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in a month.”
    That caught Nightfall’s attention. As rare as the natal gifts were, it seemed highly unlikely a small city like Schiz could harbor four children with them. Of course, since those with the talents hid them for their own safety, no one really knew exactly how frequently they occurred. The best and most often quoted estimate was one in a thousand people bore natal gifts and, perhaps, one in five thousand had a bent for sorcery. “Tell me about the others.”
    Brandon ran a hand through his dark curls. “First one happened a year or so ago. Playmate of Byroth’s, seven years old, drowned in the creek.”
    Though tragic, it seemed fairly commonplace. “What makes you think a sorcerer was involved?”
    “I didn’t at the time.” The Magebane continued to finger-comb his hair, dislodging bits of bark and sand. “In hindsight, I noted a couple of suspicious things. The boy had a nasty head wound. The healer thought it might have happened afterward, when the current drove the body into a rock, but they found an awful lot of blood on the bank for it to have come from a corpse already dead. He had many bruises, but the ones around his neck seemed impossible for jutting rocks to have caused.”
    Nightfall was impressed. “You really delve into the details, don’t you?”
    Brandon’s fingers stilled. “I do this for a living, remember? And these killings happened on my home territory.”
    “And the second one?” Nightfall tossed his own hair, cut short and plastered in Alyndar’s style. He no longer missed the wild, filthy tangles he had worn in Nightfall guise and as Marak, nor Frihiat’s bleached curtain, nor even the merchant Balshaz’ neat locks. He had learned to appreciate the accuracy not having to peer around a chaotic frenzy of snarls added to his already deadly aim.
    “An infant.” Gatiwan cringed, and his face screwed up as if he might cry. “Stolen from its crib in the night and found mangled nearby the next day.”
    Brandon lowered his head.
    Nightfall examined the facts critically. He had suffered and inflicted too much evil to feel anything for a baby he knew only in the abstract. “Did it have a talent?”
    Brandon raised his shoulders. “We don’t know for sure. Proud parents. First baby after years of marriage. They took him to a lot of gatherings. They think he must have done something in front of someone—could have been anyone. An uncle believes the baby might have given him a wicked pinch, and an aunt says he could have caused a flash of light.” Brandon let his shoulders drop. “All after the fact, of course, so it’s hard to know if they really remember these things or are just searching for some logic to a hateful act.”
    “Or telling us what they think we want to hear,” Gatiwan added. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
    Brandon nodded. “They just want to help.”
    “Some help.” Nightfall wondered how many ignorant people would prefer to believe a loved one died for the wicked desires of a sorcerer rather than without any cause at all. They had no way of knowing how the sorcerers bound the souls to their bidding, how the natally gifted suffered even after death until the sorcerer either died or the soul “burned out” and the sorcerer lost that particular talent. “And the third one?”
    “Eleven-year-old.” Gatiwan fully regained his composure. “Had a knack for getting her little brothers and sisters to sleep.” He added suggestively, “An inhuman knack.”
    “A clear talent,” Nightfall guessed.
    “It’s a wonder she made it to eleven.” Brandon removed his hand from his hair, the curls popping back into disarray. “Though sorcerers tend to avoid coming this close to where I live.”
    “Except the really stupid ones.” Gatiwan gave Nightfall another searching look, as if to remind him they had not yet ascertained whether or not he might be one.
    Nightfall ignored the insinuation “Was she stabbed, too?”
    “Stoned, apparently.” Brandon