Garan snorted. “He was nothing of the sort. He was found skulking around in the hills, spying on the camp. And I told you, Warrior-Guilder Aven herself questioned him. He wasn’t a Credo. I saw his arms—no Guild tattoos, let alone Family ones. I doubt he was even from the city; probably just some estate worker who got tempted over the border.” He tightened his folded arms, but said more kindly, “You’re just mistaken. The man they hanged wasn’t your friend Edric. I barely even told you what he looked like. Why are you so sure?”
“The song,” I said. Calm, stay calm. You can’t look crazy. “That song he was singing. You’d never heard it before because Edric only wrote it after the army left the city. I know, because he wrote it for me.” I met Garan’s gaze, pleased to see it troubled. “The only person who could have known that song at all—let alone known it well enough to sing it—was someone who was in the city right before the siege.”
“Maybe I got the tune wrong. Maybe you don’t remember it that well.”
“It’s called ‘Kalina, Kalina’,” I said. “Isn’t that what he was singing? My name.”
He opened his mouth, his reaction betraying his doubt.
“And he did have tattoos; we just disguised them with cosmetics so that if he got captured they wouldn’t know he was from Silasta. He must have told you that. He must have said all of this.”
“I told you, I didn’t talk to him.” He shook his head. “Look, it doesn’t matter. The Warrior-Guilder questioned him, I told you. If he was some messenger with word from the city, he’d have told her everything and we’d have been back weeks ago and none of this would have happened.” He patted my shoulder. “You’re tired and worried. You’re not thinking straight.”
I caught his hand. “Listen to me, Garan,” I said. “Listen to me. Edric made it here, against the odds. You’re right, he’d have told all of this to the Warrior-Guilder, because that’s what the Chancellor told him to do. And the only reason Aven wouldn’t have taken the army straight back after he told her was if she already knew.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said. Now he looked afraid, and he tried to pull his hand away, as if I might be contagious.
“It doesn’t make sense, you’re right. Except if she’s working with the rebels.” My mind raced. Why would Aven have been lured to the rebel cause? She already held a position of great power, privilege, and wealth. But she didn’t fit the mold of a Credola, either; perhaps her impatience and disdain for the city had indeed given her sympathy for the country folk. The army did spend more time out in broader Sjona than any of the other Guilds, guarding roads, dealing with bandits, and conducting training exercises. And perhaps Aven’s betrayal of the city and Council wasn’t so unexpected. Undeniably, hers was the least honorable, the least respected, of the Guilds. No one aspired for their child or Tash to end up there. Though Aven was on the Council, she was more tolerated than admired, and even Aven’s own family considered her a vulgar necessity rather than a true equal.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he said. “Can you hear yourself? You told the Warrior-Guilder the same story, and she didn’t throw you in a mine, did she? We’re going back to save the city right now!”
True. Was she really planning to attack the rebels, though, or join them? The whole army couldn’t be traitors or they’d never have needed a rebel army at all, and no matter how beloved Aven was as a commander, she could hardly just instruct the army to destroy their own city and hope for obedience. So what was her plan? What had changed? “Tain’s dead,” I murmured, more to myself than the horrified guard before me. “When Edric came, Tain was still alive. But when I came, he was dead.” That didn’t explain the why, but it might be significant. “Garan, you have to help me get out of here. I need to be able to warn the Council.”
But the last trace of sympathy had disappeared, and now he looked at me with a mixture of revulsion and anger. “Credola,” he said stiffly. “You’re talking about the Warrior-Guilder. Your words are treason.”
“I’m not talking against the country or the Chancellor,” I snapped, desperation surging through me. “So it can’t be treason.”
“It is treason to me,” he said. “I think the Warrior-Guilder needs to know you’re throwing these accusations around. She can decide what to do.”
The anger turned to icy fear so quickly I struggled to catch my breath. “No, please!” By the fortunes, what would Aven do to me if she knew I had guessed her secret? She hadn’t hesitated to kill Edric. “Garan, please. I … perhaps you were right before. I’m confused. I’m so tired.” I widened my eyes, spreading my hands. Every part of myself I’d thought of as weak and pathetic, I summoned now. “You’re right, of course you’re right. Please don’t tell the Warrior-Guilder I thought such stupid things, even for just a moment.”
He frowned, looking me over. “Sit down and be quiet,” he said at last. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you.” He stepped outside the tent and shut the flap behind him with a snap of fabric.
I swallowed, heart pounding. Aven was with the army, near the city. Even if Garan decided to tell her, he couldn’t until she came back to camp. That gave me one brief opportunity. One last chance to save my city.
I dropped to my knees at the back of the tent, the farthest point from the door, and began to dig.
Graybore
DESCRIPTION: Crumbly mineral deposit found in veins of hard rock, generally deep underground. Dust caused by disturbing deposits is poisonous in large quantities (usually breathed in over time).
SYMPTOMS: Breathing difficulties, bloody cough, hair loss (from exposure over time).
PROOFING CUES: Insoluble, and dominating earthy flavor makes it difficult to include in toxic quantities in food, but has been used in perfumes to gradually poison the wearer. Visible as fine gray powder on release or cloudy residue in perfume bottle.
29
Jovan
We froze.
“I did wonder,” Marco continued, voice lighter than usual, absent some layer of false humility, “why you would be running back to the Manor in a time of crisis, Credo, if there was no one here to report to.” Behind my back, my fingers searched around for something, anything, to use as a weapon. My damn pouch of poisons was still in the outer room, utterly useless to me here. “And here you are, Tain Caslavtash Iliri, hiding away, breathing as ever.”
I glanced around. There were daggers on the wall, mostly decorative. Hanging by the doorway—behind Marco—was Tain’s armor and sword.
“Nothing to say, Honored Chancellor?” Marco asked. His voice grew closer until he stepped into our circle of light. He wore a breastplate and carried his great sword, which he hadn’t yet bothered to draw; it swung by his side, menacing.
Tain’s voice was calm and clear, but behind him his hands clenched into the bedding and I felt him pulling himself backward, just a fraction. “What are you doing here, Marco? You have responsibilities down at the bridge.”