03

Niles kept his eyes open and his mouth shut as a pair of guards took him from the cell he'd awakened in. This was obviously a pretty tight spot, but he'd decided not to try anything desperate. The single most important piece of information he had, after all, was the simple fact that he'd woken up at all. That meant someone wanted him alive.

Not the law, either. He'd figured that out with his first look at the cell. He knew the inside of the Lowertown jail more intimately than he'd like. He'd been in there for brawling, public drunkenness, and one alarming accusation of theft -- a crime of which he was, fortunately and ironically, innocent on that particular occasion. Those cells had brick walls, cobblestone floors, and a barred front wall. They smelled like used booze, bum sweat, and the vinegar the watchmen used to wash down the floors. The cell he woke up in had plastered stone walls, a brick floor, and a thick wooden door. It smelled of nothing but years-old straw dust.

It was also really unnervingly goddamn quiet here. The only sounds he'd heard for an hour after waking were the ones he'd made.

All that made a lot more sense when the guards came. They were definitely not city watch. Much too healthy and clean and disciplined. Not mob thugs, either, for the same reason. Their attitude was wrong, too. Thugs would've tried to scare him; coppers would've been bored, maybe a little indulgent since he hadn't caused them any trouble. These fellows didn't seem to have any opinion on Niles at all, except that they wanted him to come out of the cell and walk ahead of them down a hallway.

He guessed they might be the household troops of some rich family. There was no badge or crest on their brown leather coats, but that could be a good sign. The less Niles knew, the more likely he was to walk out of here alive.

The hallway outside the cell didn't look like a prison, dungeon, or madhouse, which improved his mood even further. Most of the other rooms they passed had open doors or none, and contained crates, barrels, shelves of sacks and jars and stuff. The room he woke up in was definitely a cell, but apparently his captors only had the one. Maybe it was normal for nobs to have a cell in the cellar. In case they caught servants stealing the silver or something.

Up a narrow stone stair, through a short hall that smelled like cooking, up another stair that was just as narrow but wooden and much longer. A servants' stair from the kitchen to the nobs' part of the house, he guessed, because it let out into a wide wood-panelled corridor with a carpeted floor and big windows on either end. He didn't get to look out a window to get his bearings, though, because their destination was only a couple doors down.

He'd seen big rooms and messy rooms, but never a messy room this big. His first impression was of wall-to-wall garbage, and he wondered if someone tossed the place. But as his guards nudged him forward, he began to make sense of it. There was method to the madness, and the junk wasn't garbage. It was wizard stuff, he guessed. The shelves and worktables were overflowing with books and papers, jars and bottles, alchemical glassware, intricate brass doodads, and stuff he couldn't identify. Though all the windows were open, there was still an intense smell of... he didn't know what. Herbs, potions, decay, dust, chemicals. It wasn't a bad smell exactly, but it wasn't something you'd bottle for perfume.

Someone was standing at one of the worktables. Niles couldn't see him very well because of the bright window beyond. The figure gestured vaguely. The guards apparently knew what the gesture meant, because they propelled Niles toward a heavy wooden chair set a little apart from the mess.

There were canvas straps nailed to the arms and front two legs of the chair, and to the back of it where a person's neck would be. Despite himself, Niles balked. He didn't like the look of those.

The guards took him by the arms, picked him up, and set him in the chair. The end of his braid got caught under his butt; he wriggled to get it loose while they fastened the wrist straps. To his great relief, they didn't bother with the neck or ankles. Then they moved to flank him.

After a few moments, the figure in front of the windows moved as if recollecting himself from elsewhere, and cleared his throat. "That will be all, gentlemen. I don't need you."

The guards left. The door shut. The figure went back to whatever he was doing. Niles studied the straps around his wrists. They were pretty tight. He wasn't going anywhere. Not that he guessed he would if he had the option. He wanted to know what was going on marginally more than he wanted to get back to the Salty Serpent and find out who slipped him a doctored drink. Providing he survived item one on his list, though, item two was definitely next. He'd paid for a whore and then passed out before she did more than sit on his lap and giggle, and that was simply not all right.

Eventually, the quiet got to be too much. He said hopefully, "Hello."

The figure made that oops-I-was-miles-away startle again. "Oh. Yes. Hello. I'll be with you in a moment."

"Er... all right." Niles thought about that. "What for?"

The man by the window didn't answer. He measured drops of something into something else, then stirred it with a glass rod. He was getting to be easier to see as Niles's eyes adjusted. The man was tallish for a southerner, though not as tall as Niles. Kind of skinny. He had glasses; Niles could see the gleam when he turned his head. His head was adorned with a halo of fine frizz; either his hair was curly and coming out of its queue, or it was very short and thin.

Looking at the bright window was starting to hurt Niles's eyes. He looked away, blinking to make the vivid purple window-shape go away. "My name is Niles," he ventured.

"Mm," was all the figure said. Niles gave up.

Minutes passed. After a while Niles began to pass the time by making himself burp. There was a trick to it. It was no good just swallowing air, you had to hold it in your throat a certain way to get the good, deep, burbling belches. When he was younger he could burp entire songs, but he'd let himself get rusty.

He hadn't been doing this long when the man came out from behind the worktable and came to stand in front of Niles. Once he was away from the window, Niles could see his expression, and it was baffled.

"Good gods, boy, what did you eat?"

Niles tried to burp the word 'nothing', but it was unintelligable. He laughed. "Didn't you learn to burp on purpose when you were a kid?"

"No. It doesn't strike me as a particularly useful skill." The man grabbed a chair for himself and sat down. He had a small cup in his hand, which he set on the nearest table. "At least you're not frightened. That's a pleasant change."

The bespectacled man was younger than Niles had expected, given the wizardly clutter. Probably not even thirty. His middling brown hair was indeed curly and coming out of its queue, making ringlets around his expressionless face. That face was neither handsome or ugly, the kind one can never remember later. The eyes behind his thick, round spectacles were some muddy color, hazel or green maybe, not dark enough to be brown. He was dressed like a respectable tradesman; clean, well-fitting coat and trousers of grayish-blue twill, rather wrinkled linen shirt, neckcloth coming untied. His shoes were broken-in and scuffed.

This, clearly, was not the owner of the house. So he was working for the owner of the house. His work involved wizard clutter, people tied to chairs, and stuff in a cup. Niles craned to try to see what was in the cup. "Is that a potion to turn me into a monster? Are you going to do magical experiments on me?"

The man gave a startled laugh. "You sound so eager! I'm sorry to have to tell you no. Once I've finished questioning you on my employer's behalf, though, I'll try to get him to give you to me. Then we can do experiments."

"What kind?"

"Medical, I'm afraid, not magical. Your unusual healing abilities can be very helpful to science."

"Do I get paid?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "I'm increasingly certain you're either a lunatic or an idiot. You do realize I'm proposing to do you physical harm in order to observe your recovery process?"

Niles shrugged happily. "I do that myself. It'd be right handy to get paid for it. So let's get the questions out of the way!" He gave the man a big smile to show willing.

The man's big, hearty laugh made him look even younger. Mid-twenties, maybe. He struck Niles as the sort of guy who'd be fun to be friends with. Full of weird trivia facts and witticisms. Niles hoped the research-subject job was for real. There was a lot he wanted to know about his unique physiognomy, and trying to figure it out himself had limits.

"In just a moment," the man said, picking up the cup to swirl it gently. He sniffed it and set it back down. "I find the serum's side effects are less severe if I let it breathe for ten or fifteen minutes before administering it."

"Serum?"

"I call it 'chatter juice'," the man said apologetically. "Silly name, I know. It makes you talkative and removes your inhibitions. Perhaps a little unethical, but far easier to stomach than torture, and more effective too. Cooperative as you seem, I still have to warn you: if you spit it out, I won't give the second batch time to breathe, and your hangover when it wears off will be the stuff of epics."

"Okay." Niles shrugged again. "What's your name? I'm Niles Brentwood."

"Doctor Sevastyen Welling," the man said. "I'd shake your hand, but you're strapped down." He sniffed the cup again, and what he smelled must have satisfied him, for he stood and circled wide around the chair to approach from the side-rear. If Niles had been thinking of kicking, it wouldn't have done him any good.

Niles had no objection to any of these proceedings, though, and opened his mouth like a baby bird. Curiosity trumped self-preservation, as always. He gulped the serum down, then shook his head and whuffed a breath at the burn of it. It tasted like amateur moonshine and earwax. When he was done wincing and coughing, he gave the good doctor a sideways, squinting smirk. "Smooth."

"Yes, it's dreadful, I know," Sevastyen said as he resumed his seat. "I apologize. While we wait for it to take effect, I suppose I may as well explain the situation. I've no doubt you're completely in the dark, since you're not the man we're looking for."

"Oh." Niles wasn't sure whether that was good or bad. "Then why question me?"

"Just in case. I do have to go through the process. And the best evidence against you being our target, I only have because my employer did something stupid. That's not the sort of thing I can point out to him."

"Stupid like what?"

"He left you alone in a cell with your hands free, then had you fetched by ordinary guards. The man we're looking for would've been halfway to town with the boss's lockbox by now."

Niles grinned. "I bet I'd like him."

"For the rest, you don't quite fit the descriptions I have of the fellow. Granted, eyewitness accounts are of questionable reliability in any case, but I've collected a number of them and compiled the commonalities, so I think I have a fairly clear picture." He spread his fingers as if to count on them, but laced them on his knee instead. "You do fit the most unusual criteria, which is why you're here. You're pale and don't sunburn, you heal quickly and don't scar, and you're a thief."

"Am not," Niles protested indignantly, just for form's sake. Then he opened his mouth to correct himself, but just barely managed to shut it before any words escaped.

Sevastyen chuckled at his expression. "Starting to work, is it? Give it a few more minutes. Anyway, despite all that, I'm almost certain you're not our man. The few accounts that gave eye color said blue or gray; yours are brown. Our man is tall enough that he has to duck through doorways; you're taller than average, but I doubt you've ever brained yourself on a lintel. He was a full grown man two years ago, whereas you're -- what, eighteen?"

"Seventeen for another couple months."

"Yes. You'd have been obviously a child back then. Oh, and the most recent information I have about his hair is that he cut it above his shoulders, but yours obviously hasn't seen a scissors since you were, what, ten? It really is ridiculous, you should have it trimmed."

Niles wrinkled his nose. "I don't like haircuts. If I do it myself I bugger it up, and if I get someone else to do it they always take too much. I don't trust anyone near my hair with anything sharp. You never know what they're going to do. When I was a kid one of my friends tried to shave my head while I was sleeping and goddamn near scalped me. I woke up bleeding with my head all drafty, and you should've heard me scream bloody murder! I went bawling down the street like I was on fire --" He finally realized he was babbling, and choked it off. He guessed if he opened his mouth to point out that the serum was working, he'd go on for an hour about it, so he just grimaced and stuck out his tongue.

"Yes, you're nearly ready," Sevastyen chuckled. "Feeling all right otherwise? Headache, nausea, tremors? No? Good. How long have you lived in Verdichane?"

Niles tried to keep his teeth together for a few moments more, but it was getting harder by the second. And besides, since he clearly wasn't the one they were looking for, talking would only be to the good. It would give Sevastyen the confirmation he needed and then they could move on to the research stuff which had better pay at least something because without girls and grog there was no point in living.

"Some people would disagree on that point, but yes, you'll be paid," Sevastyen said graciously, and Niles realized he must've said at least some of that out loud.

"Jabber juice is better. That's alliteration. Jabber juice, chatter cordial, tincture of talksalot... um... flapjaw... something... word for drink that starts with F?"

"How long have you lived in Verdichane?"

"All my life. Mum had a store on Link Street. Antiques and pawnshop and curiosities, kind of thing. I still live there, but I closed up the shop. I don't wanna sit in a shop all day. She liked it, but she was crazy. One day when I was sixteen she just up and left. Normal mothers don't do that, right? And she wouldn't tell me who my father was, she just said I'd come into my power when I meet him. What power? She wouldn't tell me that either. And then she left. Just like that. It isn't fair. I don't even know where she went." He was sniffling now, on the verge of tears. On one level he was aware how strange that was, because Niles wasn't the crying type. But at the same time, it just felt so incredibly good to spill it, he couldn't hold back.

Sevastyen asked his question three times before Niles heard it: "Have you ever done burglary for hire?"

"Nuh-uh. I don't think so. No. Burglary is just houses, right? And robbery's taking by force, and thievery's taking by sneak. Sneakery. Snievery theakery."

"Are you the thief known as Ghost Wolf?"

Niles giggled. "I wish. That's a great name. Can I have it? Is that who you're looking for? When you find him I want to meet him. I bet he's gloomy and full of himself and practices his pithy ominous depressing sayings in a mirror --"

"Have you ever stolen a book of magic?"

"Nope. Wait. No, I tell a lie. When I was -- I think I was eleven? Twelve? It was 'A Beginning Course In Thaumaturgic Runes' and the guy wouldn't sell it to me so I distracted him and nipped it. First year Rule textbook, I think. I memorized maybe two runes and then my mom found it and oh man did I get a beating --"

"How old are you now?"

"I told you, seventeen until --"

"How long have you lived in Verdichane?"

"You already asked that. And I told you about my Mum and I cried. That was so, so weird. Oh wait, but I didn't tell you years. But I said all my life. Which is almost eighteen years. In Lowertown. I could show you my Mum's shop. Well, mine now, I guess, though I just live there, I closed the shop part. Wait, I already told you this!"

"I need to repeat the questions a few times to be sure. Relax. Have you ever done burglary for hire?"

"No. I hardly do anything for hire. Mostly I gamble. I'm very lucky. And I have clever fingers. Hey, this other fellow who heals fast like me, if you catch him, can I talk to him? I never met another one before. He stole a magic book from your boss, huh? What're you going to do to him when you catch him?"

"I'll ask him these same questions. Aside from the textbook, have you ever stolen any other magical books?"

"No way, Mum would've killed me if she caught me with another one. I wonder why. You'd think she'd at least want to know if it'd be worth sending me to the Rule, right? Did you go there?"

"I'm not a wizard; I'm a physician-alchemist. Are you the thief known as Ghost Wolf?"

Niles burst out laughing. He laughed so hard his stomach hurt. Sevastyen waited patiently. When the laughter was over, though, the doctor started the questions over yet again. Niles's answers wandered farther and farther into rambling tangents. He hardly even knew what he was saying anymore. He just relaxed and let his mouth run, enjoying the feeling. This jabber-juice stuff sure gave you one hell of a buzz. He guessed he'd drink it just for that, even if nobody wanted to listen to him talk.

He told Sevastyen that too.

* * *

When he heard the door open, Sevastyen didn't turn away from the babbling boy in the chair right away; he needed a moment to smother his laughter. His employer's throat-clearing demanded his attention before he was quite ready. He turned around with two fingers pressed over his mouth, trying to make it look like thoughtfulness rather than a stifled giggle-fit.

Lord Cowlen waited with his hands clasped behind his back and his brows knit. He was far too well-bred to do something like tap his foot, but his impatience was palpable. Sevastyen took a deep breath, knowing he'd better speak whether he was ready or not, but before he could, his ears caught the boy's commentary on this new development, and he had to press his lips tight to keep from laughing out loud.

"-- polish your head with wax to get it so shiny? When I get old and bald, if I go bald when I'm old, I'm absolutely going to wax my head. This is your house, right? I could tell it's not his house right away because his shoes are scuffly. Always look at the shoes. Those are some pretty expensive shoes. It's weird that you go bald on your head but not your face. If you could move your beard up on your head -- no, I guess that would look pretty silly after all --"

Niles broke off as Lord Cowlen stormed over and took hold of the front of his shirt. "What did you do with my book?" he demanded.

Mirth forgotten, Sevastyen hurried to claim Lord Cowlen's attention before the man could decide to begin an interrogation of his own, one bloodier and less productive than Sevastyen's. "Sir, he's not our man," Sevastyen said, talking over the boy's ramble about various books they could possibly be talking about.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course he is. There can't be two men who fit that description."

Of course there can, and it's not even all that unlikely. When will you learn that pronouncing things in that commanding tone of voice doesn't make them true? Sevastyen did not, naturally, express his thoughts aloud. Instead he gave an apologetic smile and began to steer Cowlen away from the prisoner's noise. "The truth is, this boy's not a very good fit for the description we compiled." The description I compiled with no help from you. "First of all, he's much too young. He would have been a child when your book was stolen."

"And who's to say a child didn't steal it, hm? Don't they often use boys of fourteen or so as thieves? Slippery little buggers, get into tight spots like cats." Cowlen clearly believed he'd scored a logical point.

"True, but we have witness accounts from back then which say the thief was a tall man in his mid-twenties."

Cowlen harrumphed, and if he were a younger man his expression would've been termed a sulk. After a moment he let it go, though. "You questioned him anyway, of course."

"Of course. For the sake of thoroughness. He hasn't the faintest clue what we're talking about. He's simply a pickpocket and card-sharp who happens to have whatever quality makes one heal scars. For all we know, that quality automatically confers white skin and black hair, so even the partial match in appearance means little."

"But he does heal scars?"

"So your agents say, sir. I haven't tested it yet, but the boy admits to it. He's as eager to be tested as I am to test him. Very curious about himself." He made the mistake of glancing at Niles, and had to press fingers to his mouth again; Niles was trying to talk with his hands, and this resulted in a lot of very silly flapping and finger-wiggling. They were always so funny when they got to this stage.

Cowlen cleared his throat warningly. "If you're lying to me simply so I'll give you that boy as a plaything, Welling..."

Sevastyen speared him with a glare, laughter forgotten. "If you believe me a liar," he said icily, "then we can terminate my contract right here, right now. I'll take my severance pay and you can find another alchemist. Shall we summon a lawyer, sir?"

"Oh for pity's sake." Cowlen waved the subject away, covering embarrassment with a scowl. "Very well. Do what you like with him. But don't flaunt your vices in front of the staff, or I'll have him disposed of. And keep searching for the thief."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Sevastyen bowed mildly, hoping the throbbing vein in his forehead wasn't too prominent. He kept his eyes on the floor until he heard the door close. Then he glanced up at Niles and let his annoyance show.

Niles pulled a pretend-frightened face. "Ooh, you look mad. He's a bit of a bastard, ain't he? What'd he mean about vices? I don't bend that way, all right? I mean it. I'll kick."

"Oh, hush," Sevastyen murmured as he approached the chair. "He's just talking nonsense."

"Don't even try anything. I'll bite it off." He looked so comically fierce, Sevastyen's good humor couldn't help but recover a bit.

"You've nothing to fear," Sevastyen chuckled as he began to undo the straps. "Well, as long as you're not afraid of assisting my research, which you doesn't seem to bother you in the slightest." He finished freeing Niles's wrists and offered him a hand up. Niles looked at it suspiciously, then took it. Sevastyen looped the boy's arm around his shoulders and helped him lurch along. "There you go, let's get you settled somewhere you can sleep it off. Once your head's clear, we'll draw up a contract for you, and I'll have someone fetch your things."

Niles just grunted.

"Wearing off, is it? Well, you'll have one hell of a headache soon, but the good news is that you'll probably sleep through it. Not much farther now. Here you are..." He nudged open the door to his bedroom.

"Hey." Niles balked weakly. "I'll try anything once, but not with you."

"Thanks awfully," Sevastyen sighed, exasperated. He scooped Niles up and carried him the rest of the way. The boy outweighed him by a fair bit, and Sevastyen wasn't accustomed to heavy lifting, but it was only a few steps. He dropped Niles onto the bed, briskly hauled his boots off, and flipped a coverlet over him. "There's water on the nightstand. You'll want it. If you get up," he added warningly, "I'll send you back to the cellar."

Niles froze with one leg off the bed, considering.

"Lords and Ladies, boy, I'm not going to molest you. I'm going to lock you in here and go back to work. But if you'd rather be an ungrateful brat, you can sleep on a pile of straw on the floor, I don't care, it's up to you."

"No, this is fine," Niles said quickly, snuggling guiltily under the coverlet.

"That's what I thought," Sevastyen smiled sweetly. He went out and locked the door. He doubted Niles wanted to escape -- he'd remained enamored of the experimental-subject idea even after the drug took hold -- but it would look sloppy to have him wandering about.

This is good, right? he thought as he returned to his workroom. I have a chance to study this unusual physiognomy. Not to mention all the things I can learn from having a volunteer who's willing to be injured and let me observe the healing process. But...

It's not him. He's not the one. It's immature of me to be impatient, I know, but I'm so tired of waiting.

Soon.

He stopped, shivering. It was always terribly unnerving when that voice spoke to him directly.

He'd first begun to receive guidance from a mysterious force in his teens, when he was still a student. He'd been afraid he was going crazy, even though it hadn't been speaking in words yet. Just feelings, hints, images, enough to nudge him in the direction it wanted him to turn. That direction had always been beneficial to him in the end, so he'd grown to mostly trust it. Mostly.

Naturally he'd still had himself checked for ghosts by a reputable priest. It would've been stupid not to. But the voice was no ghost. His best theory was that it was a god. Most likely Ehu of the Silences. That mysterious divinity was said to be fond of scholars.

Lately, though, he'd begun to doubt his theory. The Pantheon were said to be inalterably opposed to any kind of messing about with the dead, and though the voice had persuaded him that didn't apply to using cadavers to study anatomy -- an opinion the law didn't share -- would a god really encourage him to take a contract with a necromancer simply to gain access to those cadavers?

And this business with the man who'd stolen Cowlen's book... he couldn't make sense of it. Some weeks ago, the voice had suggested that he remind Cowlen of the issue and set some agents searching for the thief. It had hinted that when Sevastyen found the man, he'd find his direction in life, his purpose for being.

His informants reported, almost unanimously, that the thief was tremendously handsome, and that he operated out of a place called the Captain's Ashes, which catered to a certain type of gentleman. Sevastyen wanted to believe that meant he and the thief would... that the thief would... he felt silly for even thinking about it. And Cowlen was bound to kill the fellow anyway.

Still, he hoped. Kicking himself for it all the while.

How soon?

He waited, but there was no answer.

* * *

Heghar Ared was just as surprised to be beating his wife as his wife was to be beaten. This meant their reactions were a little off.

Oh, the rage was real enough. And his certainty that she was cheating on him with the butcher, that was real too. But Heghar was accustomed, when angry, to find himself trembling and indecisive. Until tonight, he would have thought that, should he discover his wife to be unfaithful, he would die on the spot, wishing her happiness with his last breath. Even had he been, by nature, inclined to violence, he would never have expected to find himself bruising his precious hands on someone's skull. He was a master luthier, and now his fingers would be useless for days, incapable of applying tiny inlays of shell to the neck of a guitar, would glop the finish of the lute that was waiting for a final coat of varnish.

His wife Umai, for her part, was known to the town as a hot-tempered firebrand. She gave podium-pounding speeches on morality and the dangers of drink at temple meetings. She had arms like tree roots from mixing varnishes and sanding wood. She had never once suffered anyone, not even her own father, to raise a hand to her. She was baffled to find herself weeping and begging for mercy like some opium-eating harlot being punished by her pimp -- and, deep in a locked room at the center of her mind, she was furious.

Nevertheless Heghar beat her, and she suffered herself to be beaten, because Jaceth willed it.

They couldn't see him. They had never seen him, though he'd been living in their house for several days now. Before that, he'd been living with the mayor, but making the wealthy man do strange things with his money had grown dull, and Jaceth had decided to experience domestic disharmony instead. Since the only couple in town already inclined to hitting fights was old and feeble, he preferred to make a new one. He'd chosen Heghar and Umai because he liked the smell of resin that filled their house.

He'd intended to make this play last longer. There was an alcove just off the kitchen that suited him perfectly; dark but clean, and no one went into it even before he arrived, so it wasn't hard to prevent anyone from running into him by accident. But Stiaan was coming, so he'd stepped up the schedule.

He hadn't decided yet whether Heghar would beat his wife to death. On the one hand, it would be a nice, dramatic ending to their story. On the other, he rather liked the idea of leaving them confused and justifying themselves. It would be a sort of experiment. He wanted to see whether they went on fighting like this, convinced that they were the sort of people who did so. It would depend, he supposed, on whether he remained here after Stiaan was dealt with.

As he pondered this, there was a knock at the door. Jaceth was so startled, he didn't even try to give them reactions in character, but let them stare at each other in dismay. There wasn't supposed to be a knock at the door; he couldn't sense anyone outside.

Just as he realized what must have happened, the door opened and Stiaan stepped in.

Of course; knowing Jaceth might fight him, Stiaan had displaced his presence, seeming to be much farther away than he was. That was like Stiaan.

But as Stiaan bowed a suave apology to the baffled couple, Jaceth began to be offended at the differences in him. He wasn't playing his part. Where was the diamond glitter, where was the floating cloud of ankle-length hair, where was the disregard for petty mortal concerns? Why did he have a mortal follower stepping into the house after him, an insolent mortal follower who couldn't keep his mouth shut in deference to the ancient Mara?

"Don't tell me he's one of those folks," the mortal said in Semnian, black brows knit, scratching at his grimy neck. "At least, he's sure not her."

"No," Stiaan said, turning to where Jaceth stood. And then, to Jaceth's horror, he actually rolled his eyes and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and said, in common-sounding, colloquial Darathi, "Come out of there, you creepy little voyeur. You've played with these people enough."

Jaceth hated it when people didn't follow the script.

The Areds gasped as Jaceth let go of the injunction to ignore him, and they saw him seemingly appear in the middle of their kitchen from thin air. The next breaths they took, Heghar began praying and Umai screamed. No doubt they thought Jaceth an undead thing, a vampire or a ghost; the blue-white tint of his skin looked very much like corpse pallor. He was dressed all in pale gray; his hands were covered with silk gloves; his black hair was punished for its tendency to curl by being oiled back into a tight queue; his eyes were like coals, scarlet and sullen.

"You're early," he whispered.

Stiaan's mortal gave a jerk and aborted a motion to reach for the swords strapped to his back. "Whoa," he said uncertainly. "Where'd you come from?"

Stiaan said, "Never mind that. We're leaving." He paused. When Jaceth didn't move, Stiaan's pale blue eyes flashed like ice in the sun, and his face went hard. "Now!" he snapped, and finally Jaceth began to feel that the script hadn't been abandoned entirely.

He drifted toward his maker, paused, decided to save his speech for when they reached whatever place Stiaan had chosen as their battleground. Drifted past and out the door. As he went by the mortal, he smelled, among the usual mortal stenches, and the reek of horse and leather and dust, a hint of Mara. So this was the halfbreed? Another disappointment.

The halfbreed followed him out. He heard Stiaan spellcasting, felt the wash of power as the elder Mara erased Jaceth's meddling from the couple's minds before following as well. Now Jaceth was beginning to be really angry.

The little town of Gyrivel was silent, its streets empty in the afternoon light; no doubt the neighbors were listening for another scream, or something to explain it. The air was cool, the street and house walls warm, the sun sinking redly toward the mountains. Jaceth turned to see where Stiaan would lead him, but Stiaan made no move to leave.

"Do you mean to do this in the street?" Jaceth whispered in disbelief.

After a moment's pause, Stiaan said wearily, "I suppose not. You intend to fight me, then."

"Of course."

"Choose your ground."

This was more like it. Jaceth started up the street toward the hill that overlooked the town.

* * *

Stiaan thumped Kastor on the shoulder and said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"What?"

He realized he'd spoken Darathi. "Sorry," he said in Semnian. "I said I'll be back."

"I'll come along. Unless he's liable to start throwing fireballs?"

"No. Even if he had the power, he hasn't the temperament." Hands clasped behind his back, Stiaan started strolling in the direction Jaceth had gone, and Kastor fell into step beside him. "This is just a gesture. He knows he can't win, so he has to make his defeat something epic. Or tragic," he added after a moment's thought. "He might think he can make me hurt him. He'd probably enjoy nursing a sense of injustice for a few decades."

"How long will you bind him for?"

"A long time," Stiaan said firmly. "I think I'll begin with a hundred years. And if that isn't time enough to straighten out his twist, I'll bind him a hundred more, and a hundred more, until I know he's over that." He gestured back at the house they'd left.

"What was that, anyway?"

"I've no idea. He'd put some kind of suggestion in those people's minds, but I didn't take the time to analyze it. I just broke it. And planted one of my own, convincing them their strange behavior was caused by a ghost. They'll spend money on an unnecessary exorcism, but it was all I could think of."

"He just appeared out of nowhere. Scared the shit out of me."

"He was there all along, but he tricked your mind into ignoring him. Mind-magic of that sort is his specialty. He used to play his little games with the other vishira; he's strong enough to work his will on an unwary Mara, so mortals don't stand a chance."

Kastor nodded sagely. "So that's --" He paused to half-hop and curse under his breath as his heel skidded on gravel at the foot of the steep path that wound up the hill. He was tired from walking desert roads in black clothes and leather armor. He didn't cope well with even moderate heat.

"You don't have to come along."

"No, I want to." Watching the road more carefully, Kastor went on with his interrupted thought. "That's why Serifar was scared of him. He mentioned erasing some kind of nastiness from his mind."

"Oh yes, he did like to terrorize Serifar. Poor thing. Serifar was especially vulnerable to Jaceth's manipulations. The others learned to protect themselves, more or less, but he got Serifar every time. And then Serifar would cry like a baby, when he saw what he'd done, whatever Jaceth had made him do, and come running to me to tattle. I got so damned sick of it, I sent Jaceth away again, even though I'd said I wouldn't."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, he's one of the oldest. The second oldest, now that I think of it. The second one I made. And the first I sent away. He annoyed me with his prodding and tinkering at all my wards and set-spells. He came back a few years later, all remorse and obedience. It's not that I fell for it, so much as that I didn't give a damn. The demon had its roots deep into me by then, and I was less inclined to prevent trouble, more inclined to punish it after the fact."

They reached the top of the hill. The rocky ground was bare of vegetation, wind-scoured. Jaceth stood at the center of the bare area, gloved hands laced before him. As Stiaan approached, Jaceth bowed slightly, like a duelist. He had the setting sun behind him. He'd placed himself for dramatic effect.

"I always knew you would come to match wills with me one day, Stiaan. I think you will find me a stronger opponent than you expect. Your arrogance has always been your weak spot, and this time --"

Stiaan interrupted his rehearsed-sounding speech with an arrow of will straight to the soul. And that should have been that.

But it wasn't.

Jaceth grunted and grimaced, wavering, but he resisted the binding. His defenses bowed, but they held.

Frowning, Stiaan poured more power into the attack. Again, the walls of Jaceth's mind shuddered, but again they held fast. Still more power, and more, and still Stiaan made no progress --

And suddenly, in a wash of mental vertigo, Stiaan understood what had happened. But it was too late to disengage. As the knowlege of his error dawned on his face, he saw Jaceth start to smile.

* * *

As Jaceth started babbling, Kastor found himself a comfortable boulder to perch on, because it sounded like the creepy fellow was going to go on all night. Stiaan didn't let him, though; interrupted him mid-rant. Kastor was grateful. He composed himself crosslegged to wait out the inevitable vishir-acting-crazy-and-Stiaan-soothing-him.

Long seconds passed, and the two of them were still just staring at each other.

Kastor cocked his head curiously. That hadn't happened before. Maybe the blue guy was actually giving Stiaan a bit of trouble. Interesting. It was kind of nice, though, that someone was finally giving him a fight; a fitting cap to the long task, something to make the satisfaction at its completion more palpable. He wondered whether Stiaan would see it that way.

When they were still staring at each other after ten minutes, Kastor finally began to wonder if something was wrong. He decided to walk around for a better look -- not closer, in case that disturbed Stiaan's concentration, but to a different angle, somewhere he could see the expression on Stiaan's face. When he got down off the boulder, he froze: the ground was vibrating, he could feel it through the soles of his feet.

The vibration increased. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, and then hear it, the very air shuddering. Dust began to snake around his ankles, jumping with the thrumming of the ground.

It seemed impossible that Stiaan could be in trouble; Kastor stood there for a while, not quite believing it, not wanting to interfere, to panic, to be seen panicking, Stiaan would mock him for it later. But when he heard his own thoughts, he wanted to kick himself for hesitating. Like I care if he laughs -- what if this is serious? He drew his swords and began circling around behind Jaceth.

When he saw Stiaan's face, he wished he'd acted sooner. The white Mara was sweating, teeth gritted, and the blue one was smiling. Something was definitely happening that Stiaan hadn't expected. Kastor crossed his swords in front of him to block stray sorceries, and darted at Jaceth. Even an attack that didn't succeed in hurting him could break his focus.

An egg-sized rock shot off the ground and cracked Kastor right between the eyes.

He stumbled, shaking his head, half-stunned. He hadn't expected that. And neither Jaceth's expression nor Stiaan's had changed, which was another thing he hadn't expected; apparently throwing rocks didn't disturb Jaceth's concentration at all.

Now I know. So he can throw rocks. Big deal. Fighting to make his eyes work properly, Kastor came in again, more warily this time.

It didn't do any good. Another rock flew at him, this one the size of two fists, and though he dodged out of its path, it jinked in midair and slammed into his side so hard his feet left the ground. He fell sprawled at Stiaan's feet. He kept hold of his swords, though one arm was buzzing and half-numb, but it knocked the wind out of him, and it felt like it might have broken a couple of ribs.

As he fought to restart his lungs, waves of power shuddered through him, made his hair stand up and his skin prickle. He was between them. Their contest of wills threatened to shake him apart. In the shred of his mind that was still working, he understood that he was hindering instead of helping, and he had to get out of there, but he couldn't move well enough. With his chest still hitching for breath that wouldn't come, he thrashed to get up, to scramble out of the way. He couldn't get his legs under him. His muscles wouldn't obey him.

And then there was silence. The sense of power went abruptly flat. The ground stopped humming. Kastor looked up at Stiaan and saw anguish in his face.

Jaceth began to laugh, very quietly.

Stiaan sank slowly to his knees. He was sweat-drenched and trembling, gray-faced. His eyes locked with Kastor's, and he shook his head slightly. Kastor finally gasped, filling his burning lungs, and with his first breath he said, "What happened?"

It was Jaceth who answered. "I've won, halfbreed. That's what's happened. I've bound him who would have bound me. He is mine now, as I was once his, to do with as I please."

Kastor couldn't take his eyes off Stiaan's face. The expression there was wrong. It was just wrong for Stiaan to look like that. Gritting his teeth at the pain in his ribs, Kastor levered himself up to kneeling, and asked again. "Stiaan, what's happening?"

In a voice hushed with disbelief, Stiaan said, "I'm so stupid. Kas, I'm so stupid, I'm so sorry."

"What --"

"Stupid, Stiaan?" Jaceth's footsteps crunched on the dust as he came two steps nearer. "No, I think you were just overconfident. And you must admit our trap was subtle. You didn't smell a hint of it, did you?"

Kastor finally turned to look. He bared his teeth at the young Mara's smug look. "Our trap?" he demanded.

"Mine and Rema's," Jaceth smiled.

Stiaan murmured, "Rema fed him power, used him as a conduit -- oh hell, Kas, you have to run, run to -- or --" He faltered, realizing, as Kastor did, that there was nowhere to run.

Kastor's heart slammed his chest. Prickles rushed over his skin, his fingertips and face felt hot, and all the places where Rema had hurt him suddenly burned cold. The ruagh feaheledd rushed screaming into his head, all teeth and eyes, and as it came he bid himself goodbye, because if there was a way out of this, going blood-mad on Rema's puppet wasn't it.

* * *

Mind dull with despair, Stiaan watched Kastor launch himself like a black whirlwind on Jaceth. If he's lucky, a quick death... He couldn't finish the thought. He should've known better than to get attached to a mortal. At least he wouldn't feel the end of their brief friendship. Soon he would hate the head-blindness that came with binding, but right now it was a blessing.

At first it looked as if Kastor would win. Which would not be a good outcome -- wiser to fall on his sword -- but the Kyri was clearly in no condition to make decisions. His face was distorted with fury. Blood flew as he sliced at Jaceth's blue-pale flesh; a couple of fingers fell and rolled in the dust. Then Jaceth recovered from his surprise, and the stones rose up.

It took three solid cracks to the head to knock Kastor down. Eyes rolling wildly, half stunned, Kastor still managed to throw one of his swords in Jaceth's general direction. Jaceth, snarling, gestured up another rain of stones and slammed them down on Kastor's arms. There was a crunching of bone among the thuds. Kastor keened through clenched teeth, trying to curl around his hands. Jaceth lifted another batch of stones.

"Stop," Stiaan whispered. He'd meant to yell.

The stones hammered Kastor's legs. Kastor howled. He fumbled out one of his throwing knives and dropped it; his fingers were broken.

"Stop." Unable to raise his voice, Stiaan lurched to his feet and stumbled toward Kastor, with the simpleminded goal of shielding him with his body. He realized this would do no good, had the idea of taking that fumbled knife and cutting Kastor's throat instead to spare him torture -- never mind whatever curse the key might put on him, it couldn't be worse than letting Rema get hold of the thing -- but Jaceth gestured and Stiaan flew back.

"If you kill that mortal," said Rema's voice from somewhere beyond Stiaan's frame of vision, "I'll dissect you alive and hang you on my wall."

"I've only stunned him," Jaceth answered tightly. He was holding his injured hand under his arm. He gestured with the other, beckoning back the stones that lay around Kastor. Kastor was trying to pull himself toward the nearest of his swords, keening in his throat with the pain the effort brought. Jaceth poised a stone over him. "I hate that noise. He won't die from having his head knocked again, will he?"

"Don't risk it. Just cripple him." Rema strolled into view, watching with a satisfied little smile as the stones pummeled Kastor's legs again.

Stiaan could hardly move; it felt like his own weight was crushing him. He gathered a desperate breath. "Rema. You can't do this."

Rema turned to him, lips quirking, bemused. "Can't? Really?" He gestured to indicate that he'd already obviously done it.

"If you give one of Telar's keys to Astaria... the gods' covenant..." He had to stop to breathe.

Rema shrugged, smiling brightly. "Don't care!" He turned his back on Stiaan and strolled over to Kastor. Squatting on his heels, he lifted the man's head by the hair. After a moment he let it fall with a disappointed noise. "He's fainted."

"He's alive, though," Jaceth said defensively.

"I wanted to tell him something." Rema dusted off his hands. "Oh well. He'll figure it out. Bring Stiaan. And don't forget your fingers. I'll join you once I've delivered him."

"Delivered --?" Stiaan tried again to get to his feet, and this time managed to make it to hands and knees even against the pressure of Jaceth's magic. "To whom?"

Rema, gesturing Kastor's armor off him with little flicks of his fingers, didn't answer. Jaceth's legs blocked Stiaan's view the next moment.

Jaceth squatted on his heels, holding his fingers to their stumps while they healed, and tilted his head to catch Stiaan's eye. His expression was a cold parody of tenderness as he whispered, "Can you imagine what it feels like to be discarded by your creator? Can you imagine what other people feel at all? This is your own fault, Stiaan. Father of your own doom." He experimentally flexed his fingers, then touched Stiaan's face with them, smearing the grit and sweat there.

Stiaan couldn't meet his glare. "I know," he choked. "Rema will still betray you."

"It won't hurt when he does it," Jaceth spat. Standing, he lifted Stiaan by the shirt and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

As Jaceth carried him away, Stiaan craned for a last sight of Kastor, but he couldn't turn that far. Delivered to whom? Whatever they have planned, it can't be anything but hideous. I should hope his injuries are worse than they think. I should hope he dies without waking.

It was an ugly thing to hope for, but it wasn't as if he could have any hopes for himself. Stiaan had no illusions about what Rema intended for him.