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girl’s sparked in Nine-fingered Rab’s eyes, though his casual stance didn’t otherwise alter. Semai noted it with rising interest, and took greater care now to keep any sign of it out of his voice. “It’s said you’re the comrade of a man with one eye and one hand. Men answering his description—and yours—are known to have taken this girl. I seek her now in the name of she who was her kinswoman, and in the name of Almighty Djashtet.”
    He kept his words pitched low against the tavern’s din, no louder than they needed to be for the other man to hear him. But he might well have shouted the deadliest of insults, for rage swept over Rab’s face. Without warning he lunged at Semai. Only the warrior’s honed reflexes let him intercept the boy, locking on to the punch aimed for his face, and grabbing and gripping the balled fist within his two larger hands. And even then, Rab hissed words at him, as sharp as any of the blades he’d been flinging into the walls.
    “Gods damn her and you along with her! I washed my hands of her days ago.”
    “Then you do indeed know of whom I speak.”
    Rab tried to break free of his grasp, but now Semai had his measure—and he wasn’t ready to let him go. He watched cognizance flash across the bitter blue eyes, and he sensed the younger man’s stance shifting. At any moment now, Semai thought, he’d try to break free again. Probably when he thought it was least expected. “For all the good it’ll do you. I left her and my so-called partner with the elves.”
    The Hidden Ones . Semai hadn’t seen many of them since he’d come to Adalonia, but he remembered the ones who’d been forced to fight against his Clan during the war. He remembered, too, the thief the akreshi duke had killed. Faanshi’s father.
    For that alone he abruptly released Rab’s hand, and an instant later, flashed a silver coin into his palm. “This for what you’ve just told me. More if you tell me how I can find the elves of which you speak.”
    “Sod off, scarfer,” Rab growled, springing back from him. “I don’t want or need your money.”
    The young man’s agility had been only slightly blurred by the ale he’d imbibed through the course of the night. Something else, though, had fallen to the alcohol. A glint of hurt cracked through the shell of Nine-fingered Rab’s anger, just enough to warn Semai of what had driven him to assault the walls and ceilings of this place with his weapons.
    He chose his next words with utmost care. “What if I were to tell you that if I don’t find the girl, the life of the man you call partner will be in jeopardy?”
    At that, Rab froze. With an oath, he spun on his heel and beckoned irritably for Semai to rise and follow him. “Come on then. Let’s get somewhere quieter so we can talk. Don’t make me regret this.”
    Semai willingly stood and followed in his wake, and pointedly ignored what the young man whispered next, in anguish he was sure hadn’t been meant for his ears.
    “Mother’s Mercy, Julian, don’t make me regret this!”
    * * *
    In a city the size of Shalridan, rumor was never scarce. With no more effort than it took to listen, one could hear the whispers of riches and famine, of the voyages of the ships out into the western ocean, and of the movements of the Church and of the Bhandreid across the realm. With closer care and the proper coin, one could hear the whispers never meant to flow along the streets. Yet in the past seven days every last tidbit of gossip, true or faked, illicit or innocent, had washed away in the news that spread across the city on printed broadsheets, borne by the fleet-footed youths to every corner.
    The Duke of Shalridan was dead. A riding accident, or so the broadsheets proclaimed, yet rumor murmured otherwise. There’d been a runaway slave, and he’d sought her, and come back to his Hall an altered man. Some said he’d spilled other blood beneath his roof before he died. In hushed and troubled tones, others