"Stupid punk!" I mutter to myself, changing direction. Well, piss. If I bring him to my place, at least I'll be able to get my bread at a decent hour in the morning. We won't be making this a habit, though. I expect he's learned his lesson and will be a bit more careful from now on.

There's a ship being loaded near the center of the port. I get a few odd, scared looks as I pass by the dockworkers, and I pull my hood down further over my face. The scar on my cheek must be ugly. Once I move past that operation, Dockside is deserted. Just me and the rain. I keep my weapons in hand, under my cloak. Any lurking cutthroats who think me an easy mark are in for a surprise.

There are few lights in Elftown after dark. Here, at the southeastern tip of the port, there are no lights. If any of the merchants who own these warehouses have living chambers inside, there is no light leaking out from shuttered windows to show it. Good. Just the way I like it.

A sudden flash of lightning reveals Calmorien's head, right where I left it. The eyes and ears are gone, pecked out by gulls, most likely. Guess the humans haven't been down to investigate yet. They would have removed the head if they had been. On the other hand, it's not like they care about elves killing other elves, as long as it doesn't interfere with the running of the elf labor industries.

The door is open half a cubit. I slide it open a little further, just wide enough to slip inside, and slide my hood back. I'm glad to be out of the rain, even though the strong unpleasant stench of fish sauce permeates the air. I pause just inside the warehouse. Even my elven eyes need a few moments to adjust to the dark in here. I can see the high windows, squares slightly less dark than the walls. Then the room comes faintly into focus. I notice a pale light above my head, but when I look up, it moves behind me. I whirl around, but it is above me again. The hell?

Then I remember. The bug's leaking eyes. I slide my sickle into my belt and reach up and tousle my hair. My hand comes away glowing with pale phosphorescence. Great. No wonder the dockworkers recoiled. I better wash the residue out of my hair. Well, after I am done in here. For now, the faint light is helping me see in the soot-black warehouse. 

I move down the hall to the chamber where we surprised Calmorien. The bodies of the two guards I killed still lie by the door. Calmorien's headless corpse rests next to the nameless bodyguard's near the table. And there, on the floor, are the three children, carefully covered by Bolin's cloak. I should take the cloak with me and return it to the dwarf, along with the silver he tossed me. Or maybe I'll just give the cloak and the silver to Alvar. He needs them more. 

I move quietly over to the children. They look just as we had left them, eyes open, staring vacantly.

Except . . . .

Except the rivulet of dried blood running from the corner of the girl's mouth. The hell? I pull off the cloak. The children are dead. Someone slid a blade deep into the center of their necks, piercing their little windpipes. Dried blood paints their necks and pools darkly underneath them.

I thought I could no longer be outraged by depravity. I was wrong. 

As I kneel next to the murdered elf-children, rage begins to burn inside of me, heating up like a stoked furnace. 

Goddess damn it, I hate this place. I hate it.

Why were these street rats killed? It makes no sense. The murders serve no purpose. What could killing them possibly accomplish? I glance around the room. Everything else seems undisturbed, just the way we had left it earlier in the day. Maybe someone didn't want to leave any witnesses behind. The dwarf said those in the twilight sleep awoke with no memory of what had happened. But maybe whoever killed Alvar didn't know that. Or maybe someone was afraid the children would remember things that happened before they were drugged, things that implicated others beyond Jeamo and Calmorien. Could a friend or business associate of Calmorien's have come in, saw they were breathing, and killed them? Are there more parts to the riddle that we missed?  

Guilt mixes bitterly with my anger like fish sauce poured into stew. I left Alvar here. I thought he would be safe enough. We could have moved the drugged children somewhere else or taken them in the barrels with us.

But we didn't.

And now they are dead.

I lean over Alvar. His clouded eyes are wide open. Was he aware when the knife was slipped in, a mute witness to his own murder? Was he pleading silently for me to save him?

"You stinking stupid punk," I whisper. "You just got my bread. You were nothing to me."

My rage and my guilt tell me I am lying. But Alvar probably died believing that I didn't care; that I had abandoned him.