She visited the herb-woman on Thimble Lane, to keep up appearances, but conveniently forgot to take the medicine she prescribed. Then, after a solid dinner back at the Cracked Oak, she retired upstairs to mend tack.
An hour or so later, someone knocked on the door. One, then two quick.
Mirage rose and let in her contact.
“A ‘female complaints’ healer?” she said, raising one eyebrow mockingly. “What a dull disguise.”
Wisp looked unamused, and since she had a face like a knife and had long since mastered the art of making her five-foot body seem ten feet tall, the look carried force. “I’m getting old. Climbing through windows is something I leave to stupid young Silverfires who need to show off their shadow-skulking. Stealth isn’t all about hiding behind bushes, you know.”
Mirage bowed. “Have a seat, then, and rest your old bones, which are no more decrepit than your tongue—and I see that hasn’t lost any vigor.”
That made Wisp grin, but only slightly. Her weathered face looked hard enough to fight a rock and win. A real smile might have broken it. “All right. What do you need?”
“Not much. A message to Silverfire.”
“Which is?”
Mirage passed her the paper. The code on it was complex enough that Mirage always had to work to write in it; Wisp read it like ordinary lettering. “Huh. You bringing trouble down on us, girl?”
“I hope not,” Mirage said. “But better to be safe than sorry.”
“A good motto to live by, though not one most Hunters pay more than lip service to. Why in the name of the Warrior did you take this job?”
“You would have.”
“Just because I was young and stupid doesn’t mean you have to follow in my footsteps.”
“Ah, but then you became old and wise.” Mirage put her hands up in mock-defense against Wisp’s glare. “I wanted a commission. And it looked like a challenge.”
“You hate the witches. So why are you working for them?”
Mirage shrugged uncomfortably. She still couldn’t explain it.
Wisp gave her a close look, and then nodded slowly. “All right. You’re not the most levelheaded Hunter Silverfire’s ever produced, but you’re not entirely stupid, and you have a good instinct.” Her face grew even more serious then. “Watch out, though. The city is crawling with those damn bastards.”
“Those damn bastards,” in Wisp’s lexicon, meant Thornbloods. “More than usual?”
“A whole crew of them have been here for the last week or so—between jobs, and champing at the bit. Watch out for them. I know you don’t get along with their kind.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“As if that means anything with you children. Five years out of school, and eager to prove you’re the next legend. Burning Angrim down around our ears is not the way to do that.”
Mirage grinned. “Trust me. I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. I’ll do my best not to get into trouble before that.”
Miryo paced restlessly, back and forth across the length of her room. It lacked an hour yet until her plan could be put into motion, and every minute grated on her nerves like a rasp.
I might well be flayed alive if the Primes find out about this.
She blessed the Goddess for sending her Kan and Sai. She doubted any two other Cousins would have gone along with this; more than a few would have turned her in on the spot. There were several witches in Angrim they could hand her over to.
She forced herself to stop pacing and took a deep breath.
You’ve made the plan. Now see it through. A half hour before the appointed time, she went downstairs. The most convenient thing about living in a house constructed by the Fire Ray was that it had structures built in to accommodate spies. It was to one of those she went, and there, alone in the stuffy darkness, she closed her eyes and calmed her breathing. Now she just had to wait.
A clanging sound; that would be the gate bell. Miryo’s breath caught.
Footsteps. Sai opening the door, welcoming the visitor. Two sets of footsteps, one of them quite faint. Then Miryo put her eye to the spyhole, bit one fingernail, took it out of her mouth, and watched.
The Hunter entered the room.
Kan, garbed in a newly bought dress, Miryo’s triskele pendant around her neck, inclined her head. That was the hanging offense, right there. The penalty for masquerading as a witch was severe. And very few Cousins would have agreed to it. But Miryo couldn’t bring herself to say to the Hunter, “Find someone who looks like me.” Nor could she show the drawings; the effect would be the same. So she needed a substitute witch, and since Sai hardly ever opened her mouth, it had to be Kan.
“What is it you want done, Katsu?”
The disguised Cousin held out one of Ryll’s sketches from Haira. “This woman is in Angrim. Find her. Bring her to me. Do not kill her. You have two days to carry this out. Your fee will be ten up front, and fifteen more upon completion.”
The Hunter took the paper, and although the mask hid her expression from sight, Miryo received an impression of surprise, and perhaps even triumph. “I accept. You’ll have her within a day.”
14
Capture
Mirage did not sleep in again her second morning in Angrim. Early rising had been a habit for as long as she could remember; Hunter trainees never lingered in bed, and neither did Temple Dancers, so she had been four the last time anyone let her sleep in regularly. Even when flat on her back in Silverfire’s infirmary, she had woken early. Now it was an ingrained reflex.
She went around to the back of the Cracked Oak’s courtyard and found a bent horseshoe tossed against the wall. The message had gone out without trouble, then. Wisp was always reliable.
The market streets of the city were already filling up; vendors were opening their stalls and laying out then-goods, and a handful of enthusiastic buskers were warming up on the corners. The snatches of music they played followed Mirage as she bought saddle oil and strong gut cord, reminding her of the witches she was tangling with. It was a discordant note in an otherwise sunny and pleasant morning.
It was still early, and her shopping was done. Eclipse had promised to take care of the rest of it. She could re-turn to the inn, but before she did so, there was one other stop she wanted to make.
Angrim’s temple had always been one of her favorites. The open pentagonal layout felt less confining than most temples. Her company of Dancers had performed a specially designed Dance here once, a little over a year before she left them. That had been one of Mirage’s first major public performances, back when she was Seniade, back before Criel had come to her and offered her a chance at her long-buried dream.
She brushed the ghosts of the past from her mind and returned to her purpose.
There were a variety of ways to purify oneself for presentation to the Warrior. For general worship, people often went through an exercise of controlled breathing. But the Hunter schools were descendants of ancient Warrior cults, and so Mirage showed her devotion in a different way.
The moves she performed were simple, but she put all her concentration and effort into each one. This was more than just purification; it was the beginning of her worship, and it demanded the best she had to give.
There were several patterns of movement to choose from, depending on the devotee’s purpose in coming. Mirage chose the pattern of supplication. It was far from meek in tone—the Warrior didn’t value meekness very highly—but the entreaty in it was plain. And then, pattern finished, she saluted the statue at the heart of the shrine. Since no one was there to watch, she made it the full, formal, Hunter’s salute. Then, for good measure, she pricked her finger on her dagger and pressed her bloody fingertip to the wood rail that surrounded the shrine. It was stained with the small blood offerings of countless previous devotees.