It wasn’t an accident. The thought ran around and around in his head. Not an accident. Murder. Three doors, three fires. Cold-blooded murder.
Someone had murdered his little sister, barely four years old. He wanted to scream.
Who?
Giforte knew. Or at least he knew something. But he had no reason to tell Marcus anything. There was nothing like proof, just the ramblings of one old man. The vice captain’s position was secure; the Armsmen couldn’t run without him, and he knew it. No wonder he’s been so cagey around me. I thought it was just about the politics, but he must have been wondering if I’d found out.
There was another option. Ionkovo’s “trade.” The Black Priests’ agent obviously knew enough to send Marcus here, and he might know the rest. But he would want something in exchange. Which is obviously why he sent me here in the first place. The very fact that he wanted to know so badly what had happened in Khandar implied that telling him was dangerous.
I could ask Janus. . There was a certain comfort in the thought of appealing to the colonel. But that would mean revealing that he’d talked to Ionkovo in the first place, and Marcus wasn’t sure how Janus would react to that.
Hell. Anger squirreled around inside him, searching for a target, finding nothing. He tasted bile.
“Sir?” Staff Eisen said.
Marcus blinked and came back to himself. He was standing outside the Fiddler, facing the ivy-covered brick wall, one hand pressed flat against it. When he let it fall, bits of grimy mortar clung to his palm.
“It’s all right,” Marcus said. “I’m all right.”
“Did you find out what you wanted, sir?” Eisen said.
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. I have no idea.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RAESINIA
Raesinia’s candle had burned down to a stub, floating in a saucer of molten wax. Her hand was splotchy with ink, and there was a spot on her index finger where the pen had rubbed it raw that would be a blister tomorrow.
Or, at least, it would be if she were a normal, living person. She set down the pen and felt the binding twitch, and the itchy pain was replaced with a cool numbness. The red spot faded away as though it had never been, leaving plain, unblemished skin.
She’d been working on the speech for nearly six hours straight. After they’d found Danton, Sothe had insisted she spend a day at Ohnlei, putting in appearances and playing the dutiful daughter. Raesinia hated it. Her grief was a palpable thing, a tight, hot ball in her throat, but parading it in front of everyone made her feel like a fraud. She’d visited her father’s bedside with Doctor-Professor Indergast, but the king hadn’t awoken. His breathing was terrifyingly weak under the duvet.
I’m sorry, Father. She’d spent a long time by the bedside, gripping his hand. I’m sorry I have to lie to you. I’m sorry I can’t stay. Then, once darkness fell, it was time for another fast trip down from the top of the tower so Sothe could smuggle her into the city.
Raesinia didn’t get tired anymore, in the normal sense of the word, but she was still subject to a kind of mental exhaustion. Too many hours of concentration left her feeling as if her eyeballs had been boiled in tar. She grabbed her elbows behind her head, arched her back, and stretched, feeling tiny pops in her shoulders and all up and down her spine.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ben raise his head, eyes surreptitiously locked on her breasts. Raesinia hurriedly unbent and crossed her arms over her chest with an inward sigh. Ben’s infatuation, which she had regarded at first as a curiosity, was getting more and more problematic. He tried to act like the soul of courtesy, even when it meant getting in her way, and he was more insistent that she not expose herself to anything that might be dangerous. Raesinia, who went out of her way to do anything that was dangerous on the ground that it was better for her to be in the middle of it than anyone else, was left in an awkward position.
And what if he just comes out with it? She’d seen a look in his eye a couple of times that seemed to indicate he was on the verge of a confession of love, and only a hurried change of subject had distracted him. If he ever managed to spit it out-Then what? Break his heart, and risk him leaving the group? That didn’t sound like Ben, but Raesinia didn’t have much experience when it came to men and romance. Or else. . play along? How? That possibility was just a blur in her mind, a vaguely unthinkable gap. I don’t think I could fake love well enough to fool him.
It would have been easier for all concerned if she had actually fallen in love with him. She wasn’t certain she was still capable of that, though. Aside from Cora, he was probably her best friend among the conspirators. She could see, objectively, that he was kind, honest, idealistic, even handsome. But love? No.
Maybe the binding sees love as an illness, like drunkenness, and purges it before it has a chance to settle in. She wouldn’t mind that, on the whole. As far as she could tell, love was mostly good for making people act like morons.
Oh well. She looked down at the paper, where the ink had dried by now, and picked it up carefully to add to the stack. That should do it.
“Finished?” Ben said.
“I think so,” Raesinia said. “You two will have to look it over.”
Maurisk, who had his own portable writing desk set up in a corner of the room, gave a derisive snort.
“You already decided not to use my version,” he said. “So I don’t see what good my advice will do.”
“We all agreed that your version was excellent,” Raesinia said, trying to be soothing. “It would have done credit to a University symposium. It’s just that the common people aren’t up to your level, that’s all.”
Not to mention that your version was three hours long. Raesinia had no doubt that Danton could make an exhaustive history of the practice of banking in Vordan sound riveting, but she personally wouldn’t have been able to stand it.
“We should be educating them, then, instead of lowering ourselves to the lowest common denominator.”
“You’re still sore about the slogan,” Ben said.
“‘One eagle and the Deputies-General,’” Maurisk said, and sniffed. “What does that even mean? Our grievances go far beyond the price of bread, in any case, and it’s no good calling for the deputies without saying what you want them to do.”
“It’s caught the popular attention,” Raesinia said. “And you’ve been writing those broadsheets. That’s what will educate people in the end.”
“If you’d let me give a proper speech, instead of letting that lummox do everything, we might be farther along now,” Maurisk said. “He doesn’t read what I write properly.”
Raesinia wanted to point out that Maurisk’s writing was as dry as week-old bread crusts, but she refrained. The door opened and Faro came in, the noise of the common room of the Blue Mask following him for a moment before he shut the door behind him. He’d covered his customary finery with a heavy black cloak, and carried a thick leather satchel under one arm.
“God,” he said, “I never want to do that again. I felt like everyone on the street was watching me.”
“You look ridiculous in that cloak,” Maurisk said. “You might as well carry a sign saying ‘I’m up to no good.’”
“I’d be happy to,” Faro said. “Much safer than one saying ‘I’m carrying enough money to buy a small city.’ Besides, it’s essential. Cloak-and-dagger work, you know? Cloak”-he pushed the cloak back, revealing a steel gleam at his belt, opposite where he normally buckled his sword-“and dagger! I wouldn’t feel properly dressed otherwise.”