“I am glad he has you, my dear. What a consort you shall be. What a House you will make between you. Carry my words to him, and my blessing for him and our House.”

Dhulyn let her mouth close, her words of refusal fading on her lips. It was too late for the old woman, let her die in peace at least. She managed a nod as she took the Tenebroso’s hands in hers and squarely met her bright amber eyes.

The woman’s pupils suddenly shrank.

“Your death is here, Grandmother. Begin your curse.”

Eleven

THE ROOM WHERE the Kir of House Tenebro questioned his prisoners was, as Hernyn Greystone had expected, unlocked and empty. Though, perhaps, prisoners was too strong a word. After all, some of the people questioned had gone in smiling, had been given wine and dainty edibles before they came out, still smiling, restored to their normal routine. Others, Hernyn knew, had gone in and never came out again-at least not under their own power. What exactly distinguished guests from prisoners-and what made some remain guests while others became dead-had been beyond the concern of Mercenaries employed in the guard.

Lucky thing he was so good at the Stalking Shora. He’d had to dodge three people on his way out of the cellars alone, and there seemed to be an unusual number of the Kir’s guards patrolling the hallways.

Hernyn had been pleased and excited to find two Brothers already in the guard at Tenebro House when he signed up. Fanryn and Thionan were both older, but they’d treated him right, and he’d been careful to follow their examples, especially when it came to being discreet. “Nothing you see or hear ever leaves your eyes or ears.” That was Common Rule no matter who you worked for. The only people you ever told about anything you saw or heard while on an assignment was the Mercenary House itself.

“Do nothing to lose trust and respect, or you’ll lose it for all your Brothers.” That was Common Rule, too.

And, Hernyn thought, a blush rising over him even now, he’d seen some very interesting personal behavior in the months that he had been in Tenebro House. Had even been invited to join in-and by some most unexpected people. The Mercenary’s code prevented him from gossiping about what his old grandmother had called “that kind of thing,” even as it stopped him from discussing the routine security measures of the House. And the kind of people who went into the room he was going to now. Their names. Which ones walked out on their own limbs, and which ones did not.

He hadn’t needed the presence of his Brothers to remind him of the Common Rule. He just hadn’t expected it all to be so complicated. Because he’d gone and made a mistake after all. That he couldn’t have known it would be a mistake, didn’t make him feel any better. He should have known better. Because he’d been bragging. And he’d thought he’d been cured of that, long ago. The hard way. He rubbed the scar on his right forearm.

He crossed quickly to a window, let himself out into the cool night air. Frost before morning, he thought, using the finger- and toeholds provided by old and crumbling mortar to move up to a similar window on the floor above. No one bothered to latch these windows; they were too high up, and gave only on an inner courtyard.

When Rofrin and Neslyn the Fair had asked him about a Brother who was obviously Dhulyn Wolfshead, he’d told them far too much about her-everything he knew, in fact, and he’d known quite a lot. And he hadn’t told them to be helpful, or even to enhance the reputation of the Brotherhood; he’d told them to show off. And just as he’d been warned, showing off had brought trouble-had put another Mercenary Brother in danger.

The long corridor of the south wing took him past the first of Dhulyn Wolfshead’s possible prison rooms. The door stood open, a good sign the room was empty. Hernyn hoped that Dhulyn wouldn’t kill him when she learned what a fool he’d been, even though Parno had said that she wouldn’t.

A noise?

Hernyn held his breath and concentrated, exerting all the skill born in him from generations of desert hunters and honed to perfection by the Stalking Shora of the Mercenary School. Yes. Noises. Still a ways away, but possibly coming closer.

Hernyn eyed the next slot of shadow, marginally darker than the hall around it, created by a bit of uneven wall and a hanging that was just a handbreadth too wide. He took two silent steps and eased himself into its protective embrace.

An arm clamped around his chest, trapping his left arm at the same instant that a hand covered his mouth. He whipped up his right hand, aiming for where his captor’s eyes should be, and cracked his fingers against the stones of the wall.

“Quietly, my Brother,” the soft murmur in his left ear froze him. “Did no one ever teach you to make sure the dark is empty before you hide yourself in it?” The arms around him loosened but did not drop.

“Dhulyn,” he breathed. He had not realized he was holding his breath. He felt her nod, and relaxed against her. Suddenly he was acutely aware of her breasts and stomach pressed against his back and buttocks. He released his mind from the Stalking Shora. This was not the moment for heightened senses. If he moved away from her, he knew, he would be out of the shadow that hid them both. He was embarrassed to react to her physically, but more embarrassed at being so easily caught. It was like being back at School. He should have known better, he thought. Good enough to avoid ordinary people just was not good enough to fool another Mercenary. Nor was he particularly surprised that Dhulyn Wolfshead had stood in the shadow unseen by him. Outlanders were notoriously good at keeping hidden, and an Outlander with Mercenary Schooling, well, you’d need a Finder even to notice them.

Hernyn’s lungs refilled with air. “My name is Hernyn Greystone,” he said. “I was schooled by Dorian the Black. Parno Lionsmane, Fanryn Bloodhand, and Thionan Hawkmoon await in the cell of our confinement. I will lead you there.”

“I thank you for finding me, Hernyn. Is the Lionsmane well?” Dhulyn rested her forehead against the back of Hernyn’s shoulder. He could smell a faint odor of sweat, dust, and a sharp but not unpleasant herbal scent rising from her skin. He found himself thinking of a time that he’d had a bad fever while he was being Schooled. He’d been given a drink that had smelled the way Dhulyn smelled now.

“He is,” he replied. “His right arm bone was cracked, but Fanryn Bloodhand has seen to it. Come, I will take you to them.”

He felt the slow release of her breath. Some of the tension left her body.

“Weapons first,” she said. “Brothers second. Do you know where the north armory is?”

Gundaron stood in the carpeted passageway outside Mar-eMar’s rooms and rubbed his upper lip with a hand that trembled. It was early, still dark, in fact. Mar-eMar had helped him to his rooms after he recovered from his faint, but he hadn’t slept. Since discovering the gap in his memory-He shook himself. He’d already spent most of the night chasing the same thoughts around and around. He’d tried everything he could think of, every technique of focus or relaxation, but nothing had worked. His memory simply hadn’t been there to… he swallowed. To Find.

There. He could admit his Mark to himself, if to no one else. None of his usual methods, untrained and almost unconscious as they were, had helped him at all. He was here to try the only other thing he could think of. He gritted his teeth, squared his shoulders, and knocked.

“Just a minute,” came her voice from within, much more quickly than Gun had expected. It looked as though he was not the only one who’d spent a sleepless night.

The door cracked open, and a deep blue eye looked out.