To the far left of the nearer room was a tall set of closed doors. Closer still was a curving staircase that stretched upward. What kind of place was this?

"Three rooms," Ore-Locks said.

Wynn turned back to find him at the counter with the young host. He was already untying a lanyard strung with punched dwarven coins, or slugs.

"Two rooms," Chane corrected, and looked down at her. "You are not staying here alone. I will sleep on the floor."

Wynn bit the inside of her lip, not wishing to make a scene.

Mechaela raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, though he did glance at Chane's and Ore-Locks's sheathed blades. He reached out with one finger to tap the long iron staff leaning against the counter.

"Of course, you'll need to relinquish your weapons. You can retrieve and return them upon coming and going."

Chane blinked. "No."

Ore-Locks appeared equally surprised.

Shade rumbled, perhaps sensing the sudden tension.

"Chane!" Wynn whispered. Would he ever stop being so difficult?

"No," he repeated.

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" said a smooth voice from behind them.

Wynn spun around.

A slender woman stepped out of the parlor. Delicately built, she was far taller than Wynn. Her teal silk gown, embroidered with curling vines of white blossoms, was so smoothly fitted that it moved with her, revealing her subtle curves. Shining black hair hung in long, faint waves that sparkled in the foyer's lamplight, though her bangs were held back with a band of polished silver.

She had skin the shade of soft ivory, perhaps a bit warmer, and eyes so deep blue, they mesmerized Wynn at first. Her lashes were long, and her eyelids were powdered to match her gown.

She was . . . unreal. Even Ore-Locks appeared stunned at the sight of her.

"Is there some confusion?" she asked.

Her tone didn't imply a true question, but her voice was almost a breathy echo of the flute's resonance. This was a woman who could stop almost any man in his tracks at twenty paces-maybe fifty.

Unfortunately, Chane was not one of those men.

"I will not relinquish my swords," he said.

"I am Delilah, owner of this establishment," she answered, and her gaze pa.s.sed over Ore-Locks with polite interest.

Wynn felt Chane's hand settle on her shoulder.

"I do apologize," Delilah went on, "but all patrons, regardless of what they come for, must leave their weapons before entering. Do not be concerned. Your safety-your needs-are secured and a.s.sured by my staff."

Wynn glanced nervously about. Their needs? Shouldn't that be obvious?

"How," Chane challenged, "when your interior guards do not carry weapons?"

"Mechaela requires no weapon," Delilah answered.

Her eyes traced a smooth path from one newcomer to the next, perhaps a.s.sessing who truly made the decisions, and a smile spread across her small mouth.

"And what needs bring you to us . . . sage?"

Wynn was a bit stunned. She wore only her short robe over her elven travel clothes, yet this woman knew what she was, and that she was supposedly in charge. Wynn glanced through the parlor arch at the lounging furniture, and into the room beyond that, and at the other woman in the revealing gauze dress....

Chane sucked in an audible breath and exhaled. "Domvolyne!"

Before his meaning sank in, Wynn felt his fingers clench her cloak's shoulder and tunic. He jerked her backward toward the front door.

"We are leaving," he said.

"Oh . . . oh . . ." she stammered, flushing red in the face.

A domvolyne was a house of leisure in Chane's country. Wynn had just walked them all into a high-line brothel in the middle of a pit called Drist.

"What is wrong now?" Ore-Locks asked, and stared blankly at Chane.

There were no brothels among the dwarves.

"Oh, please, please," Delilah called, suppressing a brief laugh with delicate fingers. "Forgive me. I meant no offense-only a playful jest. We can accommodate you. . . . We care well for all our patrons, by their own needs."

Behind the counter, even Mechaela was hard-pressed not to smile.

Wynn grabbed the doorframe before Chane could haul her into the street.

"Chane, stop it. It could be the same-probably worse-everywhere here."

"Yes, there is worse," Delilah added, no longer amused. "Mechaela, they will need the quieter and more peaceful of our accommodations."

He nodded. "I will place them properly in the east side of the second floor."

"But," Delilah added, "you must leave your weapons."

Wynn looked to Ore-Locks, hating to turn to him for support. He sighed and handed over his iron staff before beginning to unbuckle his sword. A startled Mechaela fumbled a bit under the weight of the staff. Wynn looked back and up to Chane, his expression curled in a silent snarl.

"Chane?"

With a seething, unintelligible rasp, he released her and headed for the counter. He unlashed the shorter, ground-down sword, then did the same with the new dwarven blade.

"This is everything?" Mechaela asked politely, eyeing the sheathed end of Wynn's staff.

She pulled off the sheath, displaying its long crystal, and Delilah nodded approval. After a brief hesitation, Wynn pulled Magiere's old battle dagger out from behind her back, as well. Delilah watched in interest as Ore-Locks began tugging steel and copper slugs off his lanyard.

Much to Wynn's relief, neither Mechaela nor Delilah balked at payment in dwarven slugs, and Wynn tried to count her own mixed blessings. At least she'd reached Drist and found safe, if questionable, accommodations.

Now if she could just get Chane to calm down.

Entering the lavish rooms, Chane thought that, aside from the fact that it was no place for Wynn, the whole interior smelled wrong. The room itself stank of too much perfume. On their way up, they had pa.s.sed three young women and an effeminate young man of exceptional beauty, who were obviously not patrons. But they met no one else as Mechaela led them northward down a long corridor of sumptuous carpets on the second floor.

Ore-Locks's room was across the hall, but he followed them inside their own room, looking about. He set the chest down, shut the door, and then dropped his bulky sack. It clattered strangely. Then he walked to the bed covered in quilted raw silk of varied violet hues, pressing his hand down until it sank through the puffy bedding to the soft mattress.

"Like sleeping in a sinkhole," he said.

Chane wanted to go out by himself, but he was uncertain how to broach the subject. How long did Wynn intend to stay in Drist before heading inland?

"What now?" he asked. "Winter is so close that we will find few caravans on the move. I should try to procure a wagon."

Wynn glanced away nervously.

"Wynn?" he asked.

After a slow breath, she answered, "We're not headed inland . . . just yet."

Ore-Locks's complexion flushed, and he beat Chane to the obvious. "What?"

Wynn rolled a shoulder, fidgeting in sudden discomfort. She swung her pack onto the bed and began digging through it, finally pulling out a journal Chane had not seen before. She paged through it and flattened it open.

"Look at this. I copied a map I found in the archives."

Why did she keep everything from him until the last moment?

"We're here," she said, pointing to one inked dot on the coastline. "If we take another ship south, all the way to the port of Sorno in the Romagrae Commonwealth, we'll-"

"Another ship?" Ore-Locks cut in. "I have no quarrel with a good walk."

"And I want to reach the Lhoin'na as quickly as possible," she countered. "Sorno is nearer to our destination. This is the fastest way."

Ore-Locks sighed but otherwise remained silent.

"Instead of going inland, south by southwest," Wynn continued, "and all the way through Lhoin'na lands, we'll come in below and take the shorter route directly east. By the time we reach their forest, we'll be on top of a'Ghrihln'na, the one great elven city, and their branch of the guild. For a slightly longer sea voyage, we'll cut our journey time in half, and keep us in . . . civilized areas a bit longer."

Chane glanced at Shade, who was watching him, but he shook his head, incredulous.

"Then why did we stop here at all?" he asked. "We have no business in Drist."

"To throw the guild off my trail."

Chane did not understand. Wynn looked up at him, a bitter anger in her eyes that he had not seen there until recent times.

"High-Tower laid out my route," she answered, "not only to waste my time, but to track me. Think about it. Our funding was barely adequate, and I was commissioned to make two stops, both at guild locations. Whatever was in that letter to the Chathburh annex, someone might have checked if I booked pa.s.sage anywhere else. By landing here, all they can report is that I went to Drist."

She tilted her head. "If . . . when High-Tower hears of it, he'll think my trail ends here, only to be picked up once I reach the Lhoin'na, but I'll be there long before he expects. And there's no one here to report that I booked pa.s.sage farther south."

Chane crossed his arms. Every day there was something more about Wynn and her guild that became tarnished in his view. Besides her, the guild was the only thing in this world he had ever believed held value.

"As you said," Chane countered, "we were not given enough money for another voyage."

"I'll take care of it."

Chane lost all patience with more surprises. "Wynn, how are-?"

"It's taken care of."

"What have you done?"

She bit her lower lip but did not answer. Instead, she reached into her pack. When she withdrew her hand, she opened it, exposing a cold lamp crystal.

Chane was still baffled. He had seen her crystal many times and even used it once or twice himself. Then she put her other hand into her short robe's pocket and pulled out two more.

"These are spares," she said quietly.

Chane began growing suspicious. Only journeyors and above were given a crystal as a mark of status and accomplishment. Such were nearly sacred among sages. So how had Wynn acquired a second, let alone a third?

Before Chane said a word, again Ore-Locks beat him to it.

"Did you steal those?"

For once, his expression was completely unguarded. Ore-Locks knew the implications as well as Chane.

"No!" Wynn answered.

"Wynn?" Chane warned.

"Premin Hawes gave them to me . . . when I told her that I'd lost mine."

So she had lied to get them.

"No one is hurt by this," Wynn said. "I knew we'd need more money and wouldn't get it."

What she intended was now clear.

"Even just one of these will bring more than we need," she went on heatedly, almost daring either of them to argue. "We simply trade it to someone who has no wish to reveal where or how it was gained."

Chane remained silent. He had seen Wynn give in to questionable-sometimes dark-rationales to justify her endeavors, not that the effects mattered to him. He had done worse for far less and more self-serving motivations. But he had never thought her capable of lying to her own for this kind of purpose, or to barter away something so honored. The act was so . . . premeditated.

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 pa.s.sage."

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