turn against us when they're hungry, driven by superstition and fear. Vahanian offers us a way of doing business we've not seen before, a full partnership where we've only ever lurked in the shadows. Why shouldn't we support that?"
Uri looked from Riqua to Gabriel and the others. Malesh saw the hard glint that came to his maker's eyes, a look that meant Uri had reached his limit. "We're not meant to partner with mortals. We're meant to rule. Like the wolf rules the forest," he said with a glance toward Yestin. "We are the top predator. It's the way of nature. The strongest wins. And that is the will of the Lady." He glared at Gabriel. "I'll stop baiting your precious mortal lord when he proves to me that he can win his prize in fair combat. And if you can choose to break the truce as you see fit, then so can I. My patience with the Council is over."
Malesh followed Uri from the room, studiously keeping his expression neutral. That couldn't have gone better if I'd been Uri's puppet master. The truce is dead. Uri's cut off from the rest of the Council. He's declared Vahanian fair game. Uri's soft and slow. He's about to find out just what the top predator looks like. They're worried about the Lady's will. But it's my will that is going to remake Dark Haven- and there's not a thing their precious Council can do about it.
CAM STOOD OUTSIDE the inn for half a candlemark, watching patrons come and go from the shadow of an alley across the street. Overhead, the winter wind snapped at the pieces of laundry forgotten by their owners for the night, left to freeze on the lines. Behind him, a cat yowled. The alley smelled of urine and rotted food, and only the night's chill prevented it from smelling even worse.
The Stray Dog Inn lived up to its name. Aberponte was Isencroft's palace city, but the streets where its wealthiest residents lived were far from these twisted alleys. This was home to the city's poorest residents, the people whose luck had let them down. The Stray Dog Inn made no pretense of long-faded glory. It was clear that the Stray Dog's building had been many things over the years, none of them very successful. Its thatched roof was bare in places, and the plaster beside the door was stained and cracked. A drunk slept off his wine near the front steps, unlikely to ever wake up again in this cold.
It was the kind of place Cam might have brought a dozen soldiers to shut down, either for cheating on taxes or rigging the card games. Tonight, Cam wore an old set of tunic and trews he had borrowed, from one of the palace's gardeners. The clothes were stained, worn, and appropriately smelling of dirt; he hoped to fit right in. Two weeks had pas'sed since Cam's return from the wedding in Mar-golan. For most of that time, he had been watching the patrons come and go at the Stray Dog Inn. Checking first in both directions, Cam entered the inn.