Dawn found Kylar stumbling through the streets to one of his safe houses. Before he’d finally left, he’d erected a cairn over Durzo’s body on the northern tip of Vos Island. At that hour, no one had been in sight. Kylar had stolen a rowboat from the dock and let the current carry him to the Warrens, too exhausted to paddle.
He’d docked at the shop where he’d killed Rat. It was still dark and inconspicuous, perfect for his kind of work. He wondered if Rat was still anchored in the muck, his unquiet spirit staring up at Kylar’s little boat with the hatred and evil that had once lived in his adolescent heart.
It was a morning for lonely meditations. Kylar disabled the traps on his door automatically and stumbled inside. Blint had been right. It would have been suicide to go after Roth last night. Kylar had been so exhausted he’d thought it was poison working on him. He probably wouldn’t have made it through a single meister.
It might be worth it to trade life for life to rid the earth of Roth Ursuul, but Kylar wasn’t going to die for nothing. He locked the door, then stopped and turned back. He locked each of the three locks three times. Lock, unlock, lock. For you, master.
He took the pitcher of water and filled the basin with water and took the soap and began cleaning the blood from his hands. The face in the mirror was cold, calm as he washed the last vestiges of his master’s life away. Blood marred the handle of the pitcher, just a little. Just a small, dark smear from the blood on his hands.
Kylar snatched the pitcher up and hurled it through the mirror. Both pitcher and mirror shattered, spraying glass and porcelain and water against the wall, into the room, onto his clothes, onto his face. He dropped to his knees and wept.
Finally, he slept. When he woke, he felt better than he had any right to. He washed himself and felt refreshed. As he scraped off his stubble, he caught himself grinning in one of the shards of the mirror. Blint didn’t mean to kill me at all, but he couldn’t resist putting a dart in me just to show that he could. The old bastard. Kylar laughed. The really old bastard.
It was gallows humor, but he needed whatever he could find.
He got dressed and armed, thinking mournfully of the gear he’d lost last night. Daggers, poisons, grappling hooks, throwing knives, tanto, poisoner’s knife—he’d lost all of his favorites except for Retribution. Mourning my gear, but not Logan or Durzo or Elene. It was so ridiculous that Kylar laughed again.
He was, he decided, a little off. Maybe it was natural. He’d never lost anyone he really cared about before. Now he’d lost three in one night.
The streets were crowded in the late afternoon when Kylar finally emerged from his safe house. Rumors were flying about what had happened at the castle in the night. An army had appeared from thin air. An army had boiled up out of the Vos Island Crack. An army of mages from the south had come. No, they were wytches from the north. Highlanders had killed everyone in the castle. Khalidor was going to raze the entire city.
Few of the rumormongers seemed worried. Kylar saw a few people with their belongings loaded onto carts or wagons and heading out of the city, but there weren’t many. No one else seemed to believe that anything bad could happen to them.
Momma K’s hideout was still being guarded by the sinewy Cewan pretending to fix the fence. Kylar didn’t bother becoming invisible. He approached the man unhurriedly, leaned over to ask directions and put a hand on the man’s concealed short sword. The man tried to draw too late and found the sword locked in Kylar’s grip. Kylar broke the man’s sternum with an open-handed strike, leaving him gasping, his mouth working like a fish’s.
Kylar took the keys from the man’s belt and opened the door. He locked it after himself and embraced the shadows.
Invisible, he found Momma K in the study looking over reports from her brothels. He read them silently over her shoulder. She was trying to piece together what had happened at the castle.
The needle sank into the sagging flesh at the back of her arm. She cried out and clawed at it. She pulled the needle out then turned her chair slowly, looking ancient.
“Hello, Kylar,” she said. “I expected you yesterday.”
He appeared in the other chair, a lounging young Death. “How’d you know it was me?”
“Durzo would have used a poison that would leave me in agony.”
“It’s a tincture of ariamu root and jacinth spoor,” Kylar said. “The agony’s coming.”
“A slow poison. So you decided to give me time. What for, Kylar? To apologize? To cry? To beg?”
“To think. To remember. To regret.”
“So this is retribution. There’s a new young killer on the streets doling out what old whores deserve.”
“Yes, and you deserve to lose the very thing that made you betray Durzo.”
“And what’s that, oh wise one?” She smiled a serpent’s smile.
“Control.” Kylar’s tone was flat, apathetic. “And don’t reach for the bell rope. I’ve got a hand crossbow, but it’s not accurate. I might hit your hand rather than the rope.”
“Control, is that what you call it,” Momma K said, her back ramrod straight, not making it a question. “Do you know that rapes aren’t spread out evenly, even among working girls? Some girls get raped again and again. Others never do. The ones who get raped are the victims. The rapist bastards can somehow tell. It’s not ‘control,’ Kylar. It’s dignity. Do you know how much dignity a fourteen-year-old has when her pimp won’t protect her?
“When I was fourteen, I was taken to a noble’s house and enjoyed for fifteen hours by him and his ten closest friends. I had to make a choice after that, Kylar, and I chose dignity. So if you think giving me a poison that makes me shit myself to death is going to make me beg, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Kylar was unmoved. “Why did you betray us?”
Momma K’s defiance slowly faded as Kylar sat there with a wetboy’s patience. She didn’t answer him for a minute, five minutes. He sat with all the patience of Death. By now, he knew, she had to be feeling queasy.
“I loved Durzo,” she said.
Kylar blinked. “You what?”
“I’ve slept with hundreds of married men in my life, Kylar, so I never saw the most flattering portrait of marriage. But if he’d asked me, I would have married Durzo Blint. Durzo is—was, I suppose you killed him? Yes, I thought so. Durzo was a good man in his way. An honest man.” Her lips twitched. “I couldn’t handle honesty. He told me too many unlovely truths about myself, and that hard, dark thing that lives in me couldn’t bear the light.”
She laughed. It was a bitter, ugly sound. “Besides, he never stopped loving Vonda, a woman utterly unworthy of him.”
Kylar shook his head. “So you thought you’d kill him? What if he’d killed me?”
“He loved you like a son. Once you bonded the ka’kari, he told me. A life for a life, he said. The divine economy, he called it. He knew then that he’d die for you, Kylar. Oh, he fought it sometimes, but Durzo was never as unprincipled as he wanted to believe. Besides, he changed when Vonda died.
“I warned him, Kylar. She was a lovely, careless girl. The kind of woman born without a heart, so she couldn’t imagine breaking anyone else’s. Durzo was exciting for her. He was nothing more than her rebellion, but she died before he ever saw through her, so she was always perfect in his sight. She was forever a saint, and I was always spit-in beer.”
“He didn’t love her,” Kylar said.
“Oh, I knew that. But Durzo didn’t. For every other way that he was unique, Durzo thought excitement plus fucking is the same thing as love, just like every other man.” She suddenly hunched over in pain as her stomach spasmed.
Kylar shook his head. “He told me he was trying to make you jealous, make you feel how he felt when you were with other men. When she died, he thought you could never forgive him. Gwinvere, he loved you.”
She snorted in disbelief. “Why would he say such a thing? No, Kylar. Durzo was going to let his daughter die.”
“That’s why you betrayed him?”
“I couldn’t let her die, Kylar. Don’t you understand? Uly is Durzo’s daughter, but she’s not my niece.”
“Then who’s her m— …No.”
“I couldn’t keep her. I knew that. I always hated taking tansy tea, but that time, I couldn’t do it. I sat with the cup growing cold in my hands, telling myself something like this would happen—and still I couldn’t drink. A Shinga with a daughter, what more perfect target could there be? Everyone would know my weakness. Worse, everyone would see me as just another woman. I could never hold my power if that happened. So I left the city, had her in secret, and hid her away. But how could he let Uly die, even thinking she was Vonda’s? How could he? Roth threatened him, but Durzo called his bluff. You don’t know Roth. He would have done it. The only way I could save Uly was for Durzo to die first. If Durzo was dead, Roth wouldn’t have to carry out his threat. I had to choose between the man I’ve loved for fifteen years and my daughter, Kylar. So I chose my daughter. Durzo wanted to die anyway, and now I do too. You can’t take anything from me that I won’t gladly give.”
“He didn’t call their bluff.”
Momma K couldn’t seem to grasp it. “Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. He could see the edifice of suppositions she’d built crash down brick by brick. A Durzo who let himself be blackmailed was a Durzo who cared for a daughter he’d never seen. A Durzo who could do that was a Durzo who could love. She’d hardened her heart against him because she thought he didn’t care, and couldn’t.
So for fifteen years she’d been hiding her love for a man who had been hiding his love for her. That meant she’d betrayed the man who loved her. In pitting Kylar against Durzo, she’d killed the man who loved her. “Uh-uh. Uh-uh. No.”
“His dying wish was that I save her. He said you’d know where she is.”
“Oh gods.” The words barely squeezed out, a strangled sound. Another spasm passed through her and she seemed to welcome the pain. She wanted to die.
“I’ll save her, Momma K. But you need to tell me where she is.”
“She’s in the Maw. In the nobles’ cells with Elene.”
“With Elene?” Kylar stood bolt upright. “I have to go back.” He got to the door, then turned and drew Retribution. Momma K looked at him hollowly, still absorbing his words.
“I used to wonder why Durzo called this ‘Retribution’ and not ‘Justice,’” Kylar said. He drew the ka’kari off the sword and exposed the word MERCY on the steel beneath it. “Or, if this is what was under JUSTICE, why not call it MERCY? But now I know. You’ve shown me, Momma K. Sometimes people shouldn’t get what they deserve. If there isn’t more in the world than justice, it’s all for nothing.”
He reached into his pouch and pulled out a tiny vial of the antidote. He set it on Momma K’s desk. “That’s mercy. But you’ll have to decide if you want to accept it. You’ve got half an hour.” He opened the door. “I hope you’ll take it, Momma K,” Kylar said. “I’d miss you.”
“Kylar,” she called out as he reached the door. “Did he really—did he really say he loved me?”
Her mouth was set, her face tight, her eyes hard, but tears rolled down her cheeks. It was the only time he’d ever see her cry. He nodded gently and left her then, her back bent, sunk on the cushions of her chair, cheeks wet, her eyes fixed grimly on the bottle of life.