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Authors: Lynn Abbey
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gut finally rumbled, and he slipped from his new hiding place to claim the wrapped parcel SaMavis had given him. It contained a veritable feast: crusty bread soaked in last night’s grease, dried fish twisted into a cheerful braid, and two shriveled apples. Dragging the food to his vantage point, Dysan spied a tall, wary-looking man dressed in a cloak too warm for the season slithering from the apothecary with a bottle-shaped pouch at his belt. With only a swift glance left and right, he headed into the deepening twilight.
A moment later, another figure emerged from the fog, a creation of mist and shadow that appeared to arise from a shattered wall and hurried along the Avenue of Temples. Dysan recognized him at once, though his utter darkness muted into the gloom: black clothing and buskin boots, ebony hair, darkish skin. Lone. Dysan had missed whatever exchange had occurred between Pel and the thief, apparently in those sparse moments when he had dared to unwrap his meal. Dropping the fish, Dysan padded soundlessly into the twilight, attention fixed unwaveringly on Lone. His quarry had disappeared on him once and never again. Dysan could not afford to lose Lone now that he carried the most difficult of the Dyareelan’s ingredients. Once mixed, that potion had the potential to destroy Sanctuary again, to initiate another rampage of murder.
The gray dank of evening deepened as Dysan followed Lone through the city. Both men moved as soundlessly as the shifting shadows, Lone with natural ease and Dysan from desperation. Twice, Lone paused, melting into his surroundings as if sensing his tail and seeking him among the regular stalkers of Sanctuary’s roads and alleyways. Both times, Dysan found a ledge or crevice that fully hid him from the other man’s view. Neither attempt lasted long. Apparently intent on a goal of his own, Lone clearly did not have time to ferret out his tracker in the filthy, wild tangle of streets.
So focused on his own target and the terrifying concern that he might lose the young man to darkness, Dysan did not notice the cloaked figure until Lone came directly upon it. The same man who had most recently left the apothecary now stood momentarily still in a place of silent darkness, measuring his path in the twilight. Agile as a cat, Lone slipped up beside him. Few would have noticed the fingers that dexterously untangled pouch strings from the other’s belt; but Dysan, trained to notice exactly such things, did. Lone had skill, though he clearly lacked practice. Dysan followed every nimble motion, using the distraction to carry out a theft of his own. Freeing his pouched bottle from his sash, he sneaked to Lone’s side and made the exchange.
The cloaked man gave no sign that he noticed either of the thieves.
Lone moved faster than thought. He spun toward Dysan, catching a handful of hair in a strong fist. A blade pricked Dysan’s abdomen, impaling his tunic and drawing a drop of blood. Had Dysan stood the proper height for a man his age, Lone’s hand would have his throat, and the knife would have threatened his left kidney. Startled more than hurt, Dysan loosed a screech and dropped the bottle. It thumped to the ground, rescued from breaking by the cloth pouch.
The cloaked figure swung around at the sound. He pawed at his waist, then dove for the fallen pouch. “Hey, you thief! That’s mine!”
Dysan tried to run, but Lone’s grip tightened, and he shoved. Dysan’s back slammed against a wall. Pain shocked through him, and he bit his tongue hard enough to draw more blood. Dazed, he barely had a chance to sag before Lone caught him properly by the neck, the dagger still menacing his vitals.
The cloaked figure glanced at the two only an instant before snatching up the bottle and sprinting into the night.
Dysan stared into Lone’s face, trying to hide his terror. The grim black eyes revealed nothing, and he had the predatory features of one accustomed to murder. Dysan knew he was going
A moment later, another figure emerged from the fog, a creation of mist and shadow that appeared to arise from a shattered wall and hurried along the Avenue of Temples. Dysan recognized him at once, though his utter darkness muted into the gloom: black clothing and buskin boots, ebony hair, darkish skin. Lone. Dysan had missed whatever exchange had occurred between Pel and the thief, apparently in those sparse moments when he had dared to unwrap his meal. Dropping the fish, Dysan padded soundlessly into the twilight, attention fixed unwaveringly on Lone. His quarry had disappeared on him once and never again. Dysan could not afford to lose Lone now that he carried the most difficult of the Dyareelan’s ingredients. Once mixed, that potion had the potential to destroy Sanctuary again, to initiate another rampage of murder.
The gray dank of evening deepened as Dysan followed Lone through the city. Both men moved as soundlessly as the shifting shadows, Lone with natural ease and Dysan from desperation. Twice, Lone paused, melting into his surroundings as if sensing his tail and seeking him among the regular stalkers of Sanctuary’s roads and alleyways. Both times, Dysan found a ledge or crevice that fully hid him from the other man’s view. Neither attempt lasted long. Apparently intent on a goal of his own, Lone clearly did not have time to ferret out his tracker in the filthy, wild tangle of streets.
So focused on his own target and the terrifying concern that he might lose the young man to darkness, Dysan did not notice the cloaked figure until Lone came directly upon it. The same man who had most recently left the apothecary now stood momentarily still in a place of silent darkness, measuring his path in the twilight. Agile as a cat, Lone slipped up beside him. Few would have noticed the fingers that dexterously untangled pouch strings from the other’s belt; but Dysan, trained to notice exactly such things, did. Lone had skill, though he clearly lacked practice. Dysan followed every nimble motion, using the distraction to carry out a theft of his own. Freeing his pouched bottle from his sash, he sneaked to Lone’s side and made the exchange.
The cloaked man gave no sign that he noticed either of the thieves.
Lone moved faster than thought. He spun toward Dysan, catching a handful of hair in a strong fist. A blade pricked Dysan’s abdomen, impaling his tunic and drawing a drop of blood. Had Dysan stood the proper height for a man his age, Lone’s hand would have his throat, and the knife would have threatened his left kidney. Startled more than hurt, Dysan loosed a screech and dropped the bottle. It thumped to the ground, rescued from breaking by the cloth pouch.
The cloaked figure swung around at the sound. He pawed at his waist, then dove for the fallen pouch. “Hey, you thief! That’s mine!”
Dysan tried to run, but Lone’s grip tightened, and he shoved. Dysan’s back slammed against a wall. Pain shocked through him, and he bit his tongue hard enough to draw more blood. Dazed, he barely had a chance to sag before Lone caught him properly by the neck, the dagger still menacing his vitals.
The cloaked figure glanced at the two only an instant before snatching up the bottle and sprinting into the night.
Dysan stared into Lone’s face, trying to hide his terror. The grim black eyes revealed nothing, and he had the predatory features of one accustomed to murder. Dysan knew he was going
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