"So who d'you reckon killed 'em?"

Devon crouched to inspect the two bodies that had been deposited on the sawdusted ground of the Guildhall stables. The acrid stench of blood and decay overpowered the morning air. She assumed a clinically blank face but her stomach lurched uncomfortably. Death's victory stared back at her with unseeing eyes. No matter what they say, she thought, this part of the job will never get easier. The burly Rogue who stood at her side regarded her enquiringly.

"No ideas yet," she replied. "Tell me how you found them, Hossim."

"It's like I said, I's walking near the market before dawn 'cause I's coming back from some, ah, personal business," the Rogue named Hossim said. Devon thought he surely would have blushed had his bronzed colouring allowed it. "Nobody was around, see, and it was dark, what with sun-up being a few hours still, so's I accidentally stumbled over these fellas here," he prodded one of the bodies with his foot. "At firs' I thought they were jus' knocked out after too much booze. But my nose told me they were dead. Then I reckoned folks wouldn't want dead Rogues in their alleyways, so I hauled 'em back here." Hossim bowed his largely shiny head.

She didn't recognize the corpses, but that wasn't surprising. One's face was pulverized and the other's was smeared in blood. Stabbed in the throat. Their garments were shredded and their arms and chests were etched by thin, parallel red lines. "Do you know them?" she asked.

"This here's Neal and that's Tom, I reckon," Hossim pointed out. "Funny, this be the first time I've seen or heard of 'em since Goddess-knows how long." He shook his head. "Young fellas, but none too bright. Shouldn'a been stealing from folks way bigger than 'em."

Devon felt a surge of anger. This wasn't a midnight mugging gone wrong; this seemed like senseless killing. Whoever did it was clearly stronger and more skilled than the two thieves combined, so why couldn't he-or it-have just taken their money and left? Why needlessly end two lives?

"There's nothing I can do now," she said sadly. "Ilithya bless their souls."

--

"It's a pity. George three nights ago and now Aidan. But I'm just glad it was them and not me."

"And remember last fortnight? Those young spies Tom Dirk and Neal Aruib got the same star treatment," answered another male speaker.

"Yeah, but those fools had it comin'," said a gravelly third voice. "I kept tellin' them for years, 'Watch it, you're gonna be in over your head one o' these days,' " he snorted. "They never had a spot o' discretion. And that's what this business requires." "Speaking of discretion, don't you think it funny that our fella Hossim was wandering about in the wee hours of the morning, then 'just happens' to come upon Tom and Neal? Bloody good coincidence, if you ask me."

"Hear, hear."

"Ay, come off it, Argus. Hossim's told that story a million times-each time he blushes at the same spot. Well, his affairs with the barmaids are no one's concern but his own. Though I'm sure we can all guess what he's been up to," they snickered. "More ale, gentlemen?" a breezy female voice suggested. The males Rogues whistled in the affirmative.

Devon inspected the wide assortment of weapons on a market rack and tried to look the part of a nonchalant customer. She couldn't resist eavesdropping on the conversation carrying on a few feet away in the courtyard patio of the Barley Hope Tavern. As long as the men's gossip was on the innocent side of banter, she supposed it was allowed. A short war bow of gleaming olive wood on the last rack suddenly caught her eye. The irony of it did not escape her: the olive branch was a symbol of reconciliation and peace.

Nervous laughter from the table of three. "…It's enough to make a Rogue afraid for his own backside, I'm tellin' ya!"

The next speaker dropped to a near-whisper. "Well I don't think there's any fear of infiltration. I am more willing to bet that it's one of those foreign mercs wandering about all over the place these days. I dare say, some of em' are big enough to hold me ma in one paw."

Yes, Devon thought, the blade that stabbed the Rogues' throats was single-edged and of a foreign design, judging from the puncture wounds. The killer wasn't from these parts.

"But I heard that whoever attacked 'em probably wasn't human," another voice said.

"Also I heard it had killed 'em to only get at their purse… which doesn't make any sense. Plus, who steals from Rogues? Damali's home-grown thugs don't know better'n to hit, snatch, and run."

Devon mentally nodded. Those red scratches on their bodies had been delivered by razor-sharp nails. Animal claws. One disturbing, inconsolable fact about the Rogues' rumours, however, was that no one else but herself was supposed to know them. She had never vocalized her ideas and suspicions about the deaths.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, and two of the three men rose and uttered their goodbyes, leaving presumably a large tip for the waitress. Devon stared into her hand and realized that she was still holding the olive bow. It felt wonderfully sleek and pliant. Her aim was shaky at best, but it was a skill she should practise now and would need later. She strode over to the courtyard wall, where the merchant was sitting on a stool and whittling away a piece of wood, his face hidden under a monk's cowl.

"Ten gold pieces for the olive war bow and a quiver of arrows," she proffered.

The merchant pocketed the payment wordlessly, his gaze still focussed on his whittling. After a short silence he said, "I hope our 'home-grown thugs' know better than to get carried away by ale and idle gossip," He turned to her and dropped his hood, revealing the disapproving look on his face. Calhan's face.

Staggered by his disguise, Devon sputtered incredulously, "You? A weapons dealer?" "Well, I have to earn my supper somehow," Calhan said wryly. "Like how I just received an extraordinary price for an ordinary bow."

"You were here and listening to them the whole time?"

"It was hard not to, considering they were proclaiming our name and existence to the entire market square," he hissed through gritted teeth. "But unlike you, I'm couldn't abandon my post and put an end to their idiocy. Which you could've done. Should have."

"I didn't think it was that bad- "

"It's dangerous for innocent gossip to turn on inquisitive ears. You know it as well as I." He lowered his voice. "We've got to keep these Rogue deaths under cover, Devon. Goddess knows what will happen if court officials hear about it and decide to investigate."

Devon swallowed as she realized his point. This was bad. She should have stopped them when she still had the chance. She glanced sideways at the two Rogues tottering down the road. The third, now alone at the table, signalled for more pints. It was now or never.

Calhan seemed to read her mind and nodded grimly. "It's time to set them straight, don't you think?"

"Yes." There was no need to say it. We do what we must to preserve the secrecy, she thought. "I'll follow those two. You talk to this straggler here," she said.

"And keep shop at the same time. Got it." Calhan drew up his hood and his face was again encased in shadow. The dark, nearly-black eyes acquired a steely gleam.

Something was still nagging at her. His wounds… "We need to talk, Calhan."

"Then I'll meet you here later tonight."

--

Devon followed the bawdy singing and traced the pair of drunken Rogues fairly easily. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and a cool breeze stirred the awnings and fresh laundry on backyard clotheslines. As she tailed the men, Devon mentally calculated what "setting them straight" would entail. One thing was certain, in her opinion: they did not deserve to lose their lives.

She was a few yards behind the unsuspecting Rogues who were moseying along the road. Their shapes were easy to make out in the dark. If she ran quietly, she could catch up to them in five, no four, seconds. But then what? Devon wasn't prepared to take on two fully-grown Rogues, albeit impaired ones, by force. Impaired… Therefore not in full possession of their wits. An idea crept on her.

The men were heading for the Guildhall, she guessed. She knew that the secluded path to the abandoned inn passed through a small copse of trees near a well. Devon snuck ahead using a little-known shortcut behind a distillery and arrived at the tree grove well ahead of the two Rogues. She climbed an old oak that was willing to hold her. Its dense boughs concealed her presence completely.

She inhaled deeply and slowly let out her breath. Alright, first step: focus. Nestled in the crook of a branch, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the rough tree beneath her palms. Don't forget tactile imagery, she could hear Atticus's voice lecturing her. In her mind, she probed beneath the oak's bark, experienced each passing years in its rings, and delved into the heartwood. Yes, Atticus, I remember: establish cerebral connection. Her palms glowed green for an instant. It was done. The men arrived within earshot, silent except for their uncertain footfalls. One could never be too careful at night, and they were likely aware that their inebriation put them at an unfortunate disadvantage. They approached the tree where Devon was hiding.

Closer...

Now.

A thick root broke through the dry earth. The men tripped and fell. Smaller roots slithered out of the ground, spreading over and around the men. Before they could curse their misstep, a web-like cage of roots had encased them and pinned them to the ground.

"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't leave you here to rot," Devon, still atop the tree, said with as much vehemence as she could summon.

The men stopped struggling. "Who did this? Who's speaking?" said one, trying to keep the undertone of panic under control.

"Barmy, it's the tree talkin', " the other man slurred.

"You're the killer, aren't you?" the first Rogue declared to the air, swerving his head left and right. "Go ahead, finish us off. We haven't got any money."

"I'm not a killer, and I don't want your money." Devon leapt off the tree and stood watching them from a few feet away. "I've come to remind you of this little thing called the Gilded Rule, which you both swore to at the inception and for which you scarred your wrists at the initiation? Breaking such a vow carries a heavy penalty, Rogues." The realization of their conduct that evening and its consequences began to dawn on the face of the first Rogue, the younger and more sober of the two. She strode over to the cage and whispered, "I think you know what I'm talking about, so I'll make this brief." She raised a hand to the dagger in her calf concealment.

"Wait!" the Rogue said. "It wasn't what you think."

"You have two seconds to convince me."

"We had heard rumours about the deaths, is all. In taverns and such."

"From whom?"

"A foreign merc," muttered the older man. "Over a good round o' poker."

"Which tavern?"

"The Iron Door. That's where all of 'em are," the older Rogue replied.

"Look, we weren't looking for trouble. We've just come back from Tyball recently," the other Rogue said quickly, trying to buy time, "so we didn't know that we weren't supposed to talk about the Rogue deaths or that it was supposed to be a secret."

"Just catchin' up on ol' times with good fella Kiel and barmaid Stacey," piped in the second.

The mention of Tyball prickled the hairs on the back of Devon's neck. "What were you doing in Tyball?" she hissed. Instinctively, the root cage around the men tightened its hold.

The intoxicated man babbled in a sing-song voice, "Oh, no one knows, but it was a very good show, a very good show by Conary's foe! We fights and rights, we asks and acts, and at the end we bury the axe!"

"Shut your trap, Brutus!" the other Rogue said. But the old drunk had already closed his eyes. He had passed out.

Devon pulled out her knife. The flash of metal in moonlight caught a glint of the Rogue's wide-eyed terror. "No! Please! I know that it was wrong, but don't kill me!"

"Kill you?" said Devon coldly, "No… What you and your friends risked tonight with your gossip deserves a fate much worse than death. Loose tongues can stand to be loosened even further, don't you think?"

She would never forget their shrieks of agony. Nor could she forget the curious song of the drunken Rogue: the last words he would ever utter. Devon turned her face away from the men, flopping on the ground, gagging and clawing desperately at their throats. Their eyes were shocking-white in the darkness.

We do what we must, she thought, after she wiped the blade and before she vomited.

--

Devon staggered back to meet Calhan, who was equally shaken by the night's deeds. They retreated to the Iron Door tavern, at Devon's insistence, and at Calhan's suggestion they ordered supper. Now they were settled in a quiet corner booth of the tavern, with pints of ale and a plateful of bread and cold meats before them. Not surprisingly, the plate was untouched. Their pensive moods did not match the atmosphere of the Iron Door. At well past midnight, the tavern's boisterous nightlife was still going strong.

"Is there a fate worse than death?" Devon contemplated.

"Maybe not for a healer. But trust me, for most of us Rogues there are many things we can think of that are worse," replied Calhan.

"Like what?"

"Like losing the one you love most," he said.

"Don't kid me. I'd be dead by now."

Calhan dropped his gaze. "Sorry, I didn't realize. Atticus…"

"My godfather, yes… Supposedly killed by King Nathon's tax collectors when I was thirteen. I guess you know what really happened to him, since you managed to unravel my story last week," Devon shot a glance at him.

Calhan winced. "I hadn't meant it so seriously. Your version of his mysterious death is probably more likely than my conspiracy theory."

Devon thought about telling him the old Rogue's drunken song. Conary's foe… Conary was her godfather's last name. Was there a connection?

There was an awkward silence as Devon tried to decide how to approach Calhan on her intended subject.

He provided the perfect opening. "You wanted to talk to me about something?"

How should she start? "Do you… do you know anything about who's been attacking the Rogues lately?"

"Why? You suspect I had something to do with it?" Calhan said defensively.

"No, I suspect you were attacked by the same man."

He scoffed. "Man? I doubt it."

"Ha! So you have seen the killer."

"Yes. No! I mean…"

"That night you came to my room with those scratches. Those aren't fingernails marks, for sure. And the exotic knife that it used to stab them…"

Calhan looked at her, eyes blazing. "Okay, so I was there that night with Neal and Tom, alright? You don't have to prove it to me. I know the rumours are all true."

"But why did the killer spare you?"

"I wish it hadn't. At least I could've said I put up a good fight," he said bitterly.

Devon touched his arm. "It's not your fault they died."

"You can spare me the sentimentality. Look, I know they were idiots; everyone knows that. They'd probably have gotten themselves killed within five years anyway." He gulped down his ale and said quietly, "I guess I couldn't handle seeing them go like that."

"Only the heartless could see it without feeling it, Calhan. Life itself is a fight a death; I want to find out who did this and why."

"Be careful. Just don't find out the hard way," he warned.

Devon smiled and sipped her ale. "Considering that death isn't the worse fate that can befall me, any way should be pretty easy, right?"

Calhan regarded her seriously with his dark eyes. "I don't mean death. I meant the part about losing the one you love most."

Maybe it was the ale that was making her dizzy.

"What?" she said.

He leaned closer towards her. "I'm glad to be home again, Devon," he whispered.

At that moment, the iron doors of the Iron Door tavern were thrown open with a bang.

"She's here!" someone shouted.