When from habit it sat on the altar and reset the game board, one of the red beads was missing.
With morning came the wind. It drove from the east, raising dust as it came. It muttered and it howled. Somewhere in the secret depths of Longhill, Inlisc priests who kept the old ways drank their holy teas and listened for the voice of God in it. The serpent-curved streets broke the air or pushed it back up and away from the ground. In the Hansch quarters, shutters banged like hammers. The proud tower of the Temple stood against it like the prow of a great ship cutting through troubled waters, and the face of Oldgate was the city’s mast and sails. There was a story that a kerchief dropped between the center two of the four bridges of Oldgate would land on the palace, blown up the face of the hill faster than a horse could run. That was only a story, though.
Green Hill was, as they walked along its wide and well-kept streets, almost calm. The great promontory of Palace Hill sheltered the western edge of the city from all but the eddies, protecting the noble compounds from the weather like a mother pushing a child behind her. The trees around the brotherhoods and compounds of the high families shimmered their leaves, but they didn’t twist or bend.
Alys wore her leather, even though it was a little too hot to be comfortable. Her body felt tight and a little ill, like she was in the first part of a fever, but once they were doing the thing, she knew she’d be fine. It was only the nerves before. Sammish wore a brown tunic, a skirt, and a cutter’s knife—thin, sharp, and easily concealed—bound against her arm at the elbow. Only Saffa had what might be called a disguise, and it was so intentionally nondescript, she could have been a low servant from any number of houses. The only thing odd about her at all was the woven sack across her body where the unlit lantern plinked and sloshed as she walked.
“The stables are at the back,” Sammish said. “You remember? By the gate?”
“I remember,” Saffa said. She sounded calmer than Sammish did. Alys didn’t know if it was that she, unlike them, was staying outside the compound or if her work as a priest just made her more sanguine about dying or being captured.
They rounded a corner, and the Daris Brotherhood stood before them. It wasn’t even a particularly large compound. It was only her focus on it that made it intimidating.
“Count to a thousand,” Sammish said. “But only once we’re inside.”
“I know,” Saffa said.
Alys pulled the leather thong from her wallet and tapped Sammish’s shoulder. “Wrists,” she said.
Sammish put her hands behind her. Alys looped the binding around the base of Sammish’s hands where the thin bones of her wrists began to delta up into palm and thumb. The knot was an old trick Darro had taught her. It looked and felt solid, but a twist from Sammish would undo it.
“Wish us luck,” Alys said.
The Bronze Coast woman nodded once and said, “Luck.” Alys prodded Sammish forward with the lead-dipped head of her club just as if she were a prisoner. They crossed the wide square, Sammish taking deep, sighing breaths. “I’m trusting you.”
“I know,” Alys said. “Try to look nervous.”
Sammish laughed, and Alys smiled. But then they were at the wooden gate, and two guards with swords at their hips stepped out to meet them. Both were Hansch, both wore the colors of the Daris Brotherhood. One was a half-head taller than the other, but beyond that, they could almost have been the same man.
“What’s this?” the taller one asked.
“Delivering what was asked for,” Alys said. The swagger in her voice was the same that she’d been cultivating for months, but this time it felt like a performance. “Tregarro knows what it’s about.”
The guards exchanged a glance. Alys saw herself through their eyes: a Longhill rat hauling another one like herself to the master for a little coin and a pat on the head. Their contempt wasn’t even a sneer, but a smile. “All right, we’ll take it from here,” the taller one said, reaching out for Sammish.
Alys yanked her back. “No. Straight to him. That’s the agreement.”
“Whatever it was or wasn’t, he’s not here anymore. You can give this one over or you can take her home and feed her table scraps.”
The words washed over Alys like a cold wind. She saw Sammish stiffen. If Tregarro had gone, what else had changed? She didn’t know what they were walking into, except that it wasn’t what they’d thought.
She wanted to talk to Sammish, wanted to ask her what they should do. She couldn’t. This was her decision to make, so she made it.
“I need to talk to her, then,” Alys said.
“Her?”
She fixed the guard with contempt of her own. “You know who I mean. If he’s not here, I’ll talk with his master. Tell her the wolf girl is here, and I’ve done what she asked me to do.”
The men seemed less certain now, wondering, she guessed, whether Andomaka really lowered herself to speak directly to someone like Alys. She lifted her chin in defiance. One of them shifted his weight, stepping back from her without quite meaning to, and she knew they were in. The taller one put a hand on the pommel of his blade and nodded her forward. Alys pushed Sammish, who stumbled a little too theatrically. The guards didn’t notice anything false, though. They walked to the wooden gate, opened it, and escorted them through.
Alys expected them to take her and Sammish to the little cell where Tregarro had hauled her a lifetime ago when she’d brought them the silver knife. Instead, they moved toward the main building of the compound, near the entrance to the public temple. Servants and guards seemed to be everywhere, but it was likely no more than the usual. It was her anxiety that made them seem like ants on a dead rat.
They led her to the side of the building and down a set of old wooden steps to a basement servants’ entrance, and then to a thin, bare, high-ceilinged room. It was the sort of place where a merchant’s factor might meet with a head cook or houseman. The furnishings were threadbare chairs and a rough wood table. The only light came from a narrow window at the top of the wall. Thick wooden rafters shifted with the shadows of ankles passing by. Alys had the sudden, visceral memory of staying in Aunt Thorn’s underground halls, hiding from bluecloaks while Darro got himself killed. She wanted to leave, to go back up the stairs and into someplace with more ways to flee.
“Wait here,” the taller guard said, then left. Their footsteps, muffled by the closed door, faded quickly. Alys sat, then stood, then paced.
“He isn’t here?” Sammish said, her voice soft and low as if they might be overheard.
“I don’t know,” Alys said. “He always has been before.”
From the window above them, someone called out, and Alys’s blood went bright and fast. But no one took it up. It wasn’t the fire. How long had it been since they’d passed through the gate? She’d meant to start counting when they lost sight of Saffa, but she’d forgotten to do it.
“Maybe it’s better like this,” Sammish said. “If he’s not here, that’s one less person to follow. More likely that Andomaka will go after the knife.”
“If she comes. What if she’s doing something and doesn’t mind letting us wait here for an hour or two? We’re not that important to her.”