"What are you mixed up with now, Brunley?" Malia asked.
"Fishing," he said.
Peer glanced from one to the other, and she could sense the long relationship between these two. Malia spoke to the old man without looking at him, bustling at a cupboard, and he answered in a lazy voice. They've been here before, Peer thought. The questions, the deceits.
"Fishing with the Marcellans' Scope keeper?"
"Is that who he is? I've never seen him before."
"Tell him," Malia said, standing before Nophel. Devin had tied his bonds good and tight and retreated outside, sitting on the barge's roof to keep watch.
"I'm thirsty," Nophel said.
"I'll throw you in the canal later." Malia turned back to the cupboard, and an uncomfortable silence descended.
This isn't finding Rufus, Peer thought. They'd been sitting in the tavern, dividing Course and Crescent into search districts on a large sheaf of paper, when the whore Andrea had arrived. She'd been running, she stank, and she'd grasped Malia's arm and dragged her into the toilets before any of them knew what was happening. Peer had not seen Malia controlled like this by anyone before. As she'd looked around at the others, eyebrows raised awaiting an explanation, Malia had come storming from the toilets, violence in her stride.
From there, to the canal, to here, and still Peer was as confused as she'd been at the beginning.
"What's the Marcellans' Scope keeper doing here?" Peer asked. Nophel looked at her-one good eye, and a face ravaged by growths. He stared, perhaps expecting her to look away, but she'd seen a lot worse in Skulk.
"Looking for the Baker," Malia said. And that was when Peer knew Malia meant to kill the Scope keeper. Talking about the Baker so freely before him-even mentioning her in his presence-meant that he would not leave.
"Who are you?" Nophel asked.
"I'm the one with questions." Malia turned from the cupboard at last, a bottle of cheap wine in one hand, a small velvet bag in the other. The bag moved. Truthbugs. Peer shivered at the memory.
"Do you know where she is?" Nophel asked. "I have to see her."
"So you can kill her?" Malia said.
"Why would I want to kill her?" Nophel's eye was wide, but his expression was hard to read; his was not a normal face.
"Because you work for the Marcellans." Malia squatted before him and placed the bag flat on her palm.
"Who are you?" Nophel asked.
"That's none of your-"
"They're Watchers," Brunley said, and Malia glanced at him, annoyed.
"So am I!" Nophel said. "A true Watcher, watching from the highest roof."
Malia placed the bag gently on the floor before her, drew her short sword, and pointed its tip at Nophel's good eye. He strained back in the chair, holding his breath, tensing, and several large boils across his jawline burst. Malia leaned forward, following him. The sword was never more than a finger's width from his eye.
"You've got only one good one," she said. "Choose your lies carefully, you fucking Hanharan pet."
Peer could feel the air in the small barge cabin thrumming with tension. Brunley was motionless, and Malia and the deformed man looked more like statues than like living people.
"I'm not lying," Nophel said at last. "And the Marcellan I serve-"
"Even whisper that name in here, and I'll cut its taste from your tongue!" Malia shouted. Peer stood, hesitant, but one quick glance from Malia told her to stay back.
There were times in Peer's life when she became very aware of the potential routes the future might take. One of them had been when she was fifteen years old, and three men in Mino Mont had approached her with a proposition: Work for us, and your family will never be poor again. Even that fifteen-year-old girl had been wise enough to see the gang markings on the men's ears, and her refusal had been a brave moment-but for a beat, she'd felt her life being squeezed into places she had no wish to go. Another time had been when the Scarlet Blades came knocking at her door. There were four of them, two holding back in fighting positions, and for a time after opening her door to them, she'd wondered whether she was going to be raped and killed.
This was another such moment. So many things hung in the balance that she felt faint, as if a series of waves had suddenly set the barge dipping and rising. Rufus was lost; Gorham and Nadielle were somewhere unknown; there were rumors of Dragarians abroad. The city was whispering with fear, from couples huddled in cafe corners to crowds gathered on the street listening to doomsayers. The world was changing, and she was at its fulcrum.
"Stand back, Malia," Peer said. "Killing's no good here."
"It was good enough for Bren," Malia said, not taking her eyes from Nophel's face.
"You think he hammered the nails into Bren's wrists?"
The Watcher breathed heavily for a while, muscles visibly tensed as if she were about to push.
Nophel could strain back no farther.
And then Malia eased, lowering the sword until its tip touched her trouser leg.
"What of the one you serve?" Peer asked.
Nophel closed his eye, trying to compose himself. She could actually see his shirt shift with the fluttering of his heart.
"He's not a Hanharan devout," Nophel said.
"I should believe you?"
"Yes." Nophel's hand massaged something in his lap.
"Peer, you've been out of this for too long," Malia said. "He can only be a spy, and as for Brunley-"
"I'd do nothing to harm you, Malia," the old man said, hurt in his voice. "We're friends."
Malia blinked at him but said nothing. Nophel squeezed the thing in his lap again. Peer caught Malia's attention, then looked down at Nophel's hands, and with a flash of movement Malia had the sword at the man's throat again.
Now what is this? Peer thought, hating the fact that she might have been wrong. Perhaps this man was a spy after all. Maybe he was an assassin.
"Enjoying yourself?" Malia asked. She pulled his hands aside, keeping the sword pressed to his throat, and delved into his pocket. Pausing, she smiled. "Is this a message tube in your pocket or are you pleased to see me, ugly man?" She pulled out the tube and lowered her sword once again.
"That's not for you," Nophel said. "It's private."
"If it's for the Baker, she'd want me to read it."
Peer wasn't sure if that was the case. The tension between Nadielle and Malia had been palpable, and if the Baker knew this Watcher was reading messages meant for her… But there was little Peer could do. This was Malia's home, Malia's situation, and the Baker was somewhere far away. And Peer was just as curious to know what was in the tube as she was.
"Nophel-" Brunley began, but Nophel shook his head.
"I'm the messenger, that's all. I serve Dane Marcellan, not because of his name but because of his beliefs."
Malia threw the tube at Peer. She caught it, surprised, and held it before her, aware that everyone was watching.
"Open it," Malia said.
Peer broke the wax seal and dropped it to the floor. Inside was a single piece of rolled paper, smooth and expensive. And on the paper, three lines. She read them aloud.
"Dragarians are abroad. The visitor might have arrived. I'm ready to help." She blinked at the sheet for a beat, scanning the words several more times to make sure she'd read them right. The visitor might have arrived? When she looked up, Malia was staring at her wide-eyed, and Nophel was glancing back and forth between them.
"A visitor?" he asked.
"Way ahead of you, Marcellan," Malia muttered.
And then, between the hastily drawn curtains, Peer saw a face pressed at the window. A face within a scarlet hood.
Dane Marcellan had watched many times as Nophel adjusted the Scopes' attitude and focus, shifted the viewing-mirror feed from one to the next, and aimed their monstrous eyes, but he had been only an observer. Sitting now with the control panel before him, he cursed his inexpert hands.
He thought he had connected the viewing mirror into the North Scope, but something must have gone wrong. The image on the mirror was blurred, out of focus, and gray shapes exploded across the screen in bilious, almost fleshy blooms. Does it know I'm not Nophel? he wondered, but that was absurd. He'd never ventured up to the roof on his own-those things spooked him, as had much that the old Baker worked on-and there was no way they could know simply through the remote touch of his hands on metal.