“How would I raise this alarm?” the woman asked.
“Just shout,” Alys said.
“We need flame, though. Smoke,” Sammish said.
“You’re sure? Live flame can be tricky.”
“We’re not just spooking a storehouse overseer. It has to be true enough that they think there’s real danger. We can get a cheap tin lantern and some good fish oil, light it and chuck it over the wall. The oil spills, catches. Smokes a lot and stinks to the clouds. Then just shout fire until someone notices. It won’t take long. After that, Saffa can fade back and wait for us.”
The Bronze Coast woman nodded once. Her lips made a thin, angry smile.
Alys tapped the table. “There’s a thing, though. They lead us to the blade, all well and good. But then there’s getting it from them.”
“If we do it right, they won’t know we’re there with them,” Sammish said. “Take them by surprise, and we can do it.”
“I can’t, though,” Alys said. “I wanted to be someone who could. I wanted to think I could kill someone, but I’ve been in that moment, and I can’t. I wanted to, and badly. I couldn’t then, and we shouldn’t expect that I can now. I’m sorry about that.”
The woman’s smile warmed, softened. “Killing and dying are deep work. Taking them lightly costs. The wise and the fortunate know that.”
“Still fucking inconvenient for me,” Sammish said. “But… all right. I hear you. If it comes to killing someone, I’ll do it.”
The thing that called itself Kithamar sat in one of the little gardens, sipping apple cider from a silver cup. The sun filtered through leaves that had lost the brightness of spring, and it listened to birdsong and the whirring of insects’ wings with its new ears. Living as it did in body after body after body had made it into a sensualist, savoring the ways each perception was different. And also a strategist, wise in the management of its own peculiar cycle.
It missed Tregarro, though how much was its own fondness for the man and how much Andomaka’s residual emotions still held in her flesh was hard to say. If she had not been needed—if Irana and Tallis hadn’t put a bastard and a cuckoo on the throne—Andomaka and her captain might have become lovers in the next few years. But one of the first things it did when the cycle began again was break with those people its new body had been close with. Too often, those who knew the person it displaced found the transition unnerving.
Ausai had spent days with a beloved teacher whom it had sent away when it took his flesh. It had made plans to remove Halev Karsen from the court once it was in Byrn a Sal. In ancient days, it had only narrowly escaped death at the hands of children and lovers convinced it was an impostor. Tregarro’s connection with Andomaka should have been broken weeks earlier, except that Tregarro was an initiate of the brotherhood. He knew what it was, and had been. And the struggle to reclaim its place had made keeping him seem wise. With luck, the scarred man would complete his task and go on to live a full and happy life someplace that being near Andomaka’s flesh wasn’t eerie for him. Sending him away wasn’t only good strategy, it was also a kindness.
It lifted the cup to its lips and drank. A tiny insect had fallen into the cider and died there. It was almost invisible, except as an irregularity on the liquid’s skin. It drank that too.
An Inlisc servant girl scratched at the archway from the house, bent almost double with distress and apology. It put down its cup.
“I am so sorry, lady,” the girl said. “But there’s a man from the palace. He said it would be all right.”
“Who is he, and what did he say would be all right?”
“It’s young Karsen, lady. The prince’s second. He said he’d known you since you were children, and that you wouldn’t mind.”
It rose, leaving the cup forgotten. “Wouldn’t mind what?”
The servant girl flapped an arm in distress. “He’s in the private temple, lady. We know no one’s supposed to go there, but there’s no doors and he insisted and no one was going to draw a blade on him—”
The thread of Kithamar brushed past her. Its heart was beating fast. Perhaps Tregarro had already succeeded. Or perhaps he had failed. Or this was bare coincidence, and the gods had brought the Karsen boy there because it had been musing on him.
It stepped into the private temple, hands behind its back. Fear and anticipation and mistrust made the room seem brighter. The lanterns burned at their positions, echoing the geometry of the stars and the language of the gods. The ancient tapestries stood still against the walls, and the game board sat on the altar with its beads laid out in the middle of an unfinished game. And as out of place as the gnat in a drinking cup, Halev Karsen paced through the room, hands behind his own back, and faint interest in his expression. Like a man appreciating art he didn’t particularly like.
“Karsen,” it said, careful to keep its voice neutral. “There are more comfortable rooms, you know. And ones that aren’t sacred to the rites here.”
“I know, I shouldn’t be in here. But the curiosity’s hard to overcome. I apologize.”
He turned to consider her. In the steady, soft light of the lanterns, he seemed older than it remembered him. Crueler too, somehow. “What brings you from the palace?”
“My sister, actually. She’s having one of her religious moments, and I was hoping Daris might be a rite she could engage with and not risk embarrassing the family. You know how she gets when she’s in the heat of a new enthusiasm.”
The thing that called itself Kithamar smiled indulgently and casually maneuvered itself between Karsen and the altar. Something about this felt very wrong, but it wasn’t certain what.
“She’s welcome to present herself,” it said. “I’d be happy if she did. But I couldn’t promote her without putting her through the same forms as everyone else. Even priests are constrained by the gods.”
“Especially priests, I’d think,” Karsen said. “I’d appreciate it if you kept an eye on her, is all. Her piety doesn’t last long but it burns bright. Chanters and all.”
It didn’t know what he meant, so it smiled. “Yes, of course. Chanters.”
“You remember that time she decided that the Longest Night chanters were heretics and started whipping that poor old man in the street?”
“I think I do,” it said. “It was a long time ago.”
Karsen’s smile widened. “It was. The family went through a lot to keep it quiet. We’re just trying to keep history from repeating.”
It spread its arms. “Anything I can do.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I should get back to the palace. I do appreciate this. I’ll pay you back, somehow. I promise.”
“I’m happy to help,” it said. “It’s always good to see you.”
Karsen bowed, and if there was a little mockery in the gesture, it wasn’t more than old friends might allow each other. Karsen left the temple, walking lightly. As soon as he’d gone, it checked the locked safe cache hidden under the altar, ready to raise the alarm, but the silver blade was still there.
The thing that called itself Kithamar sat on the ancient stone, rubbing its chin the way it had when it was Ausai. Had there been a strangeness to Halev, or was it only that the murder of Byrn a Sal was underway and so anything that touched on the false prince took on a significance it didn’t deserve? Something about the visit left it unsettled, but it couldn’t say what or why. It rubbed its fingertips together, a dry, fast hiss. Something was wrong.