"The tip said there would be seven." The second is uncertain, questioning.

"There were, or I am a novice. The information was good. But something went awry. I lost two scuttlers." says the first voice, annoyed.

"What happened to them?"

"Probably the damn gulls, again. No way to tell, without going out and investigating. Five is a good haul in any event, especially with the human and two guards. We should be set for several weeks. Now bar the door and let's get these ones below."

There is a faint thunk as a wooden bar is lowered into brackets. I stand motionless, listening. I hear nothing further. After a few moments, I lightly push the door inward. It doesn't move. The bar is solid.

I could use my blades to lift the bar. But if I do, it will almost certainly make enough noise to alert whoever is inside, noisy tavern next door notwithstanding. I pause, uncertain. If only I had more information about what was going on here. Why would an olive oil merchant be involved in necromancy? What possible use could he have for dead bodies? Some sort of divination ritual like Jeamo performed? Was Jeamo part of a cabal of human sorcerers conducting their evil and clandestine work in Elftown, away from prying human eyes?

And of more immediate interest, who provided the information that there were seven bodies in Calmorien's warehouse? I am fairly sure that person is the killer. Whoever is operating inside this warehouse, they learned about the dead bodies through a tip. That means someone knew the elves inside would want the corpses. But who was the tipper? Why was he in Calmorien's warehouse? Is he a part of the dead body operation going on in this warehouse? If not, how does he know about it?

Too many questions. Too many risks for a lone elf tired and hurting at the end of a long, violent day. I toy with the idea of circling the olive oil warehouse, looking for another way in, but I'd bet golds to silvers the place is locked up tighter than the gates out of Elftown. In the end, I slip back to where I left Alvar's body and lift him gently. He is stiffer than before, his slender muscles tightened by death. Then I begin a game of hide and move through the rainy alleys, heading toward the smelters.

When I was young, I heard it said that in the northern land of my people, when our long lives are finally over, we are burned in ceremonial pyres, which free our spirits. Our body becomes ash, blown by the wind in many directions, so that its physical essence rejoins the earth and the plants and animals that live upon it. The custom has symmetry to it. 

Here in Elftown, no one has a long life or a gentle death. Our ends are never elegant or peaceful. Instead, they are almost always violent and always premature. Our bodies are picked up like trash by the humans, or disappear mysteriously, thrown into the sea or the sewers or clandestinely buried, until dug up by scavengers.

I figure the least I can do for the street rat who dreamed of escape is to give him something like the honor of an elven pyre. So I am going to throw him in a bloomery furnace. Who knows? Maybe some of his ashes will rise high into the air and be born away by the winds to land in the northern forests of the elves.

I move stealthily through the backstreets. Watch patrols are easily avoided at night. The humans march with torches, sticking to the wider streets. The alleys have their own risks, though. As I slip around a corner, halfway to my destination, I see three shadows separate themselves from doorways and move toward me, short sharp blades barely visible in their hands. I drop Alvar and pull out my weapons. Before they get close enough for me to strike, though, they shriek in terror and run off down the alley. Heh. 

There is a rain barrel a few feet away. I move to it and bend my head over to see my reflection. As I suspected, the rain has washed the phosphorescent bug goo down my face, which is glowing a ghastly, undead white.

Guess the eye juice is not toxic after all. I might have to get some more of this stuff. Not that I'm particularly anxious to come face to face with another full-grown egg stalker. I wonder if they come above ground in the night. I shudder, lift Alvar again, and backtrack a bit, choosing a different alley in case the brigands gather their courage and return to their ambush site.