"Someone hired him to divine it, fool," I snarl.

"Who?"

"Well, I think the humans might be a pretty good guess, don't you?" I reply sarcastically. "They want us cowed and servile. Powerless. Anything that threatens their grip gets eradicated. They must have figured out we have our own little underground here. And they don't like the idea of bosses and armed enforcers. Because they're the only ones who get to have authority. Who get to have real weapons. So they hired this sorcerer to divine the details so they can take us out in one quick and dirty purge."

"That makes sense," Bolin says. "But you don't have to be a jerk about it."

Enturi laughs. "You don't know him very well, do you?"

I am angry with Enturi's smug implication even though I know he's right. I sigh.

"Sorry," I mumble, only a little resentfully. "I'm in a bit of pain here."

"Sorry!" Bolin says, abashed. "Let me look at that." I have never seen a dwarf blush before. Red as a beet under his beard. Heh. He hurries over to examine my cheek and chest wounds. The stinger hit my breastbone, which was apparently a bit of luck for me. Bolin does another healing invocation, focusing on me, Lynae, and himself this time. It's not as powerful as the one at Calmorien's warehouse, but strong enough to close up my wounds and remove some of the burning pain, soften the bruise on Lynae's temple, and return a bit of vigor to the dwarf. Bolin then rubs a salve on my wounds, rough dwarven fingers strangely gentle. I am still in enough pain that sleep seems an unlikely proposition tonight. Maybe a few ales will help. After we report to Jet, anyway.

No one feels like scavenging the candles or incense burners. We all have a pouchful of gold from Calmorien's warehouse. Why risk a curse from a ritualistic talisman? Especially ones set to such dark purpose.

I think we ought to burn the place down. Enturi opposes the idea, naturally. Doesn't want to draw immediate attention to the warehouse. And, he argues, our 'message' may be lost in the fire. He's got a point there.

The only access to the second floor is via the rope ladder or the trapdoor. Jeamo really did not want anyone to discover his activities, which certainly makes sense. I wonder if he owned the other half of the first floor of the warehouse, or it was vacant. Even absent screams, one would be tipped off by the blood that must have dripped through the floorboards.

Back in the room with the dead ogre, Lynae discovers the mechanism for opening the warehouse door below. We pull the door open a couple cubits, just enough for Bolin, the heaviest member of our group, to squeeze out. The dwarf seems nervous, edgy. Now that it's time to get out of here, I figure out why.

Bolin's fear of falling is severe. He refuses to climb down the rope ladder, in spite of my swearing and Enturi's entreaties. So we lower him down on the trapdoor while he clings tightly to the chains. I have new respect for that half-ogre's strength. The three of us struggle to lower Bolin without dropping him. Stinking dwarves are made of stone, they say, and they sure weigh enough to prove it. Rat's filth, having him along has been one hassle after another. Still, he made a difference today. Without him, we wouldn't have known about the twilight sleep. We would have been too wounded to continue on to Jeamo's studio after taking out Calmorien, and the patrician would probably have escaped Jet's vengeance.

I sigh and follow the other two elves down the rope ladder.

Dockside is too busy outside this warehouse - too close to the central docking district - to risk being seen leaving the dead man's head on a stake in the street or painting the blood warning on the exterior wall. So I hang the head by its hair from the right rear wagon handle. Gruesome, but effective, it will be the first thing anyone sees upon entering the building. There is not a lot of fresh blood though, so I carve 'Murderer of Norien' into the back of the wagon and trace the words with a bit of mud I dig out of a puddle outside.

"Well, as vengeance goes, that's a good day's work," I say. "Jet ought to be pleased." For once, Enturi doesn't have an insulting rejoinder. He looks thoughtful. Probably considering the larger ramifications of the information we obtained. Well, let him ponder as we walk. I am tired, hungry, thirsty, and in pain, and just want to get to the other side of our report to the boss.