Free Mistress of the Night by Don Bassingthwaite, Dave Gross Page B

many smells crowded onto the sea wind—water in vast quantity, of course, but beyond that...
    Trees and flowers she couldn't have named.
    Some powerful, bestial musk that sent a shiver down her back.
    Fresh turned soil.
    New cut wood.
    Lightning—far out on the sea, a storm was brewing.
    Some of the smells were probably her imagination, but they blended together in a perfume that set her heart racing and woke wanderlust within her.
    Maybe someday, she thought, someday when Arch Wood doesn't need me anymore.
    She drew a final deep breath and lowered her nose, turning to trot away from the water and back up to Moonshadow Hall.
    She had barely cleared the stink of the docks when a new smell sent her cringing back instinctively, teeth bared and fur on end—a dark smell, acrid, metallic, and foul. The wolf in her hated it. The human recognized it.
    Poison.
    No one with any honest business could be about with poison at that hour. Nose to the ground, Feena circled the trail once, then jogged along in the direction that seemed freshest. She gleaned more information as she went. A man carried the poison. He had been drinking, though not heavily, and his dinner had been some kind of spiced pork. The thick odor of clay clung to him—she would guess that he was a potter—but also the smell of cold, raw stone. It was a strange combination.
    She caught sight of her quarry just as he stepped into the street-level shadows of the Stiltways.
    A growl rumbled up from Feena's throat. She had
    been into the Stiltways as an acolyte, of course. It was all but impossible to live in Yhaunn without venturing into the district at least once. But even her human senses had reeled at the visual and auditory assault and it had taken her several visits to get used to the place. Crouched so low that she was almost crawling on her belly, her tail tucked tight between her legs, Feena creeped up to the intersection where the man had disappeared and peered inside.
    Dank, vile odors wafted out at her. Sounds of pleasure and celebration mixed with groans of misery and suffering. The bright lights and chaos of the Stiltways were, at least, mostly on the levels over her head. Down below, figures moved and stumbled in shadow, their way lit only by smoky torches and shafts of light from above.
    Her quarry was almost at the end of the street. The stink of the Stiltways masked the smell of the poison he carried. If she didn't follow, she would lose him.
    Bright Lady of the Night guide me, thought Feena.
    She rose and raced after him, the nails of her paws clicking on the stone of the street.
    The man stopped and turned at the sound.
    Feena plunged into the darkest of shadows. Another man curled up there, snoring and drunk. She hunkered down behind him as her quarry paused for a long moment, looking around—then moved on. Feena relaxed and rose.
    The drunk man stirred.
    "Fha... what?" he snorted. Bleary eyes focused on Feena's. "Nice dog," he slurred and reached out for her.
    She slipped away from his hand and trotted after her quarry, taking more care as she ran. She stayed close to the shadows, and low. The man walked briskly, almost nervously. It seemed that he knew where he was going, but that he wasn't entirely eager to get there—or to be seen on his way.
    He finally stopped again at the mouth of an alley. Feena curled into a doorway and watched as he looked furtively in all directions—up and down the street as well as up into the Stiltways above—then stepped quickly into
    the shadows. He'd reached his destination. She darted up to the mouth of the alley and peered down it.
    Beyond its narrow neck of a mouth, the alley opened up into a small courtyard that been practically buried by the platforms and walkways above it. Noise and some illumination drifted down from the levels overhead. Feena's quarry stood in the freckled shadows, a large dark flask in one hand as he fumbled with the heavy wooden cover on a low stone structure. A number of pipes pierced the wood,