“That way off of the island you were talking about?” Attrebus asked.
“The way we came,” Sul replied. “We have to fight our way back to the spot where we arrived.”
“That’s … not good. Do you have any arts that will allow us to swim in scalding water?”
“No.”
Sul saw that he was scared, and that he was trying not to be.
“The longer we wait, the harder it will be,” Sul said. He reached into his sack and produced his ointment, redabbing their brows. “We cut a path to our arrival point,” he said. “That’s all we have to do. Just stay alive that long.”
“Let’s go, then,” Attrebus said.
TEN
When Colin heard the tap of hard-soled shoes, he whispered the name of Nocturnal and felt the shadows around him; felt the moonlight press them down through the marble of the palace to kiss the camp, gritty cobblestones, felt them enter his eyes and mouth and nostrils until he was a shadow himself. Felt them drape across the woman who emerged into the courtyard from the office of the minister.
He padded after her. She was cloaked and cowled, but he knew her walk; he’d been watching her for days. Not for long at a time, because he had cases to attend to. Marall had been right about that—he’d been pulled from the business concerning Prince Attrebus immediately.
But he wasn’t quite willing to let it go, was he? He couldn’t even say why.
So he’d found the woman Gulan had spoken to that last time, an assistant to the minister. Her name was Letine Arese, a petite blond woman of thirty years. He’d learned her habits, how she moved, when she left the ministry evenings, where she went after.
Tonight, as he’d expected, she was breaking all of her patterns. Leaving at eight instead of six. Going northeast toward the Market District instead of heading for the Foaming Flask for a drink with her sister and assorted friends.
She wound her way through the crowds of the market district, and Colin became less a shadow and more a nobody—there, avoided if necessary, but not really remarked. After a time she left the arteries for the veins, and then capillaries, where once again it was him and her and shadow.
She came to a door and rapped on it. A slit opened; soft words were spoken. Then the door swung out a crack and she entered.
He quickly examined the building. There were no ground-floor windows, of course—not in this neighborhood, but the house had three stories, and on the third he made one out. He couldn’t see ladders or drainpipes to climb, but the building next door was so close he was able to brace his arms and legs and go up it as he might a chimney.
Annaïg just managed to hide the amulet before Slyr came out of the corridor. The other woman looked around, puzzled.
“Who were you talking to?” she asked.
“To myself,” Annaïg replied. “It helps me think.”
“I see.” She stood there for a moment, looking uncomfortable.
“Do you want something?” Annaïg inquired.
“Don’t kill me,” Slyr blurted.
“What the Xhuth! are you talking about?” Annaïg demanded. “You were there—you heard Toel. If I had wanted you dead, you would be dead.”
“I know,” she cried, wringing her hands. “It didn’t make any sense. The only thing I can think of is that you want to do it yourself, when I’m not expecting it. You could probably think of something really inventive and nasty. Look, I know you’re probably mad at me—”
“‘Probably’ mad at you?” Annaïg exploded. “You tried to kill me!”
“Yes, I see now how that might upset you,” Slyr said. “To be fair, I wasn’t expecting to have to deal with any sort of … Well, this.”
“Yes,” Annaïg said, measuring her words. “Yes, I understand that because you imagined I would be dead. Now I’m not, and because you haven’t a decent bone in your body, you assume no one else does.”
In that instant, her anger constricted violently into the most vicious rage she’d ever known. She felt a sudden jerk on her wrist and then something slid around her pointer finger and stiffened.
Qijne’s filleting knife. Of course—all she needed was to really want to kill someone. And she could. Two steps …
“Please, don’t joke with me,” Slyr pleaded. “I can’t even sleep, I’m so miserable.”
Annaïg willed her heart to slow. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “You’ve been sleeping with Toel.”
Slyr blinked. “I’ve been procreating with Toel,” she admitted, “but you don’t imagine he lets me stay in his bed all night! I’ve been sleeping in the halls, terrified of what you’re going to do next.”
“Next? I haven’t done anything to you.”
“You didn’t poison the Thendow frills this morning?”
“They were poisoned?”
“Well,” she hedged, “not that I could tell. But I heard you were down there, handling them, and that doesn’t make much sense unless you were up to something. And you knew I was supposed to make the decoction of Thendow—”
“You aren’t dead, are you?”
“Of course not! I made Chave do the Thendow.”
“Unbelievable,” Annaïg said. “And did Chave die?”
“You’re clever enough to make something that would only affect me—I know you are. My hairs are all over our room.”
Annaïg rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to kill you, Slyr. At least not today.”
But then she remembered her appointment with Glim, and she shot the other woman a nasty smile.
“But there’s always tomorrow.”
“I’ll do anything,” Slyr said. “Anything you ask.”
“Perfect. Then go away and don’t talk to me again unless it’s pertaining to our work.”
It was probably twenty minutes after the woman left that the knife slowly withdrew back to Annaïg’s wrist.