“What’s that?” Mygal glanced behind him.

  “Why didn’t they kill you?” Rellen shook his head, irritated with himself for not thinking about it sooner. “I was so focused on the duke’s murder, I missed the obvious question. Why are you still alive?”

  Mygal’s head spun around. “Would you rather they’d killed me?”

  “No, no, no,” Rellen said, holding up a hand. He let out a patient breath. “You misunderstand. I know you got stabbed in the belly and the shoulder. The question is, why didn’t they just finish the job by slitting your throat?” He locked eyes with Mygal. “What exactly happened back there?”

  Mygal told him, and as the story unfolded, Rellen got more and more confused.

  “So, the fourth one stayed out of the fight until you’d already killed the other three?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And then he turned out to be a potent heartbender who wounded you badly, knocked you out, and then… what? Went to get help? What happened after that?”

  “Well, I was unconscious,” Mygal said defensively. “I woke up in the ducal keep three days later. I always assumed someone found me and got the authorities. Corwyk said that city guards brought me in, and his staff nursed me back to health. We always just assumed Dancer’s associates wanted me out of the way.”

  “I’ll ask again,” Rellen said slowly. “Why not kill you?”

  “Maybe they didn’t want another murder hung around their necks?” Mygal didn’t sound even close to certain.

  “There’s no appreciable difference between murdering five people rather than four,” Rellen observed.

  “Maybe they weren’t willing to kill a Guardian?” Mygal looked thoughtful. “They seemed to know about the Guardians’ Avatars.”

  “That bothers me too,” Rellen said. “It suggests there’s a leak somewhere, but there’s no way to tell if it’s here, in Svennival, or back in Corsia, although I’d lean toward here.”

  “You know, I’m not saying I think you’re wrong, but it could just be as simple as someone coming down the alley because of all the fighting, shouting, and screaming. Maybe that last assassin needed to cut out quick and figured I wouldn’t make it.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Rellen agreed, but the whole thing bothered him. They continued on in silence, and Rellen kept kicking around all the possibilities, trying to see which scenario might fit the events best. It was a game he played with himself, but no matter what he tried, he was left with the obvious truth. Cutting a man’s throat takes only a moment. He finally pushed the notion aside. It would either resolve itself later or it wouldn’t.

  They came upon a large, nicely maintained, two-story inn. Above the polished, oaken double doors hung a simple sign that read, The Drunken Unger. There were wide windows on either side of the entrance, and just past that was the entrance to an attached livery where an actual unger, wearing simple garments of loose-fitting cotton, swept hay into the street. As they guided their mounts toward the open doors, a pang of something like anger laced with disgust and regret crept into Rellen’s heart.

  Ungers were a bipedal species of creature native to the lands between the Demonspine Mountains and the Sylverwylde range to the south. Halfway between a man and an animal, they usually had gray or bluish skin, wide, doe-like eyes, and brutish forms topped by flattened heads and thick brows. Long tusks stuck out from their lower jaws, and they had flat, root-mashing teeth that were normally the color of grass or corn. They were smart enough to perform simple tasks, but their intelligence was rudimentary at best—more like smart dogs than stupid people. There were still places in Pelinon where they were used, abused, and killed as slave labor… sometimes just for sport. The practice had been outlawed by Rellen’s grandfather as one of his final decrees, and Rellen had actually killed an Unger slaver or three in his travels—on principle alone—and he’d done so without an ounce of regret.

  “I’m going to do something about that,” Rellen said under his breath as the unger stepped aside to let them into the livery.

  “It’s not what you think,” Mygal said, “although I agree with why you said it.”

  “What do you mean?” Rellen asked as he stopped in front of an empty stall. “Come on out, Xilly,” he said quietly, lifting the edge of his cloak. Xilly crawled out and up Rellen’s chest to take a perch on his shoulder.

  “I asked the innkeeper about him when I first found this place. I was as angry as you are. Willyck over there,” he nodded toward the unger, “He’s a part of their family. You could even call him adopted. That’s why the magistrates haven’t done anything about it. He helps around the inn, sleeps upstairs with the rest of the family, and eats at the same table.” Mygal got a compassionate grin on his face. “He seems happy, healthy, and loved.” He got a strange look on his face. “I wish I’d had it half that good when I was a kid.”

  Rellen didn’t miss the import of that statement, but it didn’t require a response. Instead, he eyed the unger, who had gone back to sweeping out the livery. “Stranger things have happened, I suppose.” He got down off Shaddeth and led him backwards into the stall. “Leave them saddled, we won’t be long,” Rellen called out.

  “Right,” Mygal replied as the unger and dragonette started making sounds at one another.

  Xilly leapt off Rellen’s shoulder and fluttered to a rafter directly above Willyck. The unger looked up and then made a strange cooing sound.

  Xilly chirped back.

  Can it speak? Rellen shot the thought at Xilly.

  Not really, she replied. We’re just playing.

  Rellen attended to his gear. He removed the bundle of oilskin-wrapped spell books from the saddle and set them aside. He hung his bedroll, shelter, and other gear on pegs against the back wall. Pulling a small iron rod from a pouch on his bandoleer, he concentrated for a moment, made a quick gesture with his hand, and spoke an incantation. The rod evaporated in a pale flash of light that surrounded his gear. The spell locked everything against the wall and would send a searing shock through anyone who touched it. His saddlebags went beside the books. He fetched a bucket of water and filled a bin nearby with a mix of hay and oats taken from bins at the back of the livery.

  “We’ll be back in a bit,” he said to Shaddeth, patting the horse’s neck.

  With that, he hefted his bundle of books over one shoulder, his saddlebags over the other and stepped out of the stall to find Xilly sitting on Willyck’s shoulder. He walked over, and Xilly fluttered back to his shoulder. Willyck made a strange huffing sound and then resumed sweeping.

  I think that means goodbye, Xilly said.

  “Goodbye, Willyck,” Rellen said gently as he strode past with Mygal in tow.

  The unger lifted its massive head, and Rellen would swear it smiled at him.

  Rellen and Mygal stepped out of the livery and headed toward the front doors of the inn. Rellen glanced over his shoulder and found Willyck following them. Moments later, they strode into the tavern portion of the Drunken Unger.

  It was well-lit by glowstones hanging from the ceiling. There were over a dozen tables, some in the middle and the rest along the walls. A long bar ran along the right-hand wall. A staircase bent around the far-left corner, going up to the second floor. Three of the tables were occupied by what looked to be merchants of some sort. A tavern maid moved amongst them, setting down or picking up tankards. Behind the bar stood a heavy-set, agreeable-looking fellow with bushy black hair, a thick mustache, and the burly forearms of someone who knew how to crack skulls when it was required of him. They moved inside, and Rellen saw Willyck step partway in through the doors and flash the barkeeper two fingers.

  “Good afternoon, lads,” the man called out with a hearty smile and thick accent as he ran a towel over the bar. His eyes flicked to the dragonette perched on Rellen’s shoulder. His eyes went wide for a moment, but he quickly recovered his composure. “I’m Drumore Haddy, Esquire, if ye can believe it, owner of this establishment. Are ye here for food, drink, or mayhap a dry roof and a warm bed?”

  “All of it, before the day is out,” Rellen replied, setting his books on the floor.

  “Excellent, and Willyck tells me ye both have steeds in the stable. Is that right?”

  Rellen got an impressed look on his face and glanced over his shoulder, but Willyck was gone. Ungers were even smarter than he’d originally thought. Turning back, he said, “It is. A big, black warhorse.”

  “And I have the painted mare,” Mygal added.

  “It’s an extra sepik a day fer each horse,” the innkeeper said, “and two sepiks a night fer a room.”

  “Do you have any doubles?” Rellen asked. He sensed Mygal stiffen beside him. The young Guardian wasn’t keen on sharing a room, apparently. He hoped Mygal had the good sense not to say anything in front of the innkeeper.

  “Aye. It’s still just two sepiks though. I do me best to make it easy on travelers where I can. Keeps ’em coming back when they come thru.”

  “We appreciate that,” Rellen said.

  “How long will ye be staying?”

  “At least a few days, I suspect,” Rellen said. He pulled a pouch from inside his cloak. “I’d like to pay for a week, if I can.”

  “No problem there,” the innkeeper said enthusiastically. “Seven days at four sepiks is twenty-eight fer the week.”

  Rellen extracted two gold dakkaris and held them out. Twenty-five silver sepiks were equal to one gold dakkari. His brother’s face, stamped into the coin, glinted in the light, causing a surge of guilt and shame to course through his heart. He fought to keep his expression blank as he relived his mother’s death and the conversation with his brother. “Hang on to the rest as a deposit, will you?” he said evenly. “In case we have to stay longer.”

  “I’ll be happy to,” Drumore said, holding one of the coins up to the light. “Ahh… Gods bless the king, especially when his face is so golden.” Drumore paused for a moment, still holding the coin up and looking at Rellen’s face. His eyes flicked back and forth. “Oi… did ye know ye look a lot like the king?”

  Rellen winced. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the question, and it always carried a lot of memory. Mygal cast him a sidelong glance, his expression turning somewhat worried.

  “I get that every now and again. I was born in Corsia… a lot of the men there have similar features.”

  “Aye,” Drumore said. “’Tis the same in these parts. Folks look like their neighbors. ’Tis the way of things I suppose.”

  “Indeed, it is,” Rellen said, wanting to change the subject. “Now, about that room? I suspect there’s a key around here somewhere.”

  “Aye,” Drumore said, slipping both dakkaris into his apron. He reached beneath the bar and pulled out a thick, iron key. “Top o’ the stairs, third door on the right, above the stables.” He eyed both of them as he handed the key to Rellen. “Men like you, I suspect, like to know if something’s going on in the livery, yeah?”

  “We do,” Mygal said.

  “And could you send up some food,” Rellen said. “I’m starving, and I suspect you are too,” he added, looking at Mygal.

  Mygal nodded.

  “Aye,” Drumore said. “The house specialty is what we call a Bag-o-Cats. ’Tis battered and fried catfish, caught fresh daily. ’Tis spicy, sweet, and savory all at once, and the best ye’ll find in all of Svennival. Me wife, Estelle, has more secrets in the kitchen than she does in the bedroom, which is sayin’ something I don’t mind tellin’ ye.” Drumore gave a wink and chuckled heartily. Rellen and Mygal chuckled right along with him. “It’ll be a sepik fer both together.”

  Rellen looked to Mygal, who nodded again.

  “We’ll take them.” He reached into his pouch and handed over a tarnished silver sepik with the image of his father on one side… without a pang of memory. “And thank you.”

  “No trouble at all,” Drumore replied and then headed off toward a pair of doors at the rear that, Rellen assumed, led to the kitchen.

  “Let’s see what this room is like,” Rellen said, stepping away from the bar. He caught a sour expression on Mygal’s face but said nothing. He knew the room arrangement was bothering him, and he suspected why. Mygal hadn’t said anything yet, so he wondered if the young Guardian would bring it up or have the good sense to stay silent while they were in public.

  They crossed the tavern, climbed the stairs, and headed down the hall. Mygal stepped in close and whispered, “Why are we getting only one room? If it’s the cost, I have my own money.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with coin,” Rellen said softly, stopping in front of their door. “We have no idea how the next two days are going to go. If we get jumped in the middle of the night, I want us in the same room.” He eyed Mygal, and a strange fear came over him as he imagined Mygal getting ambushed. He wasn’t going to let that happen. “Frankly, you should feel the same way,” he scolded. “We need to have each other’s backs while we’re working together, and it’s all too easy to get murdered when you’re on your own.” He eyed Mygal. “That assassin in the alley is a perfect example.”

  “Hey, I beat three of them, and I was working on my own for years before I became a Guardian,” Mygal shot back as Rellen turned the key and pushed the door open.

  “So had I,” Rellen said, stepping in. “And I still do, most of the time.” There were two narrow beds and an armoire on the left, two sitting chairs and a small table on the right, and a small fireplace with a low mantle just past that. He slipped the key into his belt as Xilly leapt from his shoulder and alighted upon the far bed. “But let me tell you something, it was only a few months ago in Calamath when I almost got killed in my room. I wish I’d had help then, because I barely got out of that mess in one piece.”

  “I get that, but I’d still—” Mygal started as he stepped inside.

  “Look,” Rellen cut him off and closed the door. “Mentoring aside, I’m the Ninth Guardian, and you’re the Thirteenth. That means we do this my way.” He set his books and saddlebags on a small table by the fireplace. “You understand that, right?” He put just an edge of iron in his voice.

  Mygal’s mouth snapped closed. They both knew the hierarchy of the Guardians and what went with it. It was drilled into all of them, starting with the king just after their initiation ceremony, and it was a law respected by all. Failure to do so had severe consequences.

  Mygal’s ire faded quickly, and he looked duly admonished.

  “Listen,” Rellen said softly. “This isn’t like that game you played at breakfast. Most of the other Guardians would have let that slide too—except the Kapron, Jareth K’Ovall. He doesn’t have any sense of humor at all. You’ve got to defer to the experience of your seniors. Always. I’d do it too, if Eight were here. Alright?”

  “I understand,” Mygal replied, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I’m just not used to working with others.”

  “Believe me, I get that.” He had a patient look upon his face. “Why do you think I accepted the duties of a Guardian? We normally do work alone.”

  “Thanks for spelling it out for me,” Mygal said. “This is going to take some getting used to, but I know you have a lot to teach me.”

  “We’re always learning,” Rellen said. “We stop when we die.”

  “My uncle used to say the same thing.”

  “He must have been a wise man.”

  “He was.”

  “Look, there’s something I wanted to… emphasize.” Rellen let out a patient breath.

  “What’s that?” Mygal said, looking uncomfortable.

  “When you first saw me and tried to influence me…”

  “I said that was habit, not intent.”

  “That may be the case, and from what little I could tell, you’ve got a real talent for it, if you don’t abuse it. I won’t tell you how to do your job, but you need to consider not opening with it. I meant it when I said keep it to yourself unless you absolutely need it. If nobody knows what you are, then they can’t prepare for it later, when your life depends upon surprise. Understand?”

  Mygal nodded, and it looked like his cheeks had flushed slightly. “Perfectly.”

  “Good, then it’s in the past,” Rellen said. “I’ll tell you, I’m beginning to like you. We may even become comrades, although that’s unlikely. On the other hand, you may just end up hating the sight of me. You wouldn’t be the first Guardian to feel that way.”

  “The Guardians aren’t all chummy?”

  “Gods, no,” Rellen said with a chuckle. “Our oath to the king holds us together, not our feelings for one another. That oath, however, means we do this job whether we like each other or not. Most of the Guardians get along fairly well, and there are a few who are the true comrades. Voren, the Guardian you replaced, he and I were at least sort of like that. On the other hand, there are a few personalities that clash like fire and fuel oil. Spend enough time at a Conclave, and you’ll quickly discover that I don’t get along well with Faleesh Namarre… and yes, we slept together. The Kapron, Jareth K’Ovall, thinks I’m a dilettante at best but won’t say it to my face. Grall Akkrond and Zaphreem Yskyndiar don’t have much use for each other, either. In fact, if we weren’t all Guardians, some of us might just try to kill each other when nobody was looking. But we are Guardians. Our oath to the king trumps all. Never forget that.”

  “I won’t. I swore it to him, and I’ll swear it to you.”

  “No need,” Rellen said, holding up his hand. “Your oath to the king is more than enough. Now…” Rellen looked around the room. “We’ll sleep here, and if you’ll step aside, I’ll make it so we can sleep more soundly than we otherwise might.”

  “Wards?” Mygal asked, sitting on the nearest bed.

  “Wards,” Rellen said.

  “Whatever you need,” Mygal said, meaning it.

  “Just shut up for a bit and stay out of the way.”

  Mygal snapped his mouth closed and stepped back to sit on the nearest bed.

  Rellen faced the window first. The sun was about to drop below the horizon, casting long shadows across Svennival. The stables were just below a wood-shingled roof outside the window. If someone were to climb onto it, they’d be able to come right in.