As one of the Lucas Family elders, she knew of things that would never be revealed to an outsider. That included things that he needed to know, particularly when it came to Shironne, or to Mikael, but she couldn’t tell him. She ended up withholding things from him at times, and he did his best to understand her dilemma. It sounded, though, as if she was trying to think of a way around her oaths in this case, so he waited. It had to be important if she was willing to do that.
“What do you know about oysters, Jon?” she finally asked.
This had to be going somewhere. “They’re slimy.”
She gave him another wry smile. “But they make pearls. Do you know how that happens?”
“If I recall this correctly, it’s something about sand getting inside their shells.”
“Yes, a grain of sand becomes an irritant,” she said. “The oysters develop a pearl around it, to protect themselves, I guess.”
She folded her hands and waited, a clear sign that he was supposed to figure out the rest himself.
If this has something to do with Shironne and Mikael . . .
He glanced out into the hallway to see if any of the other infirmarians were nearby before asking, “Are you saying that Mikael Lee is the irritant? That he created Shironne’s powers? Or created some form of binding between them? Or that she did it to protect herself from him?”
She continued to gaze at him helplessly.
If she couldn’t discuss it, that meant it was a subject the elders were currently discussing. That, in turn, gave it some validity in his mind. Apparently the elders—or the chaplains, who were the experts on sensitives—thought Mikael Lee’s mere presence had caused Shironne to become a touch-sensitive. “That’s why they’re willing to put up with him,” he guessed. “He’s annoying because of his broadcasting, but that creates touch-sensitives. Or stronger sensitives.”
“I can’t comment on that,” she said. “I can, however, comment on the curious fact that the percentage of sensitives in the yeargroups from the elevens to the sixteens is much higher than the comparable groups five years ago.”
“And five years ago was before Mikael Lee was sent here to live.” Cerradine had been raised in this fortress and had sat in all the same Family history classes Deborah had. Touch-sensitives had once been vital to many functions in the Six Families. Currently the elders worked around those functions without them, to some extent. That was why the Lucas Family was curious about Shironne Anjir, why Deborah had come out several times to observe Shironne working. Shironne had spontaneously developed a power they could put to use . . . or rather, Mikael had somehow prompted her to develop that power. “The Lee elders can’t possibly know that,” he said, “or they wouldn’t have sent Mikael here.”
“I can only speculate on what the Lee elders know or don’t know, Jon,” Deborah said. “I will, however, say that the Lucas Family doesn’t know what causes a sensitive to turn into a touch-sensitive. They have to have inherited some potential for it, but beyond that factor, we have only speculation. How can we possibly study them when there aren’t any to study?”
Speculation. Deborah had long held ideas about Shironne’s powers, and Mikael’s. She simply couldn’t discuss most of them with him, parceling out only dribs and drabs, which forced him to figure out what he could on his own.
Deborah sighed then. “If we force them together, physical proximity alone will hasten the process. Miss Anjir would be locking herself into the binding. They should be kept apart in order to preserve some option for her.”
Originally they’d kept Mikael away from the army’s offices because of his loudness, but lately it had been due to their suspicions of a binding between them. They’d wanted to give Shironne time to mature. Due to the intimacy of sharing thoughts, relationships that involved binding usually became intimate in a physical sense as well as the mental. And while it was clear that touch-sensitives usually learned to tolerate physical contact in time, he didn’t know how much physical contact Shironne could bear. She could touch her family and the servants. She seemed to tolerate Messine and Kassannan guiding her about. She touched dead bodies and dirt and all other manner of disgusting things with equanimity now. She’d learned all that in the years she’d worked for him.
But eating still troubled her. There were people whose touch made her cringe, although he suspected that was a reaction more to their undisciplined thoughts than to a lack of cleanliness. Even so, Shironne was the sort to go looking for trouble. She seemed to thrive on challenges.
For years, Deborah had struggled with balancing the expectations of the Lucas elders against Mikael’s well-being. Adding Shironne and their concerns about her had simply made Deborah’s predicament more complicated. Cerradine was sure she would love to tell Mikael that Shironne might hold the key to controlling his dreams, but she was trapped by the expectations of the Family. He shook his head. “Deb, if these deaths turn out to be the real thing, we’ll have to stop it quickly. That means using anything at hand, even a child. It’s only four months until she’s an adult. Surely the elders will grant some leeway if they understand the severity of his problems.”
Deborah didn’t argue. That meant she was resigned to the idea. That alone told him she truly feared for Mikael’s life. There were few things Deborah would value above a child’s autonomy and safety, but Mikael’s life was one of them.
“The things you say she does,” she said finally. “They don’t all fit with what we know of touch-sensitives.”
That had bothered Deborah from the beginning—Shironne’s ability to “read” corpses. Touch-sensitives were supposedly able to read what passed through another’s mind through touch, one of the reasons they’d so often served as interpreters in the past. Early on, Deborah had pointed out to him that corpses didn’t have anything passing through their minds. How, then, did Shironne catch those thoughts? “She hasn’t found her limits yet.”
Deborah shook her head slowly. “I prefer her to be a known quantity before we expose Mikael to her.”
While Shironne might be slightly disaster prone, she would never harm anyone. “She’s not contagious, Deborah.”
Deborah stretched her shoulders wearily. “Dahar will be angry.”
Cerradine stood, deciding Deborah must be exhausted if she used the “Dahar will be angry” argument. Dahar was always angry with her about something. “If he comes up harsh with you, tell him I swore you to secrecy.”
“It won’t matter. He’ll still blame me.” She sighed and rubbed at her temples.
“I’ll walk with you to your quarters,” he said.
“I have more work to do, Jon.”
“It can wait. Come along, Deb; you need sleep. What time did you get up?” When she admitted that she’d risen at two in the morning, he reached across the desk and plucked her jacket off the back of her chair. “This thing has dragged all over the ground.”
Deborah took the jacket from him, dusted off the skirt, and draped it over her arm. He linked his arm with hers and led her through the doorway out into the hallway. They didn’t have far to go; the infirmarians all had their quarters near the infirmary wing. Cerradine left Deborah at her door only after extracting her promise not to return to her office as soon as he’d gone.
Once out of the fortress and down in the city, he stopped at his own office before heading to his house in the Seychas District. The ensign waiting there had no news for him, so Cerradine scribbled off a note and headed down to the tavern where Aldassa had set up his search.
• • •
The cool evening breeze felt good against Mikael’s skin as he walked down Hermlin Street into the Old Town. His afternoon excursion down to the city’s morgue had been useless. The police insisted that there wasn’t a body, that there never had been a body.
Even the threat of the Daujom’s ire didn’t shake the officer at the morgue’s front desk. Mikael could go to
the Family’s legal counsel in the morning and start the paperwork necessary to force the police to let him in, but that might take a full day to process. By then, the body would be long gone. Mikael had the feeling that the officer who’d been daring enough to send for Kassannan that morning wasn’t with the police any longer either.
However, in her rush to get him back to the palace that morning, Deborah hadn’t bothered to retrieve his overcoat, so Mikael decided to visit Synen. He wasn’t as surprised that Deborah had forgotten his overcoat as he was that Kai had. Kai always made sure he retrieved every last uniform piece, as if Synen couldn’t be trusted not to sell a forgotten glove on the nearest street corner. Kai disliked loose ends.
People cleared out of Mikael’s way at the sight of his black uniform, probably surprised by the presence of a Family boy there at this hour, even though Mikael had walked this street many times before. The Six Families generally stayed close to their fortresses. He walked through the front doors, slipped through the crowded common room, and stepped into the kitchen.
The tavern might smell dank and tired in the mornings, but in the evening it was a symphony of wonderful scents. It was joked that Larossans would sell their own mothers for spices. Mikael had carefully never inquired as to whether there was any truth behind that saying. Fresh flatbread cooled on the table near where Synen’s wife cubed chicken and vegetables for a curry, her red tunic a bright spot against the large oven. She wore no petticoats over her trousers, a concession to the heat in the kitchen, and probably so as not to set herself afire.
She absently waved one bracelet-laden arm at Mikael, so he sat down out of her way. Pennants hung sullenly in the hot air rising from the large oven, the sigil on them one that Mikael didn’t recognize. It looked suspiciously like Pedraisi lettering, although any self-respecting Larossan would vehemently deny that. They would insist that it was an ancient sigil that their priests had used for centuries.
“Your coat’s on the wall over there, lad,” Synen said as he walked past with four clean mugs. He handed them off to a new waitress, one wearing more than enough jewelry to show she was of marriageable age, and that girl dashed back out to the common room. Mikael located his hooded overcoat and pulled it down from among the mass of coats on hooks on the wall. He sniffed it discreetly and found that the scent of the kitchen had permeated the wool, not an entirely bad thing. Deciding that he should have it cleaned anyway, he went and settled into his chair to wait until Synen had a chance to talk to him.
A quarter hour passed before the rush died down enough that Synen could come and join him. He brought a couple of bowls of curry over with him.
“What’s the sigil on those pennants?” Mikael asked.
“Warmth, of course,” Synen said, as if that was the only prayer a Larossan might have for his kitchen.
“Ah, I see.”
Synen rolled his eyes and sat at the table. “What’s happening out there?”
Mikael blew on the curry in his spoon to cool it. Or was this stew? He’d never quite understood what made something curry rather than soup or stew. The main difference seemed to be the amount of spices used, but he suspected that if he asked Synen, he’d simply be treated to another series of eye rolls. He considered Synen’s question instead, a chance to find out whether any rumors about the body had reached the streets of Noikinos yet. “What I’ve heard is that the police had a body this morning, but now they don’t.”
Synen’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Did it get up and walk away?”
“Good question.” He stirred his soup. “My information said the body belonged to a police officer.”
Synen gave Mikael a long, knowing look and then waved his finger in Mikael’s face. “The pigeons are spooked. I wondered why.”
Mikael wasn’t going to argue his use of that nickname for the police. “I hear that the manner of death was . . . interesting.”
“Blood magic?” Synen asked.
“What makes you ask that?”
“Officer Gastenin—he patrols this neighborhood—came in and asked if I had any visitors from Pedrossa. Put that together with a dead body the police want to hide, and that says blood magic to me.”
So the police are asking about Pedraisi visitors at taverns. That alone would be enough to make innkeepers stop welcoming Pedraisi travelers, the vast majority of whom would be as horrified by the death as anyone local. News of that would get around the city quickly. “Would Faralis be able to keep something like that hidden?”
Synen shrugged. “Who knows? But when he can lock up anyone who talks, it will slow the gossip.”
Mikael had never understood why the police commissioner had so much power. “Lock people up just to keep them silent?”
Synen laughed. “You clearly underestimate his desire to hang on to power. There’s an election coming at year’s end, and a blood magic scandal wouldn’t look good for those currently in power.”
Mikael finished his curry, contemplating the wisdom of electing one’s officials, something neither the Family nor the Anvarrid did. “I’m going to head back to the fortress, Synen. Thank your wife for me.”
Synen followed him to the alley door. “If they were daring enough to use a police officer in blood magic, the killer might not balk at grabbing someone like you, lad. Be careful.”
“Thanks for the warning, Synen.”
“You’re a paying customer. I don’t want to lose you.” Synen strolled back toward the kitchen, laughing to himself.
Mikael headed uphill to the fortress, donning his fragrant overcoat as he walked. Synen had a point. Assuming that it hadn’t been random, the killers had chosen a figure of authority for their first victim. That served to alert the police, which would only make it harder for the killers to remain hidden. It had been a risky choice, one surely meant to get attention.
He had to wonder why, and whether the second victim would be equally significant.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A note came for Shironne in the morning, just after the clock struck ten.
“The second . . .” Sitting on the bed next to her, Melanna struggled with the word but eventually sounded it out, having heard it before. “. . . corpse was found near the river this morning. I would . . .”
“Spell the word for me,” Shironne suggested.
Melanna complied, spelling slowly.
“Appreciate,” Shironne supplied.
“Oh, all right. I would appreciate your assistance as soon as possible. That’s it,” she finished brightly.
Shironne sensed her sister’s pride in her accomplishment and said, “Good work. Could you find Mama and show it to her?”
Melanna bounced off the edge of the bed, and her feet pattered out of the room.
Shironne deduced from the sound that her sister was running about the house barefooted again. She almost jumped off the bed herself. She went to the armoire in her dressing room and dug out her sturdiest leather slippers to replace the ones she wore about the house. Her mother came into her room as Shironne sat slipping on the second.
“Do you mind if I go?” Even from across the room, Shironne could sense her mother’s agitation. She must have heard Melanna read the note.
“I need to have a word with the colonel,” Mama said from the doorway. “I’ll go with you, although I’ll leave it to him to bring you back home.”
The very fact that she was leaving the house while in mourning hinted at her urgency. Her mother might have said she wasn’t upset about the bruise, but Shironne suspected she wanted to give the colonel a piece of her mind before she left anyway. “When will you have time to go?” Shironne asked.
“I need to accompany Perrin to the clothier’s in about two hours,” her mother said. “Verinne can stay with your sisters, so I think it would be best to go now. I’ve already sent for the driver to ready the carriage.”
Poor Melanna, trapp
ed here with Verinne. “Let me finish with my slippers, and I’ll be ready.”
“I’ll meet you at the kitchen door,” her mother said. “Just give me a few minutes.”
As the sound of her mother’s bracelet faded away, Shironne crossed to the hooks by her door to get her coat. The gloves in the pockets were her last decent pair of leather gloves. She hated to ask her mother to purchase more, since she was unsure about their financial future, so Shironne ground her teeth together and put on the old pair, still soiled after her trip to the morgue. It took a moment to control the reaction that shuddered through her, but she managed, wrapping one hand about the focus that rested in her tunic pocket. Then she headed down to the kitchen, and together she and her mother walked down to the back courtyard of the house.
When he saw that her mother intended to accompany them, Messine let out a flash of surprise before tucking away the reaction. He dutifully helped both of them into the carriage and then joined the driver on the box.
Their old carriage rolled into the streets, heading in the direction of the noise and traffic. Her mother sat silent, mind uneasy, leaving Shironne curious about what Mama intended to tell Colonel Cerradine. She probably wouldn’t decide that until confronted by the colonel himself.
They stopped at Army Square, and, once on the walkway, Shironne placed her hand on her mother’s arm. They walked down the familiar path to the colonel’s office.
A soldier at the top of the steps opened the door of the administration building for them and they passed inside. Another soldier greeted Shironne as he passed on some mission, but his “Hello, miss” was too quick for her to identify the voice. Finally locating the door of the office, Shironne opened it and stepped inside, her mother close behind.
She couldn’t hear anyone moving in the anteroom. Aldassa wasn’t at his desk. None of them were. She and her mother went to the small room off the hallway where the colonel usually had them wait.
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