“Charna’s guts!” Vancha roared. “You go too far!” He threw himself at her and they rolled across the floor of the tent. He was punching and kicking at the witch, but she only laughed and tossed him clear. As he landed, he whipped a star from his belt and launched it at her head.

Evanna plucked the deadly throwing star from the air and calmly picked her teeth with one of the prongs. “Still playing with your shurikens?” she mumbled. “I thought you would have found a new toy by now.”

Vancha looked like he would attack again, but in the end he threw back his head and laughed. “By the gods of the vampires, you’re a piece of work! Come, let’s drink toasts to absent friends and sing songs of the old nights.”

“I will drink with you anytime, my dear,” Evanna said. “And with your companions too.” She clicked her fingers at the servants. “Milk for Master March.” Then she looked at the others. “Ale, I suppose?”

“Aye!” Larten and Wester exclaimed.

“Why not?” Seba added with a smile.

Barrels of the finest ale Larten had ever tasted were brought, and the rest of the night was a blur for him from that moment on.

Chapter Eight

Larten woke in the afternoon with a pounding head.

He was in a hammock, though he had no recollection of getting into it. As he rose, he saw that someone had painted a series of tattoos on his hand with a piece of charcoal or some similar marker. He frowned, thought about making investigations, then decided he was better not knowing. Groaning, he made his way to a barrel of rainwater outside and dunked his head.

When he came up for air, one of Evanna’s assistants — the one with the dark hair and gray eyes — was standing beside him, holding out a mug of something hot and steaming.