't cover, but Chagai allowed the momentum of his failed strike to bring him around so that Ghaji's weapon struck his right shoulder. Again, the enchanted chain-mail protected the orc from the worst of the blow, but the impact sent him stumbling off balance. He let go of his sword and fell forward onto the earthen street.
Ghaji knew better than to give Chagai a chance to recover. He moved in for the kill.
Chagai rolled as he hit, came up on his feet, spun around, and flung his hand outward. Ghaji saw a shower of dirt coming toward his face and realized that Chagai had grabbed a handful of earth as he'd pretended to fall-a dirty trick by any standard, but an unforgivable breech of honor to an orc warrior. Ghaji tried to close his eyes and avert his face, but he was too slow. Bits of dirt and mud struck him and got in his eyes. He swung his axe in a sideways figure eight in front of him to keep Chagai away as he blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision. Tears filled his eyes, washing away the worst of the dirt, and when his vision was finally clear again, Ghaji saw that Chagai was gone. Ghaji stopped swinging his axe, though he did not douse its flame. It seemed Chagai had chosen to abandon the fight rather than slay Ghaji while he was temporarily blinded. Well, well, well. It seemed that Chagai had some small speck of honor left after all.
Then again, maybe Chagai doesn't want you to be an easy kill, Ghaji thought. Maybe he wants to make you suffer before you die.
Ghaji sighed. That sounded more like the Chagai he remembered.
With a thought, he extinguished the axe's flames and tucked the weapon handle-first into his belt. Chagai wouldn't make another try for him. Not tonight. Tonight had simply been Chagai's way of renewing their acquaintance and putting Ghaji on notice that he was being hunted. The real attack would come later, and Ghaji was almost looking forward to it. For the two of them indeed had unfinished business, and it was long past time that their account was settled.
Asenka wondered if Diran had bought her story. She was commander of the Sea Scorpions, not the city watch, and while it was within the scope of her duties to keep an eye out for Haaken and his crew in case they decided to cause more trouble tonight, walking a foot patrol of Perhata's dockside-and alone yet-wasn't exactly standard procedure. She'd returned to the vicinity of the King Prawn for one simple reason: she'd hoped to encounter Diran Bastiaan once more. Still, in order to complete the illusion that she was doing her job, she headed for the docks to check if the Coldhearts had made port once more. Assuming they hadn't, she would then head to the Scorpions' dockside quarters, open a bottle of wine, and think about why she'd done what she'd done this night.
It wasn't like her to show such obvious interest in a man, let alone do so while pretending she was acting in her official capacity. If Baron Mahir found out, he'd strip her of her command and assign her to scraping barnacles off fishing boats for the rest of her life. But Diran wasn't just any man, was he? Haaken and his crew might have been loudmouths, but they were as tough as they came. Diran and Ghaji had stood toe to toe with them without blinking… and made the Coldhearts back down. While Asenka had been impressed with Diran's courage, that alone hadn't stirred her interest in the priest. While speaking with him and his friends after the Coldhearts left the King Prawn, she'd sensed a sadness in the man, along with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his grim demeanor. It was a combination she found fascinating and, if she were to be honest with herself, irresistible.
She laughed as she neared the entrance to the docks. Look at me: Asenka, hard-bitten leader of the Sea Scorpions, acting like a love-sick child! And I've only just met the man!
Even so, she hoped Diran would remain in Perhata for a time. She'd like to see him again, though it would take some thought for her to come up with another excuse to visit the King Prawn. Maybe she could-
"I was watching you, Asenka."
The voice-a woman's-was soft, little more than a whisper, and it seemed to come from all around her. Asenka's long sword hissed as she drew it from its scabbard, and she held the weapon in front of her as she slowly turned in a circle, ready to meet an attack no matter from what direction it might come.
"Who are you?" Asenka demanded. She couldn't see anyone, but then the fog was so thick, an army could be surrounding her and she'd never know it.
The voice was louder now, more substantial somehow, though Asenka still couldn't see its owner. "Makala."
Asenka remembered that name: Diran had spoken it as she'd approached him back at the King Prawn. Foolish as it was, she'd experienced a tiny pang of jealousy that Diran's first thought as she came toward him was of another woman.
"What do you want?"
"A closer look at you. I don't blame you for showing interest in Diran. He's a fascinating man."
Makala's voice no longer seemed to be coming from all around her, but Asenka couldn't pinpoint the precise direction it did come from. One instant it seemed to be in front of her, the next behind her, off to her right then on her left. It was as if the woman were circling her, but moving so swiftly and silently that Asenka couldn't get a fix on her position. She had the eerie sensation that Makala was some sort of phantom, an ethereal presence without physical shape, but then a dark silhouette coalesced out of the fog in front of her, and Asenka could make out the woman's form.
Being able to see Makala-or at least her dim outline-allowed Asenka's boldness to return. "And you've come to tell me that he's yours, is that it?"
"He was. Once."
Asenka was surprised by the depth of sorrow in the woman's voice. Despite the situation, she found herself feeling sorry for Makala, though she wasn't quite sure why. Still, she wasn't about to relax her guard around the woman.
"And now?"
Makala didn't answer right away. "I don't know what we are to each other now, or if we can ever be anything to each other again. All I know is that I care for Diran and do not wish to see him hurt. If anyone does hurt him-for any reason-that person will have to answer to me."
Makala spoke these words calmly, but that made them all the more chilling, and Asenka had to suppress a shudder. "Brave talk from a woman hiding in the fog. Why don't you step closer so I can get a good look at you? Or are you afraid of stepping into range of my sword?"
"I'm afraid of very little anymore." Makala didn't approach, but twin pinpoints of crimson light flared within the fog, and Asenka knew she was looking at the woman's eyes. "I do not want to harm you, but remember what I said. I'll do anything to protect Diran." Her crimson eyes flashed like twin flares. "Anything."
Then, as if the woman simply melted into the fog, she was gone.
Asenka stood there for several long moments, gripping her sword in a trembling hand as she struggled to understand what she had just seen. Makala wasn't human, that was certain. She was some manner of fiend, and though she professed to care for Diran, she might in truth be a threat to him.
Asenka-her hand no longer shaking-sheathed her sword in a smooth, practiced motion.
"Seems to me that you're right," she said softly. "Diran does need protecting, but not from me."
The fog remained silent, and Asenka continued on her way to the Sea Scorpions' barracks. She was no longer contemplating having a bottle of wine, though. She intended to round up a squad of her people and keep watch on the King Prawn tonight. Just in case.