Then she was moving forward, and knew that Norathar was moving as well, and it was an instant later that she was aware that they had arrived.
Barlen’s balls. Five of them.
One of the parts of her mind that had nothing to do with action found the time to be pleased that they were obviously so afraid of him.
But five!
By the time this thought had completed itself, she had already left one of her daggers in one of them: her favorite strike, coming up under the chin, through the throat into the brain. With her left hand, she threw her other dagger in the general direction of a pair of startled eyes.
She pulled a pair of fighting knives from the sheaths behind her back and then rolled as she felt something swing in her direction.
Of course, it does make sense. One for Vlad, one for Loiosh, one for Rocza, and two for backup.
She came easily to her feet and turned to see what was going on; she was aware that Norathar had neatly decapitated one of them. Three left. She didn’t notice unimportant details like their appearance. What mattered was that they were all carrying swords and daggers, none had completely recovered from the surprise of being attacked, and they looked to be hired muscle, rather than assassins; this could be good or bad. If one of those still standing was a sorcerer, things could get very ugly. She sensed the presence of a Morganti weapon, but couldn’t tell who had it.
Norathar was dueling with one of them, so Cawti looked at the other two; one was cautious, the other aggressive. Good.
The aggressive one came at her just like he should. Cawti hesitated, then moved in quickly to throw his timing off, and—left to deflect the sword, right to guard against the dagger, another half step in, and left again. She stepped out quickly before the other one could flank her—the aggressive one dropped his weapons and put his hands over his throat. Futile; he was already dead.
There was a grunt and a cry, and Cawti knew she didn’t have to worry about the one Norathar was fighting; not that she ever had.
The remaining one looked from her to Norathar, sword out, knife ready. If he was frightened—and he almost certainly was—he didn’t let it show.
Norathar worked her way around him; he backed up to the well. Cawti said, “As far as I’m concerned, you can walk away. Can you walk away?”
His eyes flicked between the two of them. “Yes,” he said.
“Go, then,” said Norathar.
He hesitated, then turned his back on them, sheathed his weapons, and walked. Apparently he had the Morganti weapon, as its presence diminished as he left.
Cawti looked around. Three of the enemy were dead, and the other was probably dying.
“He might have recognized me,” said Norathar.
“And if he did?”
“Good point. All right, then. Now what?”
“We’re not done.”
“I know. Back to the Palace, then?”
“We need to find who’s responsible.”
“We could have asked our friend.”
“You’re funny, sister.”
Norathar grinned. Cawti couldn’t remember having seen her grin in years. She grinned back.
“Suggestions?” Norathar asked.
“Know anyone who can do a mind-probe?”
“No one I can ask. You?”
“The Empress.”
“Well, yes. But the consequences?”
“For her, Cawti? You care?”
“For the Empire, and no, but you do.”
Norathar nodded. “She’ll go after the Jhereg with everything she has.”
“They deserve it.”
“Whoever came up with this idea deserves it.”
“And whoever approved it. Think it had to go through the Council?”
“No. I think it had to, but didn’t. I can’t see the Council approving something like this.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Cawti. “So the question is, is it our responsib—we’re attracting attention.”
“I’ll bring us back to the Palace.”
Cawti took a deep breath, then nodded. “Go ahead.”
Then the churning, the twisting, the flopping around; and once more she knelt with her eyes closed, waiting for it to pass.
“Ugh,” she said.
“You’d think there’d be a way to prevent those effects,” said Norathar.
“There is; I just haven’t gotten around to it. I haven’t needed to teleport in years.” She stood up. “I’m all right now.”
Norathar shook her head. “Five of them. Can you believe it?”
“We did all right.”
“Yes, we—you’re bleeding!”
“Am I? Where? Oh. Just a scratch. I can’t think of how it happened.”
“Here, wrap this around it. I’ll tie it.”
“It’s really nothing.”
“The longer you wait, the more blood you’ll have to get out of that blouse.”
“All right.”
“Too tight?”
“No, it’s fine. Thanks.”
“I should have learned a few healing spells.”
“We’re attracting attention again.”
“I suppose it comes with being in Jhereg outfits outside the Imperial Wing, and one of us being an Easterner and bleeding, and the other waving around a big honking sword.”
Norathar sheathed her weapon. “Other than that, why would we be attracting attention?”
“Let’s leave off exchanging witticisms until we’re somewhere more private.”
“Back to my rooms?”
“Maybe.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering if you know a Jhereg from the old days, someone who owes you a favor.”
“Enough of a favor to finger whoever tried to shine Vlad? No.”
“How about someone you can threaten?”
“The only one we could threaten is the guy who did it.”
“Or,” said Cawti, “whoever paid for it.”
“What could we threaten him with? Even if we knew, we couldn’t prove it.”
“We don’t have to prove it, sister. It’s enough if the Empire believes it.”
“Oh,” said Norathar. Then, “Not bad.”
“Can you find out who paid for it?”
“I can get enough information to make a good guess.”
“So, where to?”
“Nowhere. Right here. Let them look. I just need to ask a few people.”
Cawti nodded to a bench a few feet away. “I’m going to sit down. I haven’t enjoyed standing as much as I did before the Boulder.”
“You don’t still call him that, do you?”
“I haven’t. But if he keeps growing so fast and still wants to be picked up, I’ll start to again.”
Cawti went to the bench and sat and watched as Norathar closed her eyes. She kept them closed for some time; occasionally her lips moved a little. Cawti could imagine what was going on—old acquaintances, some of them almost friends. Yes. Surprise, greetings, caution, evasions … “I’m going to be Empress someday. How much is it worth to you to have the Empress owe you a favor?” Maybe not quite so direct; but then again, Norathar wasn’t big on subtlety, was she? There would be hesitation, and finally, maybe, a few pieces of information swimming in a sea of qualifiers like the bits of bread in a prisoner’s broth. She remembered prisoner’s broth. The memory wasn’t pleasant. She missed Vlad’s cooking, too, sometimes. As well as his nasty wit, and—no, no point in that.