Riposte.

Two expensive chimes later, I emerged from the King's Harbor gate. It grieved me to be leaving the stalls and warehouses that could easily have outfitted my expedition West, but I was running out of time, and desperate to see Prior Bessik.

As the foul smells of the city enfolded me once more, my paranoia returned. I kept a hand on my baldric so it could protect the coat pocket wherein all my worldly treasures were enumerated and promised to other people; my remaining wealth on a pair of bank notes, and Tyella's claim on my heart as effectively on the other.

I glanced over my shoulder. Had someone just ducked behind a barrel?

I lengthened my stride. Thieves were not unheard of in the city, but I could think of no reason I would be followed. It seemed doubtful anyone had spied on my transactions at the bank, and less likely that anyone who knew me would think I had valuables.

I loosened my sword in its sheath by a finger's breadth. A random footpad would find me no easy mark.

I passed onto Cathedral Row and a sudden cacophony of the city's bells struck me from every direction at once. I clapped hands over my ears to block the waves of sound, each house of worship advertising its mythos with noise-makers unique to its culture and patrons. The bells, horns, tambours, drums and chimes sounded two long, discordant blasts, then fell silent.

Second bell already—only two more before my appointment at Sir Divon's home. Nowhere in the city was it harder to escape the passage of time than on the long avenue that quarantined Dollif's famed religious ward.

Holy places of all varieties stood in mis-matched clusters down the avenue like colorful fungal growth on a fallen log; a melting pot for all the world's faithful. Dollif's religious freedom, hard won during three brutal wars with the church, had inspired one of the strangest and most competitive spiritual economies in the world. Alongside hundreds of trade-folk, tourists and pilgrims, I braved the gauntlet of callers and priests peddling every philosophy and pantheon in Terrok; each seeking to corner the market on the human soul.

I moved quickly. Though the blessings—offered by men and women as varied in dress and appearance as the temples they advocated—might have been useful, lacking a soul of my own I could afford to shrug off their gods' judgmental marble eyes. Only one building on Temple Row held my interest. Dominating the end of the broad avenue, surrounded by parks, monuments and orchards, towered the monolithic Cathedral of One.

Father Bessik's priory was on the grounds of the High Temple of the Mighty One, a rectangular edifice so embellished with carved symbols and polished gold leaf, it was difficult to see the strong lines of its basic structure. Colorful glass windows and peaked arches perforated the gothic veneer in rhythmic patterns of three, from the veined red entrance steps to the very top of the massive white central tower more than three chains above the street.

It was an impressive structure, taller than any building within a hundred leagues, and the third largest house of worship on the continent, or so it was said. On a thoroughfare crowded with structures designed to impress, the cathedral loomed over all like a predatory griffon among doves.

I stepped around a cross-legged monk meditating at a roadside shrine, and had just passed a group of black-robed Lundorans in veils, when a large man bashed into me on the opposite side.

"Watch where you are going, swine!" he sputtered in fury as he staggered away.

I clenched my teeth on a scathing retort.

Since quitting drink my patience had suffered mightily, and it was all I could do to fight through the red haze to make myself see reason. I was not at fault. His manner was obviously calculated to incite, and I was in too much of a hurry to take notice of so obvious a ploy. A fortnight prior, that drunk could have been me.

And I had been called out many times because of it, part of me argued. What made this fellow any better?

I quickly memorized the cut and slashes of the man's blue doublet and the iridescent black of the feather in his wide-brimmed hat. His dress was not expensive—fine cut wool, not silk—and I couldn't see his face any longer, but fashion being what it was, few gentlemen would wear anything but a unique suit of clothes outdoors. If I described the fellow to Pertuli, chances were he could get me a lead through the man's tailor.

I turned back toward the cathedral and suddenly there was a rope around my throat. On instinct, my hands flew to the line and before it closed off my air, I had a few fingers under it on either side of my windpipe.

"Murder!" I shouted—or would have, if the words hadn't been strangled by the cord biting into my larynx. It grew tighter as I was dragged kicking into a dark alley between two high-walled shrines, dark robed figures closing in around me and shrouding me from view of the throngs scant paces away.

My vision swam, and I had the random thought that I should have kept Tyella's letter and the bank notes in different pockets. They would have my money, but at least the more valuable of the papers would be safe.

Just as the darkness began to close in, a female voice rang out loudly, causing the men to turn deeper into the alley.

"Hey!" it challenged. "You shadow snipes too craven to face someone with a blade in hand?"

I couldn't see her, but it was a Tilwen voice. One I hadn't heard in many years... could it be—Tyella? My heart leapt, and not just from palpitations. The cord loosened with distraction, and I'd never been so thankful to suck in a few wheezing breaths of pungent city air.

"Well? Get 'er!" Someone behind me commanded. "Don' want no witnesses." His irritated voice sounded familiar, but the notion was peripheral. Stars flew about the edges of my vision.

The sound of steel on steel clattered off the walls of the alley as first two, then all four of my dark robed assailants moved to face my unseen savior. The cord slackened a little, allowing me a trickle of air.

The end of a long curved blade appeared, darting out of a thug's back like a snake's tongue before vanishing. He fell to his knees with a gurgle of pain and his comrades rushed in to fill the opening over his still groaning body.

"Ha!" The woman crowed. "Four of ya dark-eyed backstabbers and I'll still feed ya steel. Run while you have the chance!"

Her bravado was commendable, but the assassins weren't buying it. Three on one were bad odds, even for an accomplished fencer. They couldn't know that Tyella was one of the best. She grunted as she blocked a heavy blow from a short blade. I was happy for the rescue, but if I didn't do something fast, we would both be finished.

Or, with luck, she would fight her way free while I was slowly throttled.

I had only survived so long because my fingers, trapped under the cord, gave me some protection, but it also made pulling a blade impossible.

Another black-robed figure fell, clutching at his throat.

I went limp, using my dead weight from the shoulders down to pull my attacker forward, then kicked my legs about in strangled panic—barely an act—to cover the fact that I was gathering them under me. When both scrambling boots were in place at the same time, I lurched upward and threw my head back with all my remaining strength. With a satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage it connected, and I was free.

"Aghh!" the assassin cried, his hands going to the wet mush behind his veil.

I scrambled forward on broken cobblestones, heaving great gasps of stinking alley air. I ripped my dagger free and rolled, catching the jambiya blow I knew would be coming. Those who make a habit of garroting men in broad daylight were either desperate or stupid enough to risk being caught, and difficult to dissuade by minor injuries like broken noses.

What surprised me, as I caught his wrist in my free hand and he mine in his, was who was standing behind him, urging the assassin on.

"Sparking kill him, you hook-nosed swine!" The man in the blue wool doublet spat. This little ambuscade took on a decidedly more sinister aspect. "You are not being paid to make a spectacle of this!" He drew the smallsword at his side. "Oh, move over—I'll do it."

My head was still swimming, arms weak as I fought to regain my breath. Having a score-stone man over me, using that weight to edge a wicked blade toward my face wasn't helping, but I knew I didn't want blue doublet to 'do it.' I fought with all my might to keep the Lundoran between us.

Desperately, I tried to Manifest, but it was no use. Whether it was the blood from my smelly assassin's broken nose dripping in my eyes or the fact that this wasn't quite the heroic battle of champions I typically identified with, I just wasn't able to focus on the spirit of Terrok. For a brief moment the flow of radiance shifted around me, swirling in odd colors and directions because of the religious pollution in the area, then was gone.

Though the swirling colors could as easily have been a lack of oxygen...

"Out of my way!" Doublet growled, catching the assassin's shoulder and throwing him aside. My dagger hand flew out to my right with the sudden loss of pressure, and Doublet thrust his smallsword home.

"Aahhh!" I cried, as the thin blade pierced my doublet, slid between ribs and through my left lung. The blade withdrew, and cold fear washed over me as the metal tugged through my chest. It rose and fell again, fire and shock piercing my body a second time. I groaned. My dagger clattered to the ground. The smallsword rose a third time, but a wordless screech made it pause.

"What the blazes?" he cried, indignant. "Ivy?" His words were cut off by the impact of a small, ferocious body, cutting and tearing into him, wild dark hair flowing behind.

But Ella has silver hair, I thought, confused. The world swirled around me and swallowed me in deep red darkness.