The Nightborn by Isabel Cooper (howl and other poems TXT) 📗

“The night in question has a great deal to do with the answer,” Lycellias said. “Yet I think your judgment sound. May Tinival shield you on your journey.”

* * *

It was a silent walk back to the hill where both the Verengirs and the Rognozis lived—silent between Branwyn and Zelen, at any rate. The city supplied plenty of noises, of the sort Branwyn was familiar with but only just getting used to on a grand scale, and she was careful to note and identify as many as she could.

Zelen had probably been right about the likelihood of more assassins, but probably rarely saved lives.

“Do you have a story prepared?” he asked as they approached the Rognozis’ gates.

Branwyn hadn’t ever needed one before. “I suppose a tavern brawl would reflect poorly on my diplomatic image.”

“That depends on the audience,” Zelen said with a chuckle that warmed her despite both the chill and the situation. “But I’d blame a runaway horse, if I were you. That sort of thing happens from time to time. Say you got out of the way, nobody was hurt, throw in a smashed-up fruit cart if you like. Details tend to help.”

“You sound as though you’ve provided a few alibis before.”

“In my wayward youth.”

“I’m thankful for your waywardness, then.”

“I’d planned to be considerably more wayward,” he said, making a wry face, “but I fear this isn’t our evening.”

“No.” Battle led to lust more than occasionally, but that was in the immediate aftermath, and usually in the flush of triumph. After hauling wounded people through the streets, then talking over who in the crowded city might most want her dead, Branwyn wanted only a hot bath, a soft bed, and darkness. From the lines around Zelen’s eyes and the slump of his shoulders, she suspected he felt the same. “Another time.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” said Zelen. Once again he took her hand and kissed the back, but this time he held it for longer. “And I’ll send word when I hear from Lycellias.”

Chapter 14

“They gave us little enough, I fear,” Lycellias said.

One of the sword-marked doors led to a short, wide hallway of polished maple. A plain door off of that opened onto a small but airy room where two couches faced each other across a golden-red wooden table. Lycellias sat on one, Branwyn and Zelen on the other. The news surprised none of them.

“Can’t expect a person to give their name and address when they hire killers,” he said, “damned disobliging as it is of them.”

“No,” said Branwyn, “but I’d cherished hopes of a description.”

Lycellias nodded. “So too had I. But the prisoners each said that the person who sought them out was cloaked and hooded. Beneath the hood, they both said, the face was unsteady. It shifted constantly so that they couldn’t speak definitely of any feature.”

“Did they get any sense of a figure? A voice?” Zelen asked.

“Tall, they said, with neither breasts nor curved hips that they could make out. A cloak hides much, of course, and much more can be done with binding. They did say that the person spoke with refinement and, indeed, that they acted fastidious—always standing, touching nothing in the place where they met, and so forth. The voice, they said, was low.”

“Well,” Zelen said, “we’ve eliminated most people who aren’t at least the wealthier sort of merchant.”

“The Rognozis seem unlikely as well. She’s too buxom for binding or a cloak to have much effect, and his age would be obvious even if his face was enchanted,” Branwyn added.

“Unless,” said Zelen, “they used an agent. That means the rest of it’s no good either. Plenty of people with resources who came up from the docks, you know.”

“An agent would yet be a beginning,” Lycellias said. “The place of the meeting is known to us now as well, and there may yet be more to find there.”

Lycellias made a good point. “Fair,” Zelen admitted, as if a knight could be otherwise. “Sorry for jumping straight to despair. I’ve chased too many cold trails lately, if that’s the phrase I want. Never been much of a hunter.”

“Which quarry do you speak of?” Lycellias asked.

“A missing boy down at the docks. No trace of him, and we turned over every rock we could find.”

“Ah. We’d have been of little aid then, and the child’s kin would have known it.”

It was true. The knights were wonderful when you knew the scoundrel you wanted brought to justice or had a specific innocent at a specific place who needed defending, and they were top-notch at determining whether or not an alleged scoundrel actually deserved that name, but the Silver Wind didn’t help when nobody knew who was to blame for a crime nor whether one had even taken place. Neither did any of the other gods.

Branwyn echoed his thoughts. “Knights for judgment and defense, Blades for dark sorcery, Sentinels if monsters are involved—”

“Much luck you’d have finding one,” Zelen said. “I think it’s been ten years or more since the Order sent any of their people to Heliodar.”

“—but for those who’ve merely vanished, mortal vision is the only recourse. It’s a pity.”

“Searching for lost things, if they were tied enough to the one who sought them, was one of the Traitor’s powers,” Lycellias said. “That was long ago, before he was the Traitor, before even my grandfather’s day. The art has left the world, or gone beyond the reach of mortals.”

“I hope it’s gone beyond the reach of Gizath’s people now, too,” said Zelen. He didn’t much care for the notion of anybody being able to find him or what he wanted hidden through sorcery. Imagining the Traitor’s minions with the ability made his flesh crawl.

“Nobody’s seen evidence of it in the war. Or the histories from before the winters.” Branwyn mentally paged through old books. “I think that he lost that influence during his fight with Letar.”

Lycellias nodded. “The wounds from that battle were to the world