The Spirit Thief(9)

There was much coming and going at the butcher’s house that night, enough to attract the neighborhood’s attention. Contrary to his usual nature, the butcher wasn’t talking, and that just made the whole thing more interesting. Down the road in the raucous Merrymont Tavern, men with missing teeth made wagers about what was going on. Some put money on a murder; others said it had to do with the ruckus up at the castle. One man was blaming wizards, though he was a bit unclear about what exactly he was blaming them for. This led to more betting and speculation and, in their excitement, no one noticed the swordsman sitting at the corner table quietly nursing the same drink he’d been on for hours.

On a less interesting night, a swordsman would have been a fine topic of conversation. Especially this one, with the wicked scar he bore over the left side of his face, but with the mystery at the butcher’s and rumors of a wizardess riding up to the castle on a dog the size of a house, the people had no breath left to spare for a swordsman. For his part, the swordsman didn’t seem to mind the lack of attention. He simply sat in his corner, swirling his drink and listening. As the night dragged on, the talk began to go in circles. Finally, after the same theory was brought up three times in a quarter hour, the swordsman stood, laid his coins on the table, and, carefully tucking his wrapped sword into his belt, slipped out into the night.

He walked north for several blocks, ducking in and out of buildings almost at random. Only when he was sure no one was following him did he turn around and begin walking purposefully toward the butcher’s house.


Renaud was fastening the starched cuffs of his new jacket when he heard it, an icy, blood-thirsty whine that grated against his thoughts. He froze. The butcher’s wife stood in the corner, her eyes roving, looking at everything except him, just as they had for the last four hours. She gave no sign she heard anything.

“Get out,” Renaud said.

The woman jumped and hastily obeyed, closing the door behind her. Renaud resumed working on the small buttons at his wrists. Outside his tiny window, the night was drifting toward morning, and in the faint gray light he saw the man’s shadow seconds before he heard the window scrape.

“If you’re going to sneak up on someone,” Renaud said coldly, turning to face the man who was now crouched on the windowsill, “learn how to keep your sword quiet.”

The man smiled, but the scar across his cheek warped the expression into a leer as he sat down on the window ledge and laid his gloved palm against his sword’s wrapped hilt. The wailing stopped, and Renaud let out a relieved sigh.

The man’s smile widened. “So it’s true,” he said. “There is a wizard in Mellinor.”

Renaud did not move, but somehow his slouched posture shifted from bored to threatening. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“First answer”—the man leaned back against the window’s bowed frame—“my name is Coriano, and I’m a bounty hunter. Second answer, I was curious. You’ve caused quite a stir.”

“A bounty hunter?” Renaud laughed. “I’m afraid you’ve found the wrong wizard. The one you want has already struck and gone.”

Coriano’s good eye narrowed. “On the contrary, you’re exactly the wizard I wanted to find, Renaud of Allaze.”

Renaud’s hand slipped into his pocket and gripped the glassy black sphere that lay hidden at the bottom. “How do you know that name?”

“It’s my business to know,” Coriano said dryly. “But don’t worry, I’m not here to threaten you. In fact, I’d like to make you an offer.”

Renaud’s fingers eased their grip. “And what could you offer me?”

“Something that will help you reach your goals.”

Renaud arched an eyebrow. “What would you know of my goals?”

“I told you,” Coriano said. “It’s my business to know.”

“All right,” Renaud took his hand from his pocket and folded his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”

Coriano, grinning, hopped down from the windowsill. Renaud gave the sooty, warped glass a warning look, and the window slammed itself shut with a terrified squeal, locking the men’s words away from the brightening sky.





CHAPTER 4





When King Henrith opened his eyes, he knew he was dead. A few blinks later, the certainty hadn’t changed, but he was starting to feel a little upset about it. However, what happened next put all of that out of his head, for the great nothingness he had been staring into, the endless void that lies beyond human experience, stood up and began stirring the fire. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, he saw it was a girl. Or, at least, that was his best guess. All he could see at this angle was a tangle of short, black hair and a bit of pale forehead. The rest of her was lost inside an enormous coal-black coat that, he now realized, had been the void covering his head.