Blue eyes blinked with feline innocence. "Mrowwwr?" Her soft head butted against his hand, begging for a chin scratch. With a sigh, he obliged, then fished a treat from his coat pocket and held it out so she could nibble it from his fingers.

"Spoiled puss," he chided with a fond smile, "Now be good, hmm?" He gave her head a final scratch and closed the pouch flap again.

Lord Bolor and his friend passed through the pub door. Gaspare darted after them. The lieutenant appeared to be heading back to the barracks, while Lord Bolor had turned left and was walking down the cobbled street towards the wharf.

Gaspare waited for him to turn the corner, then followed. He kept his distance, but even so, once or twice when Lord Bolor paused or turned his head, Gaspare had to flatten himself against the side of a building or dodge into an alleyway to avoid being seen. Love, fortunately, kept her silence.

He turned down one of the narrow side streets leading to the wharf, and his steps slowed. He frowned at the empty street. Lord Bolor had turned down this street, he was sure of it, but the narrow, cobbled way was empty. He turned around, searching the dank, shadowy corners of the buildings that lined either side of the street, but there was no sign of Lord Bolor.

Had the man realized he was being followed and sped up in an effort to lose his pursuer?

Gaspare jogged towards the far end of the street, hoping to catch sight of his quarry there, but Love began to hiss and then to screech in protest. The sides of the leather courier's pouch bulged and writhed. Near the end of the street, just a stone's throw from the Velpin River, he paused to flip open the flap of Love's carrying pouch and hissed, "Quiet, Love! He'll hear you!"

A cold, familiar voice said, 'Too late" and Gaspare spun around in shock. His eyes went wide. The breath rushed from his lungs in a sudden, painful rush as ice stabbed into his belly and ripped its way up to his chest.

The empty air of the alleyway shimmered with faint sparkles of light, and the figure of Lord Bolor became visible. His eyes were bottomless wells of darkness that glittered with malevolent red lights. The corner of his mouth curled in a sneer. "Did your mother never tell you. Master Fellows, that curiosity killed the cat?"

Impaled to the hilt on a blade clutched in Lord Bolor's hand, Gaspare couldn't twitch a muscle. He could literally feel his blood and his soul being sucked out of him, as if the blade in his belly were some evil, ravenous leech.

Bolor's terrifying eyes flashed, and the hand clutching the dagger gave a hard thrust, driving the weapon deeper. He lifted his free hand towards Gaspare's face. "Before you die, you're going to tell me everything you've seen and everyone you've told about it."

Magic gathered at his fingertips. Sensing it, Love screeched like the possessed and struggled out of her pouch. Needle-sharp claws dug into Gaspare's side as she scrambled up his torso. When she reached his shoulder, she launched herself, claws bared, fur standing on end, straight into Lord Bolor's face.

Bolor gave a shout of surprise and stumbled back, flailing as the crazed cat clawed at his face.

Gaspare could feel his strength draining away. His hands gripped the hilt of the blade buried in his belly and yanked it free. A dark jewel, glowing deep red, topped the end of the wavy black blade. Clutching the hilt in one hand and his bleeding abdomen with the other, he staggered into the road that ran alongside the river. "Help," he cried weakly. "Help me."

In the alley. Love gave a mighty screech. Gaspare glanced back to see Lord Bolor peel the kitten off his face and fling her to the cobbles. Love landed hard, but on her feet, and arched her back, hissing and spitting. A ball of glowing blue-white light formed in Lord Bolor's palm. Gaspare had never seen Mage Fire, but he'd heard about it and seen depictions of it in the war paintings hanging in the National Museum of Art.

"Run, Love!" he cried as Bolor flung the ball of deadly magic at the kitten. Gaspare still clutched the Mage's knife in his hand. He threw it at Bolor with all of his rapidly dwindling strength. The blade fell short of its mark, but the distraction was enough to jar Bolor's aim. His Mage Fire hit the side of the building, a bare handspan from Love's head. The brick wall of the building simply ... disappeared.

Love screeched and skittered away, darting around the corner of the building.

The Mage whirled on Gaspare, his snarling face hatched with bleeding furrows. A fresh ball of Mage fire gathered in his palm.

Blood poured from Gaspare's wound, soaking the fine wool of his trousers. His mouth had gone dry, his knees weak. He knew he was dying. Even so, when the Mage drew back his hand to launch his lethal magic, Master Fellows knew that was not the way he wanted to leave this world.

The ball of blue-white light came roaring towards him. Gaspare did the only thing he could: He turned and dove for the Velpin.

Nour cursed as he watched Gaspare Fellows disappear over the stone embankment lining the river. He dabbed at his bleeding face and hissed at the resulting stab of pain. Darkness take the meddling little rultshart—and that demon-spawn cat of his, too.

Celieria's Master of Graces had made a regular nuisance of himself, always showing up at inconvenient times and ruining Nour's plans to ingratiate himself with Celieria's queen. And now this. That Mage Fire would bring every Fey in the city.

Nour spun swift weaves to erase the signs of his presence, then ran across the road to finish off whatever was left of Fellows, but when he peered over the embankment to the river below, there was no sign of the Master of Graces.