“As you wish, Steward of Walls.” When his Deputy did not move, he looked up at her with raised brows. “The Lord Dal-eDal was looking for the Lady Mar earlier and not finding her.”

“Was he? Never mind, Deputy of Walls, I will speak to him myself.”

Leaving the House had been just as straightforward as Gundaron had thought. Anyone who might normally have exercised their curiosity had other things to think about today. Even the offer to get the Lady Mar-eMar a horse had been perfunctory and easily turned down.

Gun led her away to the left, trying to stride along confidently and keep his relief from showing too obviously in his face.

“Slow down,” Mar-eMar said. “Why are we going this way?”

“We told them we’re going to the Library,” he said, slowing his pace to match hers. “So we’re headed that way.” She was right, though, they should look as though they were out for a stroll, their destination not particularly important. He found himself wishing, as he smelled the sharp bitterness of ganje beans roasting, that they really were just on their way to the Library. They would turn into one of the little shops along the road and sit down, order some ganje or some chocolate, and while away the morning. It wasn’t unheard of that a Scholar and the child of a minor Holding could-Gun felt his face grow hot as he cut off the thought before it could complete itself. No point in daydreaming. They’d go their separate ways; Mar had no reason to stay with him, though Gun found himself wishing he could think of one.

“You’ll tell me which street I need for the Mercenary House? I don’t think I’ll recognize it going this way… what is it?”

“You c-can’t,” Gun stammered, stopping dead in his tracks. She couldn’t have said what he thought she’d just said.

“Oh, I think they’ll still be there,” Mar-eMar said. “It’s only been a few days, and they were going to look for work here in Gotterang, so even if they’ve found it-”

“No, I mean-” A large man carrying an iron bedstead cursed them, and Gun got out of his way, drawing Mar-eMar into the closed doorway of a nearby shop. He hadn’t planned to tell her, he didn’t want to tell her, but how could he live with himself if he let her go to them, knowing what he knew.

“They’ve not been gone for a few days,” he said. “They only escaped last night.”

She pulled her sleeve out of his grasp, her face pale. “What do you mean ‘escaped’?”

He looked away from her suddenly fierce eyes, but there was nothing to help him in the comings and goings of the late afternoon foot traffic.

“Dhulyn Wolfshead-” No, that wasn’t the way. “There was something Lok-iKol wanted from them, something they weren’t likely to simply give him or sell him, so he held them until he could persuade them.”

“Something he wanted from them?” Mar’s brows drew down until they almost met over her eyes. “This is why Pasillon made you so afraid. It isn’t just a story from your childhood.”

Gun clenched his teeth and said nothing.

“It wasn’t just the Marked you were Finding, you Found Dhulyn and Parno as well.” She looked away from him, the corners of her mouth turned down.

“Mar, I-” Her upheld hand silence him.

“They escaped, you said.”

“Yes, but… the House Fell.”

For a moment Mar just looked at him, eyes wide, mouth fallen open. Then she shook her head, lips thinned to a stubborn line. “They wouldn’t have killed her. Lok-iKol, perhaps, but not the House. They’d have known who was to blame.”

Almost against his will, Gun found himself agreeing with her.

“No,” she went on. “It’s Lok-iKol who needs to worry about Pasillon.”

“But, Mar,” Gun said, not noticing until now that he’d twice used the familiar form of her name. “As you say, they’ll know who to blame.” When she still looked at him, a puzzled frown twisting her brows, he went on. “I Found them, and you brought them here.”

“You don’t understand,” Mar said, the words clear despite her clenched teeth. “One person’s already dead because of me, and I don’t want there to be any more.”

“But-” Gun was beside himself. “I only told you about this to prevent you from going, don’t you see? They have every reason to kill you, and you’re going to walk right up to their House.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t see. I’ve got to explain, I can’t have them thinking that I knew-” Her voice cracked, and she took a breath that shuddered all the way in. “That I knew about this. You’ll see. They won’t kill me.”

Gun wasn’t sure if he could explain how thoroughly he wouldn’t be seeing this. “How certain are you?”

Mar swallowed, her lips trembling. Clearly, she wasn’t as sure as she pretended. Her eyes dropped to focus on a pebble at her feet. “They won’t kill me,” she repeated.

“And if you’re wrong?”

Her chin lifted. “According to what you say, it doesn’t matter what I do. This is our Pasillon. ‘Harm one, harm all.’ That’s one of their sayings, isn’t it? If they want to kill me, they’ll find me and do it.” She licked her lips. “Well, I don’t want to live my life that way, hunted, on the run.”

As Mar’s words sank in, Gun swallowed against the acid in his stomach. Hunted. On the run. He was a Scholar, for the Caids’ sake, not a soldier, or a Cloud. Where would he suddenly develop the skills to hide from the Mercenary Brotherhood? Was he ready to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder? He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Thank you for being so worried about me,” Mar said. “But I’m sure I’m right.”

Here he’d thought there was no way he could feel worse. “I’m in it just as deeply as you are,” he heard his voice say. “Deeper.”

He felt the gentle pressure of fingers on his shoulder. He couldn’t look at her.

“I’m not as brave as you,” he said, finally lifting his head to meet her dark blue eyes.

Mar looked back at him, her eyes, so warm and expressive moments ago, shuttered now and cold. After what felt like a long time, she spoke.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, letting her hand fall to her side. “Maybe you’ll never have to face it. Good luck.” Without another word she set off toward the main street that would take her to Mercenary House. Gun watched her walk away, head up, pack shouldered. Once she turned the corner, he’d never see Mar-eMar again.

Maybe he’d never have to face it. Maybe he’d never have to face anything. What, after all, had he ever faced in his life? He couldn’t face being a Finder, he’d wanted Scholarship instead. He hadn’t wanted to face what was going on in Tenebro House-hadn’t wanted to face losing his research. No wonder Beslyn-Tor had found it so easy to make him forget.

She was almost at the corner. She’d begun the turn, he could almost see her profile.

“Wait!”

Thirteen

DHULYN LOOKED WITH INTEREST around the small reception room. It was sparsely but very expensively furnished, and while the chair opposite the entry doors was too small to be a throne, it was decorated with the distinctive red carnelians that were set aside for the exclusive use of the Tarkins of Imrion. The floor, a soft creamy marble, still had its carpets laid down against the winter chill, and likely would for a few weeks yet. The light oak panels on the walls, even the double doors on the left side of the room, were inlaid with silver hooded snakes, the symbol of the ancient House of Culebro, founders of the Tarkinate of Imrion. Two men and a woman stood close to the Tarkin’s chair, and it was the younger man who turned, saluting Alkoryn with a smile and a lifted hand, before taking the seat.

Like the room, Tek-aKet, Tarkin of Imrion, Consage of the Lost Isles, Darklin of Pendamar, and, as it happened, Culebroso, was plainly but richly dressed in the dark red of the Tarkinate. On his left sleeve were two thin stripes of color, yellow and brown, to show his Culebro heritage. As tall as Parno, but as slim as herself, the man was well-muscled, with his northern father’s dark hair and his southern mother’s fair skin setting off eyes so pale a blue as to be almost colorless. The woman, olive-skinned, her eyes a glowing black, her hair and most of her dark red gown covered by a long veil of purple silk shot with gold, took her place to the Tarkin’s right, and Dhulyn realized that it was the Tarkina herself who was taking part in the audience. Dhulyn hooked her thumbs in her worn leather sword belt, unsure whether the Tarkina’s presence would make things easier… or harder.