The Patrician by Joan Kayse

kept the painful void within his soul at bay. Yet here he was, in the middle of the night, chasing apparitions.
    It hadn’t been his intention. He’d intended to listen politely, leave quickly and report to his uncle that the effort was just as fruitless as he’d thought.
    But then she had known about his boyhood prank.
    Upon leaving the oracle’s room, he had all but knocked a kneeling Coeus onto his ample posterior. Under Jared’s hard glare, Coeus’ blustering explanation of how he had dropped one of his rings in the dirt withered to a sullen silence. It did not matter in the least to him if the man had aught else to do than eavesdrop on the nonsensical fortunes told by his slave. Though why Coeus found it necessary to listen was beyond his comprehension, unless the slave risked his reputation with lies.
    There was his answer. The girl was a liar.
    It would explain her nervous reaction. He shook his head in amusement as he remembered the look she’d given him as if she’d seen a shade from the Underworld. Shades wouldn’t have had the same physical reaction he’d had when her hand had touched his arm. He would have enjoyed it much more had she touched him elsewhere.
    A liar. That had to be it. There were those who believed that lying was as elemental to a slave’s existence as air or water. Perhaps she had been promised a pretty bauble or an honored place in the brothel. Or, he thought wryly, a more attractive head covering.
    But he had gone to the taverna expecting no less. He didn’t believe in oracles, or prophesy, or divining solutions through mysterious means. But the girl did. A smile tugged at his lips. There had been no mistaking the fire in the depths of those green eyes when he mocked her abilities. Odd that he found that appealing.
    A hard chill shuddered through him. He brushed it, and thoughts of the slave, away. He’d wasted enough time. Making no attempt to conceal his movements, he strode toward the entrance of the last warehouse.
    A sliver of moonlight lit the way through the open portal fading quickly into total darkness. Feeling his way along the wall, Jared entered, knowing he would disturb nothing more menacing than rats and spiders. But they were large spiders, and he did not relish stirring their tempers. It would take only a moment for him to make a circuit of the room to verify its vacant state. He had sent word for Damon to meet him here and together they could get to the business of catching the thieves.
    He bit out a sharp expletive as his shin connected with a solid object. Crouching, he ran his hands over a large urn, tracing the bas-relief figures around the neck of the vessel. The twists and flourishes were floral. He pressed his lips together. He’d lay a large wager that in the light, he would find a black Simian pottery vessel suitable for one Mistress Pelicia.
    Edging around the urn, he fingered other objects; bundles of papyrus, countless amphorae, and what felt like a carved cedar chair he had ordered from a craftsman in Crete. A bag dislodged from the pile of goods landing next to his foot. Soft granules spilled over his toes, releasing a cloud of pepper dust that set him to sneezing.
    It was his missing cargo. It didn’t matter how the barbarian witch had known, but it did matter that he catch the perpetrators and reclaim what was his.
    He ventured deeper into the warehouse but could see nothing. Even the moon had disappeared, causing the doorway to dissolve into the blackness. No matter. He would just follow the wall with his hand until he found the opening. Then he would notify the authorities.
    Before he could take another step, his ears caught the sound of leather scraping stone. He slipped his knife from its sheath and waited. There was only silence.
    A torch flared, blinding him with its sudden brightness.  Jared squinted against the light, thrusting his knife in the direction of a gray cloaked figure. A hand shot out from beside him, knocking the weapon from his