Chapter One

For Lilia Maura Smith

At first, I thought they were mummies. But the three shriveled husks of desiccated flesh lying in Pig Alley were simply three dead men who had been sucked dry to the bone by—well, I really wasn't sure what had done it.

A crowd as thick as flies on a dung heap gathered at the mouth of the alley, straining their necks to see the bodies. A dozen Knights of the Purple Hand, the royal constabulary in the city of Valdar, kept them at bay. The soldiers were well-armed and mounted on huge unicats. Unicats make me nervous. Their fur stinks, they're usually ill-tempered, and that long horn on their heads could skewer a man from bowels to brains. I prefer a horse or even a good, honest muledog.

I ignored the crowd and knelt to examine the bodies more closely.

There were no apparent wounds or any sign that the dead men had been physically harmed. Yet their flesh felt as dry as dust and had more wrinkles than the sheets on a harlot's bed. Long beards, gray robes and turbans, and a five-pointed star tattooed on the left side of their necks marked them as Ashammic goldwalkers. Bankers, goldsmiths, and jewelers often hired Ashammites as couriers: they were honest to a fault and masters of the sword. Ashammic priests paid big money to the Guild of Thieves for protection throughout the kingdom of Rojahndria. No cutpurse in his right mind would dare assault them ... and yet, three swords lay scattered about the alley, the blades bent and twisted. Something had attacked these men, and they had fought to the death. <