Of Truth and Beasts

Ore-Locks was quiet as well, but any ethical considerations on his part seemed to vanish.

“One of those is worth a good deal more than a sea voyage,” he said.

Wynn looked at him. For a brief moment, she spoke to him as a companion.

“So much the better, if it buys silence, as well, from whoever takes it in exchange for the fastest passage.”

The dwarf studied her for the span of two breaths, and then held out his thick hand.

“I can exchange one for what it is worth.”

Wynn hesitated.

“Can you barter better than a dwarf?” he challenged.

Chane knew Ore-Locks was right, though it did not make Wynn’s plan more palatable. Wynn slowly dropped a crystal in Ore-Locks’s large hand.

Still, Chane said nothing, and that made Wynn glance sidelong at him.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she said, as if needing to defend her actions. “There was nothing else small enough to carry but worth enough in trade or sale.”

Chane looked away. He should have found a way to gain more coin. She should not have been cornered into doing this.

“Everyone should eat and retire,” he said, changing the subject. He had his own agenda for the night, and he wanted Wynn locked safely away. “But a meal could be expensive here.”

“We will have enough,” Ore-Locks said, “once I trade this to cover it.”

He rolled the crystal in his large hand, watching the motion trigger the tiniest glow within its prisms.

As casually as he could, Chane said, “All right. While Ore-Locks settles into his room, I will go down and order food.”

The dwarf looked at him for a long moment, finally nodded, and stepped out. As soon as he was gone, Chane turned to Wynn.

“I need to go out.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I know.”

Sau’ilahk hovered in an alley across from the large inn. His quarry appeared to have settled for the night. He pondered conjuring another servitor of Air to slip inside and function as his ears. But the place appeared too active. Indoors, within lit, contained areas—possibly with low ceilings—his creation might be spotted before it located Wynn.

Chane suddenly stepped out the front door.

Sau’ilahk lost his train of thought. Chane was no match for Sau’ilahk’s conjury, but this enigmatic undead had exhibited some arcane skill. It would be prudent to know exactly what he was up to, as Sau’ilahk had never been fond of surprises.

He blinked to the next corner, watching Chane stride back toward port.

Chane did not like deceiving Wynn. She assumed that he needed to feed, and he had chosen not to correct her. Between the brass cup’s draught and the still-lingering influence of Welstiel’s violet concoction, he did not feel hungry. By now, he should. But not even a twinge of hunger had come since Chathburh. Chane had other needs this night, new ones only beginning to nag at him.

He had not been prepared for what Welstiel’s concoction would do to him. Even in knowing, the thought of consuming it again left him frightened. Suffering through those days in his cabin had been horrible. But soon enough, Wynn would leave civilization.

There might come a time when he would need to remain conscious, whether it was day or night. He had only one more dose of the violet concoction. And worse, he had not told Wynn that he had taken their pouch of guild-funded coins from their travel chest. But tonight he needed the money.

With his cloak’s hood pulled forward, he ignored passersby. He made his way back to the shops inward from the port, to find the shabby multilingual sign above a door: APOTHECARY.

Late as it was, he reached for the latch but stopped short, staring at Welstiel’s ring on his third finger. It hid his nature from unnatural detection but also dulled his awareness more and more the longer he wore it. He could still sense some deceptions when spoken, but that ability and his senses were more acute without the ring.

Chane slipped off the ring and tucked it into the coin pouch.

The night world instantly took on a bizarre shimmer, like the air in summer heat. It passed, and the night grew bright in his eyes. He heard a rat in a nearby alley fussing with some piece of discarded paper, and the soft lap of water on the floating walkways below the piers another block away.

Grasping the door handle, Chane pressed down—and it opened. Upon entering, he was instantly assaulted by musty air wrapped in too many scents to separate them.

Small lanterns sat on faded tables or hung from low rafters, illuminating walls lined with close-spaced shelves laden with hundreds of glass, clay, wood, and tin vessels of all sizes. The counter to the right supported a long box tilted so customers could see into it. In its little divided cubicles were powders and flake substances beneath cheap, poorly cast glass lids.

“I’m just closing up,” a scratchy voice said.

Chane started slightly and turned.