*

Fathoms Gate differed from all the other manifold city gates in Munazyr's outer wall. It more resembled a town all its own, situated at the base of the steep bluffs on the city's northern edge, isolated from the waters of Brightmoon Bay and reachable via an elaborate series of step-streets. Merchant mariners cursed hauling loads of cargo up those steps, and so this natural port had become more popular with passenger ships, from ferries across to the Wicked Cliffs to pleasure cruises bound for the Azure Sea. Wealthier passengers could rent the service of litters to carry them up the precipitous step-streets, while humbler travelers had to sweat their way to the top. A few enterprising tavern keepers had set up stalls at many of the step-streets' landings, so there was no reason to want for an invigorating drink while making the climb. Around a thousand people called the little suburb home, nearly all of them associated with the city's shipping trade in some way.

Ammas had been wrong as far as needing the harbormaster, at least. By the time Denisius and Vos reached the bottom of the step-street Fathoms Gate was in full operation. While none of the various travel offices and portage companies were particularly crowded, they were all open for business. As the city clocks were striking eight, Denisius and Vos were on their way to their fourth office, Denisius shuffling through a stack of passage contracts and growing increasingly irritable.

"But why are we haggling, Vos? Ammas wants us to leave as quickly as possible."

"He also wants us not to attract attention. Nothing says 'desperate' like allowing yourself to get rooked on the travel costs out of wherever you happen to be fleeing from. And no one likes to rook a young Malachite nobleman more than a Munazyri dockworker."

"I'm not dressed as a nobleman."

"Forgive me, milord, but the only way these men wouldn't recognize you for what you are is if you peeled off your skin and put on someone else's." Denisius fumed, but Vos smiled and clapped him heartily on the back. "Don't worry. You're doing much better than you were in Gallowsport. Now wait here a moment. I want an ale. Dealing with these thieves is thirsty work."

"I'll take one myself. I have to deal with you."

Vos laughed and stepped into a makeshift stall too modest even to have a name. The smell of frying fish drifted from it in a mouthwatering cloud. On a little stage beside it, a dark-skinned dancer performed for coppers. Early for it, Denisius thought, but she had a respectable pile of coin at her bare feet. Not dark enough for a Summervale girl, or even Q'Sivari, but more like those folk who live close to the white sands of the Ismenian Coast, growing steadily darker over the course of the summer and paling every winter. Her silks were colorful and flamboyant, though nowhere near as revealing as Demelza the tiger-dancer's had been.

With a twirl she smiled at Denisius, over the heads of the pair of sailors who were clapping and tossing coins. The young Lord Marhollow felt himself almost physically returned to the the Four Winds, except now he was imagining Carala dancing -- and dressed -- like Demelza. Blushing he buried himself in the contracts, seating himself by the fishmonger's door on a rough wooden bench.

"I see you admired my handiwork." Denisius looked up, startled, and was reminded even more forcefully of the way Demelza had taken him unawares the previous night. He wondered perhaps if he were still drunk, or maybe just hadn't gotten enough sleep. The dancer had seemed to move that quietly. But there was none of Demelza's playful mischief in this girl's vivid green eyes. The smile on her lips was so predatory as to appear cruel, and she stood stiffly, arms crossed over her breasts.

"Erm, I did like your dancing, yes." With one hand he tried to keep hold of the contracts; the other moved slowly to the hilt of his sword. Whatever this girl had in mind, her intentions seemed far less friendly than Demelza's had been. "Would you excuse me? My man is inside, and he -- "

"I have yet to see you dance, Denisius Gallis. I have heard how well your man dances. And I saw myself how well your friend the cursewright dances."

Denisius stared, gape-jawed. Icy water seemed to have flooded his belly; was trickling down his shoulder blades. "Who are you?"

"I think you know who I am, Denisius Gallis. There are many of us. We want our wolf princess. We will not leave her in the hands of this broken-down magician. She does not belong to you. She does not belong to her human father, whatever throne he holds." Those brilliant green eyes were not merely green, Denisius slowly realized -- they were the inscrutable, hungry eyes of a wolf, glittering with a fiendish intelligence. "Do what you are doing. Flee this place. But go with your man, or else alone. Him we will deal with in time. It need not be now."

The dancer sauntered closer to him, bending down as if to kiss him. Rich woodland scents, wild and yearning, flooded his nostrils, and even in his fear Lord Marhollow could not deny her terrible beauty. Those eyes seemed to drink in the whole of his consciousness; Fathoms Gate might have been no more than a faded painting around them.

"Go. Leave. The cursewright dies under the moon tonight. The tattooed monster who killed my Jossel dies tonight, and slowly, as slowly as the air was crushed from Jossel's throat. The boy, perhaps we give him a little bite," she snapped her jaws at Denisius's nose. Denisius flinched, shrinking back. Her teeth were sharp, much too sharp. The woman laughed throatily. "Or perhaps he dies too. It is all in the hands of the beloved white moon. But leave, if you value your skin."

A slender, gentle hand caressed Denisius's forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. The dancer cocked her head to one side, smiling her awful toothy smile. Denisius shuddered as he felt her breath hot on his jaw, her nose tracing his cheek. Uselessly his hand gripped the hilt of his sword. Perhaps he would draw it, but she could tear his throat out with her teeth long before he used it, wolf or woman. A chuckle rippled his flesh.

"Do as the white moon wishes, and in time perhaps our wolf princess will visit you, some bright night in Marhollow. You spared her life, perhaps she will want you as a mate after all. But for now -- leave. Or die with the cursewright."

Smoothly the dancer slipped away, vanishing into the crowd. Vos found his master trembling and drenched with sweat only a few minutes later. It took minutes for Denisius to regain his feet, and far longer for him to talk Vos out of pursuing the woman and putting her to the sword. By then, she was nowhere to be seen anyway.