“Well, if it’s not her true name,” Sarai said, “we’ll send the city guard to look for her, too.”
“Lady Sarai,” Alorria asked, “what will you do with her when you find her?”
“We’ll arrest her, of course! On suspicion of murder. And bring her to the Palace for questioning.” Only after she had spoken did Sarai remember that she was addressing a member of the Wizard’s Guild, and the Guild wanted Serem’s murderer turned over to them.
Well, this woman would need to be questioned to be sure she was Serem’s murderer. Anyone intelligent would see that.
“Of course,” Tobas said. Then he remarked, “It may not be that easy, arresting someone who was able to kill several different magicians.”
Sarai glanced at him, startled. “That’s a good point,” she said. “If she is the killer. I’ll have to see that whoever is sent after her takes special precautions.”
“But you think this woman you seek is part of a conspiracy?” Tbbas had moved around to the front of the desk; now he leaned back comfortably against it. Karanissa settled against a wall. To Lady Sarai’s distress, Alorria began looking around for a clear patch of floor to sit on—the chairs were stacked with reports. The spriggan in the corner rustled papers and peered out curiously; Lady Sarai turned and kicked at it, sending it squealing out the door.
“Maybe we should go somewhere more comfortable,” Lady Sarai suggested. “And I’ll tell you all about it.”
CHAPTER 22
Tolthar of Smallgate stared into the empty mug, wishing he had the price of another pint. The Drunken Dragon never gave credit, especially not to him, so there was no point in asking for it, and he didn’t have so much as an iron bit left in his purse.
He didn’t feel well enough to rob anyone, either, though he thought he might once he sobered up a little. It was too late in the day to find honest work, or to expect much from begging— not that he really wanted to try either one. That meant that dinner, if he got any at all, would probably come out of Mama Kilina’s stewpot, over in the Wall Street Field. Maybe that little hellion, Tabaea the Thief, would turn up there tonight. After all, her lucky streak couldn’t last forever.
That assumed, of course, that it was a lucky streak that had kept her out of the Drunken Dragon and out of the local portion of the Wall Street Field for the last few sixnights. He thought that if she had gotten herself killed someone would know about it; that meant she was still somewhere in the city. Tolthar couldn’t imagine that she would ever leave Ethshar of the Sands; the people he knew, the people he thought of as his own kind, simply didn’t do that. The outside world was for rich merchants and stupid farmers, not the people who lived on the fringes, who spent an occasional night in the Field.
The idea that Tabaea might have found a permanent job somewhere never occurred to him. Thieves and beggars simply didn’t do that, in Tolthar’s view of the World, and Tabaea, as her very name proclaimed, was a thief.
He supposed she might have wound up in a brothel somewhere, but that wasn’t usually permanent. Slavery was permanent, but he thought he would have heard if she had been auctioned off. He had friends—or rather, he had people who were willing to talk to him—who had promised to tell him if they saw Tabaea anywhere.
So he assumed mat she’d committed a few successful burglaries.
But the money would run out; it always did. Sooner or later, he would find her again, in the Dragon or at Kilina’s stewpot, or somewhere else among his familiar haunts.
And when he did, she would pay for the wounds in his leg. They were healed now; the leg was as good as new, but she owed him for the pain, the blood, and the time he had spent limping. She owed him for the embarrassment of having to talk to mat young snot of a guardsman, Deran Wuller’s son.
And he had a wonderful idea of how she could repay him for his troubles. She might even enjoy it; he wouldn’t mind if she did. Sometimes it was even better that way.
He shoved the mug aside and got to his feet. He was not entirely sure where he was going, whether he would head directly for Mama Kilina or make a stop or two along the way, but he knew he would have to stand up, so he went ahead with that part of the job. Once he was upright he didn’t have to worry about the proprietor of the Dragon harassing him to buy another ale or get out.
His head swam slightly. Maybe, he thought, he should have spent some of his last coppers on food, rather than ale.
Well, it was too late now. He turned toward the door.
Then he sat heavily back down. There was a guardsman standing in the doorway, and Tolthar recognized him. It was Deran Wuller’s son. Deran might be there for something entirely unrelated to Tolthar, but Tolthar did not care to try walking out past him.
Then Deran stepped in and marched straight toward Tolthar. He pointed, and Tolthar realized there were two other soldiers behind Deran. One of them had a lieutenant’s band on his arm. “Oh, gods,” Tolthar muttered. “Now what?” “Iblthar of Smallgate?” Deran asked loudly, stopping a step away.
Tolthar winced at the volume. “Yes,” he said, “you know I am. What is it this time?”
“We are ordered to bring you to the palace immediately,” Deran said.
Tblthar’s eyes widened, and the shock of Deran’s words seemed to cook away a good part of the alcohol in his body.
“Why?” he asked. “What did I do?” “You’re wanted for questioning,” Deran said, a bit more kindly. He didn’t like seeing anyone, even a worthless drunkard like Tolthar, needlessly frightened. “They didn’t tell us, but I think they want you as a witness, not for anything you’ve done yourself.”
“I haven’t seen anything,” Tolthar protested. “I haven’t heard anything, either. I don’t know anything.”
“Well, you can tell the folks at the palace that,” Deran said, reaching for him. “Come on.”
Tolthar pressed back against his chair, but the guardsman’s hand clamped around his arm like a noose drawn tight. Reluctantly, he yielded to the inevitable and allowed himself to be led out.
As he and the three soldiers marched down Wall Street in a tight little group, one at each side and the third behind, Tolthar remembered all the other people he had seen escorted away over the years. He had even escorted a few himself, before he was kicked out of the guard—but to a district magistrate, not the palace.
A good many of them never came back; they were executed, or sold into slavery, or exiled. Others took a beating, or paid a fine, and then, presumably chastened, went on with their lives. A few returned untouched and continued as if nothing had happened.
Tolthar hoped very much that he would be one of those few. At the gate, the party turned right; Tolthar was escorted across one side of Grandgate Market and into Gate Street. He could see the dome of the palace ahead already, even though it was still over a mile away—the dome was the highest structure in the city, even taller than the Great Lighthouse, and it towered over the surrounding buildings, above the rooftops, a great dark semicircle against the scarlet sunset. In the mornings Tolthar had seen it gleaming golden-white, like a huge pale moon rising in the west, but now it was shadowed and ominous. The sun was sinking just to the left of the dome, almost behind it, and for a moment Tolthar fancied that the dome was some sort of shadow-sun trying to blot the true sun out of the sky.
The foursome marched down seven blocks to the fork and bore right onto Harbor Street; now the sun was a tiny red sliver nestled at the base of the looming dome of the palace, and the sky was darkening overhead. Tolthar glanced at Deran, then up at the dome. “Can you tell me where you’re taking me, and why it’s the Palace instead of the magistrate’s office?” he said. “Am I going to see the Minister of Justice?”
“We’re taking you to Captain Tikri’s office,” Deran said, “to talk to Lady Sarai, the Minister of Investigation. She’s also Lord Kalthon’s daughter, and Acting Minister of Justice.” “But you aren’t taking me to the justice chamber?” “The captain’s office.” “Why?”
; Deran shrugged apologetically. “They didn’t tell us,” he said. That brought them to the second fork, where they bore left onto Quarter Street. The dome of the palace had blocked out the sun entirely, or perhaps the sun had set; Tolthar couldn’t be sure. The sky overhead had darkened to a deep sapphire blue, and the lesser moon shone pink in the east.
They came to Circle Street, then to the colorful pavement forming a ring around the palace; they marched directly across, past the final line of stalls owned by elite and fortunate merchants. The palace itself stood before them now, the dome hidden by the wall and the eaves. Tolthar had never been here before; even during his days in the guard, he had never drawn duty in the palace. He had never been closer than Circle Street.
Somewhere behind that wall lived old Ederd IV himself, overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, master of the fates of over a million men, women, and children—one of the three most powerful mortals in the World. And Lord Kalthon, Ederd’s Minister of Justice, would be there, who could have a man flogged, hanged, beheaded, exiled, or sold on a moment’s notice. Lord Torrut, commander of the guard, was in there, as well—and his slightest word could send ten thousand men out to fight, kill, and die.
Tolthar did not particularly care to join them.
He had no choice, though; when he hesitated on the threshold of the little side door the soldiers heaved him through without even slowing.
The floors inside were stone—not rough slate or flagstone, tike an inn’s hearth, but polished granite and marble. Tolthar had never seen such floors.
The walls, too, were stone—some of them, anyway; others were paneled in wood, or hidden by drapes or tapestries. He could see them through the archways and open doors as he was hurried through what seemed like an endless maze of antechambers and corridors.
At last his escort stopped at the door of a small chamber with bare walls of pale gray stone; in the center of the room stood a large desk, with wood-and-brown-velvet chairs behind and before. Papers, scrolls, and ledgers were spread across the desk and stacked on the floor.
Two people were in the room: a tall young woman with thick brown hair and a large man in the uniform of a guard captain. They were standing by the desk, arguing. At the sound of arriving footsteps they stopped and turned toward the doorway.
“Captain Tikri,” one of the guardsmen said, “this is Tolthar ofSmallgate.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” the man in the captain’s uniform said. “Bring him in.”
Deran and the lieutenant brought Tolthar into the little office, while the third man returned to the corridor.
The woman was wearing clothes of fine gold linen, and Tolthar might have guessed that she was a noblewoman of some son, but he was still startled when Tikri addressed her as Lady Sarai.
“Which magician shall I send for, Lady Sarai?” he asked.
“More than one,” the young woman replied. “I don’t want any doubt about this. Teneria, certainly, and Mereth, if you can find her, and Okko, and I suppose you should get that Tobas and his witch wife back here, and anyone else you think we might want.” As an afterthought, she added, “Not the pregnant wife, though—she’s not a magician.”
“This may not have anything to do with the case, remember,” Tikri reminded her. “And we have half a dozen other chances, if this one doesn’t work out.”
“I know that,” Lady Sarai snapped. “But this man is here, now, and he’s one of the more promising possibilities.” She turned to the guards. “Sit him down,” she ordered. Abruptly, Tolthar found himself seated, on the chair in front of the desk. He stared up silently at the woman. “Do you know who I am?” Lady Sarai demanded. Tolthar blinked and didn’t answer.
“He’s drunk,” Deran remarked. “We dragged him out of a tavern in Northangle.”
Lady Sarai nodded. Tolthar didn’t bother to argue, although he didn’t feel very drunk anymore.
A messenger appeared in the doorway. “You wanted me, Captain?” she asked.
“Yes,” Tikri said. He crossed the room quickly. “You go ahead, Lady Sarai.” He stepped out into the corridor to give the messenger her instructions.
“Close the door, Lieutenant,” Lady Sarai directed. “Let’s have some privacy.”
Senden obeyed. Lady Sarai stepped up close to the seated Tolthar and stared down at him. “You’re drunk?” she asked.
“A little,” he admitted. He was beginning to recover his nerve.
“That might be just as well. Do you know who I am?” “They call you Lady Sarai,” Tolthar said. “I can still hear.” “That’s my name; you know who I am?” “Lord Kalthon’s daughter,” Tolthar answered. Lady Sarai’s face hardened. “I am Lady Sarai, Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of Justice to Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, Triumvir of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Armies and Defender of the Gods, and I am speaking to you now in the performance of my duties and with the full authority of the overlord. Do you understand that?”
“Uh...” Tolthar hesitated, then said, “I’m not sure.”
“That means that I can have you flogged, or tortured, or killed, right here and now, without having to worry about appeals or consequences. And I’ll do it if you don’t cooperate.”
Tolthar stared up at her. He did not see Deran and Senden exchange doubtful glances behind him.
“Now,” Lady Sarai said, “I understand that on or about the fourth day of the month of Summerheat, you received two knife wounds in your left leg. Is that correct?”
“Yes, my lady,” Tolthar replied softly, thoroughly cowed.
“These were both inflicted with the same knife, at approximately the same time?”
“Yes.”
“And that knife was used by a woman?”
“That’s right,” Tolthar admitted.
“How tall was she?”
“Uh... if you want...” Did they think he didn’t know who had stabbed him? “How tall was she?” Sarai shouted, leaning closer. “She’s short,” he said quickly. “I mean, not tiny, but she’s... she’s pretty short.”
“What was she wearing? What color?”
“Black,” Tolthar said, “she usually wears black.”
“What’s the shape of her face like?”
Baffled, Tolthar wondered why Lady Sarai didn’t just ask for Tabaea’s name. He said, “I don’t know...”
“Did you see her face?”
“Well, yes.”
“What shape is it?”
“Let me think for a minute!”
Sarai backed away from him slightly, giving him room to breathe. “Take your time,” she said.
“Thank you, my lady,” Tolthar said, resentfully. He tried to picture Tabaea’s face. “Sort of straight,” he said, “and wide. She has a square chin, almost.”
“Along nose?”
“No, it’s more wide.”
“Brown hair?”
“I think it’s black...”
“Green eyes?”
“I didn’t notice, I thought they were brown...”
“Dark skin?”
“No, she’s pale...”
“Full-bodied?”
“Skinny as a steer in Srigmor.”
“Clumsy?”
“If she were clumsy, do you think I ’d have let her get me with the knife?” Tolthar protested angrily. “I wasn’t that drunk!”
The door opened, and Lady Sarai paused in her questioning. She looked up as a thin, black-haired girl entered.
For a moment, Tolthar thought it was Tabaea herself, and he began to imagine elaborate schemes to blame him for some crime he had not committed, to punish him for making false accusations; then he saw that this person wasn’t Tabaea, that she was taller and generally thinner, though perhaps fuller in the chest. And the new arrival had a long, narrow face that was not like Tabaea’s at all. “Teneria,” Lady Sarai said, “we think this man may have survived an attack by the killer. We want you to check his wounds, if you can, to see if the sa
me knife was used.”
“I’ll try,” the woman Lady Sarai had called Teneria said quietly.
“They’re healed,” Tolthar protested. “My wounds are healed!”
“I’ll try, anyway,” Teneria replied. “Thank you,” Lady Sarai said. “But first,” she added, turning back to Tolthar, “I believe that this man was about to tell us the name of the woman who stabbed him.”
The long-awaited question came as a great relief. “Tabaea,” Tolthar said. “Tabaea the Thief.”
CHAPTER 23
Tabaea was coming dawn the stairs of her current residence, a pleasant little inn called the Blue Dancer, and thinking out her plans for the evening, when she heard the sound of soldiers walking. There was the distinctive slapping of scabbard against kilt, the heavy tread of the boots—definitely soldiers, on the street out front, drawing nearer. She sniffed the air, but with the inn’s door closed she could make out nothing unusual. Dinner had been beef stewed in red wine, and she could still smell the lingering aroma of every ingredient, and of the half-dozen different vintages that had been served to the Dancer’s customers. The chimney was drawing well, so the scent of the hearthfire itself was relatively faint, but its heat was making Beren, the serving wench, sweat as she swept the floor; Tabaea could smell that, too. She could distinguish the moist odors of Beren’s cotton tunic and wool skirt.
Dogs were amazing creatures, Tabaea thought. She had never realized how amazing until she had started killing them. They could all smell all these details.
The booted steps were coming directly up to the door of the inn; Tabaea wondered why. Soldiers were a common enough sight in the taverns and inns of Wall Street, but the Blue Dancer was a quiet and rather expensive place several blocks down Grand Street from the market, and the city guard was not generally found here unless someone had sent for them.
There were other footsteps as well—she hadn’t heard them at first, with the door and the windows closed and the various sounds of the city drowning them out, but someone in slippers was walking with the soldiers, someone wearing a long, rustling garment.
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