Smelled now, not just Parno’s familiar smell, but the garlic in the sauce of the partridge they’d eaten for luncheon, the wine he’d had, and the bay leaf in the water he’d used to cleanse his hands. She felt and heard Parno slip the makeshift bar free and eased herself through the opening, moving only enough to allow him to shut the door behind her. She could hear two sets of breathing now-two?-and stilled her own to listen better. From the left. Low, steady, almost a snore. Unconscious, then, and neither help nor hindrance. And the second? Above.

Dhulyn stepped to the right in time to feel the displacement of air as the body of her assailant landed to her left, his grunt sounding loud to her sensitive hearing. She ducked under the blow she sensed sweeping toward her head, felt the air push past her face and seized the wrist instead of dancing away as instinct and training demanded. She continued her turn into her opponent until she had it back against the wall, her forearm against its throat, and her knife buried in its chest.

Dhulyn eased the body to the floor, pulled her knife out of the wound and wiped it clean on her breeches before carefully feeling upward with her free hand and covering the dead eyes. Many fights were lost through too early belief that they were won. No point in being careless now. She took a moment to allow her breathing to return to normal, to release herself from the discipline of the Shora before laying the knife down behind her and using that hand to dig her fingers into the side of the throat, under the jaw. Nothing, no pulse. The blood had stopped moving from the wound. She made sure the eyelids were closed before she recovered the knife, inserted it with care between her skin and the blindfold, and sliced the strip of cloth free of her face.

“I fulfill my oath, Tarkin of Imrion,” she whispered, touching her forehead with her fingertips.

She rose to her feet in one movement and advanced in the direction of the other breathing she’d heard. She stopped when two legs, one folded under the other, came into her view on the far side of the dais. She advanced even more slowly, certain that she recognized those soft-soled boots with their intricate embroidery. Her lips formed a soundless whistle as she knelt, sheathed her knives, and pulled loose one of the braided leather cords that were woven into her vest. Two important questions leaped immediately to mind.

What had Cullen of Langeron been doing in the Throne room? And was this still Cullen of Langeron?

Dhulyn had just finished trussing the unconscious Cloudman when the doors of the throne room were flung open behind her. The rapid footsteps stopped only paces into the room, and then advanced once more, slowly. The last knot secure, Dhulyn looked around, knowing already who she would see.

Zelianora Tarkina sank to her knees by the corpse of her husband, laying her fingers lightly on his closed eyelids. When she looked up, her dark brows were like splashes of ink on her face.

“Did he speak, once the Shadow had departed?”

Shaking her head, Dhulyn rose to her feet and approached the other woman. She stopped when Zelianora held her hand up, palm toward her.

“Leave me, please,” she said. “You stood by your word and for that I thank you, but leave me now. Please.”

Dhulyn hesitated, looking from the kneeling Tarkina to the trussed Cloudman. Parno left his post by the door to take her by the elbow.

“Come,” he said.

“We must bring Cullen,” she said.

Parno shrugged and bent over to grasp the front of Cullen’s tunic, hauling the unconscious man upright enough to sling him over his shoulder.

“Don’t know why you bothered tying him. The Tarkin wouldn’t have been attacking you if the Shadow’d left him. Logic tells us Cullen must be clean.”

“Logic’s killed people before. Better careful than cursing.”

At the doorway Dhulyn stopped and looked back into the room. There was something wrong. The throne room showed no signs of the encounter, just the body of Tek-aKet, with his grieving Tarkina kneeling over it. Dhulyn drew in a deep breath through her nose, tasting blood at the back of her throat. But there was something else. Something she couldn’t put her finger on.

The new Tenebroso, Dal-eLad, coughed, found himself leaning over the neck of his horse, and straightened, rubbing at the start of a headache over his left eyebrow.

“Dal, are you all right?”

A few blinks assured him he was looking into the blue eyes of Karlyn Tan, riding beside him. He held the focus until he was sure his vision was clear.

“Felt dizzy for a moment.” He looked away, rubbing the side of his face.

“You looked as though you were about to faint.”

“I’ll be fine,” Dal said, shrugging away Karlyn’s concern. They had no time for any of this, they had to get to the Dome as quickly as possible. “Let’s go.”

“But I don’t understand.” Mar sat next to Gun on Dhulyn Wolfshead’s bed, drawing comfort from the warmth of his body so near hers. She looked between the two Mercenaries. “You did exactly as the Tarkin asked you to do.”

Parno Lionsmane closed and tied the silk bag that held his disassembled pipes. “Not everyone will feel that way. The fact remains, little Dove, that my Partner has killed the Tarkin of Imrion, and even though it was at his order… well, there’s no way to know which way the Houses will jump, if they find out. If we ask for permission to go and are denied,” he shrugged, “better to explain, and defend ourselves if necessary, from the mountains.”

Gun took her hand. “We’d have to go anyway,” he said. “We don’t know where the Shadow is now, but we do know we need the other Marks. And the only other Marks we know about are in the mountains. Before Wolfshead killed the Tarkin, we could have sent Cullen’s Racha bird for them-what did I say?”

Dhulyn Wolfshead had frozen in the act of folding her long riding cotte. “Disha,” she said. “That’s it.” She turned to Parno Lionsmane. “When did Disha return?”

“Two nights ago, the same night Gun found Tek-aKet. What of it?”

“Cullen was in the throne room without Disha.” The two Mercenary Brothers looked at each other tight-lipped.

“She could be anywhere,” Parno Lionsmane said finally. “He could have sent her with a message, or just away, if he suspected something was wrong with Tek. We won’t know anything until he comes to himself.”

“If he comes to himself.” The Wolfshead chewed on her lower lip, the half-folded cotte twisting in her hands.

“That mistake won’t be made again, you can be sure,” Parno Lionsmane said. “Cullen’s well-guarded and, unlike Tek, has no authority to order himself freed.”

“It seems hard to go to the Cloud people without him.” Dhulyn Wolfshead frowned at the cotte she still held.

Mar looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. Here we go again, she thought, surprised to find her hands so steady. Once more on the run. Had she spent longer than three days anywhere since she’d first set eyes on the Mercenaries? She got to her feet, mentally reviewing what she should take with her. No point in packing any of the court gowns Rab-iRab had found for her. However much nicer they were than the clothes she’d had at Tenebro, they wouldn’t be much use on horseback. The sound of her own name made her look up.

“Mar can stay here with Zelianora Tarkina,” Gun was saying.

A cold shock buzzed in her ears. Did he really mean to go without her? “Not likely,” she said, thrusting herself between Gun and Parno. “It’s my bowl you need, remember!”

“But, Mar, you’re safer here if we-”

“Best if you waste no time arguing.”

The voice from the doorway stopped Gun before he could finish giving Mar his excuses. Dal-eLad and Karlyn-Tan had come with them from Tenebro House, but while she and Gun had come straight to the Mercenaries’ rooms, the Noble House had gone to the Tarkina. Dal’s glance fell to the open packs. “Good. I should have known you would be ahead of me. The Houses are already arriving. Penrado happened to be here when you came riding in and he’s called the others.”