walls. Despite the fact that rain could fall freely inside, the pool basin below had always remained dry.
She nimbly padded down the black iron stairway, alighting at the bottom and heading toward her secret cache. She stopped abruptly when she heard voices.
Bandits. She couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but she could see them through the rubble, not fifty paces away. She quickly slipped into the shadow of a large unearthed boulder. How stupid she had been- approaching so carelessly, without even glancing down into the cavern! Fortunately, the intruders appeared not to have noticed her.
A tingling spread along her collarbone. It was a sensation she had experienced only a few times before, always a forewarning of serious danger. While others felt chills up their spines, hers apparently traveled up her spine and continued across her shoulders. Previously, however, the heightened perception had alerted her to perils more extraordinary than a handful of brigands. When her intuition kicked in, it usually meant something very, very bad lay in wait
Her instincts must be working overtime today. Nevertheless, they'd saved her life before. She glanced back the way she'd come, assessing the possibility of a silent retreat.
Too risky. The iron grillwork stairway was far too exposed, and she'd been fortunate to escape notice the first time. Stifling a sigh, she turned her attention back to the bandits. If she couldn't leave, she might as well see what these visitors were up to-and make sure they didn't get too close to her cache.
There were three of them, young men with a week's growth of stubble on their faces and a lifetime's worth of maliciousness in their dark eyes. They hadn't observed her because they were arguing among themselves over a sack the largest man gripped tightly in his fist As their voices rose in anger, she caught snatches of their conversation.
'… said we'd split it evenly, Urdek!'
'That's right. A quarter for each of you, a quarter for me, and-' the large man, Urdek, flashed a stiletto-'a quarter for my friend here.'
Kestrel silently shook her head. There truly was no honor among thieves. Urdek's betrayal illustrated precisely why she worked alone.
The two smaller men produced daggers as well. One of them approached Urdek, muttering something Kestrel couldn't make out. Urdek swiftly kicked the dagger out of his opponent's grasp, sending the weapon flying to the ground with a wet splat.
The sound caught more of Kestrel's attention than the ensuing fight. She shifted her position to get a better look at the ground where the dagger had landed. It lay in a puddle of muddy water. Tiny rivulets of brown liquid streamed into it from the direction of the dry pool.
Which was no longer dry.
She gasped. In one rainless night, the basin had filled with amber fluid. Its surface lay smooth as a mirror, not a single ripple marring the stillness. The water caught the late afternoon sunlight, seeming to infuse it with a golden glow. To someone unfamiliar with its history, the pond appeared almost serene.
Almost. Around its perimeter, nothing grew. The moss and weeds that had begun to spring up around the dry basin had withered and fallen to dust. Shriveled, skeletal husks lay dead where just yesterday thistles had flourished. The lifeless band of earth extended two feet from the rim of the pool, nearly reaching the scuffling bandits.
Kestrel turned her gaze back to them. Urdek had killed his weaponless comrade and disarmed the other. The smaller man tripped as he backed away, landing near the dead man's dagger. He grabbed for it.
And screamed.
At first Kestrel thought the puddle's liquid burned away the skin it had touched, but the stench that drifted toward her soon revealed otherwise.
The man's flesh was rotting off his bones.
As she and Urdek watched in horrified fascination, the tissue and muscle of his hand turned green, then brown, then black in the space of seconds. Finally it disintegrated, exposing a skeletal claw.
The rot continued up his arm, to his torso and the rest of his body. Putrid hunks of flesh and decomposing organs fell into the dirt until finally the decay crept up his neck. White hair sprouted from his head; the skin on his face withered. His eyes dried up and shriveled until they became nothing more than two gaping sockets.
The once-human creature lurched to its feet still clutching the dagger. Its scream of pain now a murderous cry, it advanced on Urdek.
Kestrel turned and ran as fast as her nimble legs could carry her, not caring how much noise she made.
'Now can you tell me?'
Kestrel lowered the shotglass back to the table and shuddered-whether from the liquor or the memory of what she had witnessed earlier, she couldn't say. She shook her head at Ragnall. 'One more. At least.'
'You'll regret this in the morning, you know. I've never known you to drink firewine before.' Nat's firewine, the Bell's house liquor, was said to be distilled from wine mulled in the inn's washtub. It was also said to pack a nasty wallop. Despite his warning, Ragnall signaled to the barmaid for another shot.
Kestrel regarded her friend. At least, Ragnall was the closest thing she'd had to a friend in a long time-the fair-haired scoundrel had never betrayed her, which was more than she could say for most of her acquaintances.
The only person she'd ever really trusted in her life had been Quinn, the old rogue who had found her in a burned-out house when she'd been barely old enough to walk. Quinn had raised her as a daughter, at first trying to protect her from the shady side of his life but eventually teaching her everything he knew. At the age of seven she was winning bets from unsuspecting tavern patrons by throwing daggers with amazing accuracy. At nine, her mentor had deemed her old enough to dabble in minor illegal activities like picking pockets. By twelve she was learning more lucrative-but also more dangerous-skills.
Then Quinn had died.
That had been ten years ago, and she'd survived on her own ever since. All she had left of him was the knowledge he'd passed on to her and a custom-made club he'd commissioned. The compact steel baton was easy to conceal, but with the flick of a wrist it telescoped to thrice its size. She'd lost track of how many times the weapon-and Quinn's training with it-had saved her life. While daggers were her weapon of choice, the club sometimes proved more practical.
Though there had been times when she'd wished for Quinn's advice or guidance, years had passed since she wanted to talk to him as badly as she did tonight-not as a master thief, but as the only parental figure she'd ever known. The scene at the pool had shaken her more than she thought possible.
Quinn was gone, and she was an adult now. She pulled her thoughts back to the present conversation and Ragnall's admonition about the firewine. 'I'll be fine,' she said. 'You know I could drink you under this table if I wanted to.'
'I know,' he conceded. 'I've witnessed it.'
Kestrel rarely drank to excess. In her profession, it was too risky not to be in full possession of one's faculties. She didn't intend to get drunk this evening, just dull the tingling in her collarbone. Though she'd fled Valjevo Castle hours ago, the sensation hadn't ceased. If her adrenaline didn't stop pumping at this rate, she'd be too exhausted to leave town in the morning.
Which is exactly what she planned to do. Phlan could keep its creepy Pool of Radiance and the undead creatures it spawned. She was moving on.
The serving wench returned with the liquor bottle. She refilled the shotglass, which Kestrel immediately emptied and slid forward for more.
'Slow down, Kes-you'll make yourself ill.' Ragnall turned to the barmaid. 'Bring us two tankards of ale instead.'
Kestrel made no objection. The firewine was burning a hole in her gut anyway. 'And some bread and cheese,' she added.
She looked around, taking in the atmosphere of Nat Wyler's Bell one last time. Though she'd called it home for several months, she wouldn't miss this dingy little corner of Phlan. The common room had a hard-packed dirt floor and rushes that hadn't been changed in years. The tables and walls were scratched and scarred. At its best, the fare was mediocre. Her corn-husk mattress upstairs was in desperate need of restuffing. The inn's main
