“Do we have a choice?”

She kept her eyes down.

“You Saw Tek on the throne, so that has to be good,” Parno said, in the firm tones of a man telling the surgeon to go ahead and cut.

“I Saw him on the throne,” she agreed.

“Watch Dal, my soul,” he said after a moment’s silence. “I’ve made it clear he’s not to think of me, but… watch him.”

“I do not like these Houses of yours,” Dhulyn said, taking his offered hand and letting him pull her out of the bed.

“They’re none of mine,” he said.

But Dhulyn had noticed that he’d called Lok-iKol-and even the Tarkin himself-by their diminutives, Lok and Tek. As if he felt somehow free to speak of his old kin as he must have done when they had all been young together.

When Mar saw Parno Lionsmane run down the steps and into the entrance on the far side of the inner courtyard, she immediately abandoned the stone bench where she’d been told to wait for the Tarkina, and flew up the stairs the Lionsmane had used. Earlier, he’d been carrying blankets, and the only person Lionsmane would be carrying blankets for would be the Wolfshead. And that meant she was up these stairs. Mar went directly to the only closed door on the floor above and opened it without knocking.

“Dhulyn Wolfshead.”

The Wolfshead had her heel hooked on the sill of the window casement, and was leaning over, stretching out the long muscles in the back of her leg. The older woman looked over her shoulder, lowered her heel to the floor, and straightened to her full height.

Heart still pounding from her run up the stairs, breath still coming short, Mar took one look at the Wolfshead’s face and flung herself into the Mercenary’s arms.

“Dhulyn, I’m so sorry,” Mar said, sobbing out the words. “This is all my fault.”

Mar felt the Wolfshead relax, ever so slightly. The muscled arms came up, and the long-fingered hands took Mar by the shoulders and held her away.

“Sun and Moon, Lady Mar.” The words were kind, but the tone, and the face when Mar had courage to look up at it, were cool and closed. “Don’t make yourself so important, child,” the Wolfshead continued. “You didn’t make the Jaldeans insane, and you didn’t make Lok-iKol rebel against his Tarkin.”

“But you and the Lionsmane-”

“We’re still whole and hearty, no harm done; in fact the contrary, if our help to the Tarkin has come in time.”

“But I betrayed you.” Mar wiped her face with her sleeve. “Please, let me explain. You must forgive me.”

“Tchah. There’s nothing to forgive. How could you betray us? It’s not as though we’re Brothers.”

Mar swallowed with difficulty, the Wolfshead’s face blurring as she blinked away tears. Finally, she nodded, and, keeping her eyes lowered, left the room.

“I give you notice, Scholar, that my Partner keeps giving me reasons I shouldn’t kill you. The day will come she’ll run out.” Parno had found Gundaron of Valdomar exactly where he’d looked for him, coming out of the underground council room after a short audience with the Tarkin. The boy had what seemed like a bundle of cut paper in his arms.

“I would like to live, Lionsmane. What can I do?”

“Don’t wait.” At the boy’s raised eyebrows, Parno added.

“You give me a reason not to kill you.”

Nineteen

MAR AND GUN HAD been given beds in the same large underground chamber that housed the Tarkin and his family, though screens had been brought in to give some semblance of privacy. Mar opened her pack and took out her writing supplies, laying pens, inks, and parchments carefully on the small table that sat under the largest of the chamber’s lamps. Her hands trembled, and she took a deep breath as she steadied the carefully stoppered glass bottle of black ink. Mindful of her reception at Tenebro House, only Mar’s determination to confront Dhulyn Wolfshead had distracted her from her dread of meeting with Zelianora of Berdana.

As it was, she’d almost knocked the Tarkina down as she rushed, blind with tears, across the inner courtyard of Mercenary House. The Tarkina had given Mar a fierce hug, kissed her forehead, and dried Mar’s tears with her own neck scarf, making Mar blow her nose as if she was no older than little Zak-eZak who even now was pushing a small wooden horse across the chamber’s uneven floor. Mar had been so astonished at the Tarkina’s behavior, that any uneasiness she might have felt had disappeared entirely, and she realized that she felt more at ease with the Tarkina of Imrion than she ever had with her own family in Tenebro House, or even with the Weavers in Navra.

It wasn’t the same kind of comfort as sleeping snug and safe between Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane, but comfort it was.

“I hear you are lettered and have worked as a clerk,” Zelianora Tarkina had said, once Mar’s eyes were dry. “Will you help me with the children? This is so hard for Bet-oTeb, her tutors and friends gone. If I could re-establish in some small way her regular routine…”

“Perhaps you’d prefer-Gundaron is a Scholar…”

Zelianora Tarkina had waved this away, linking her arm through Mar’s and leading her inside. “With respect to the Libraries and their teachings, we had Scholars in Berdana as well, and undoubtedly the time will come for economics and the philosophy of history. At the moment, however, I’d be happy if Bet could add and subtract.”

So while the Tarkina had sent the guard to find her daughter, Mar had gone down into the chamber to set up her classroom. Mar picked up the better of her two wooden pens, tested the seat of the steel nib, and set it aside for Bet-oTeb’s use. For herself she applied her penknife to an uncut quill. She thought about the two giggling sisters in Tenebro House and suppressed a smile. The idea that she was about to begin teaching the future Tarkin of Imrion the basics of accounting was giving Mar an unexpected sense of satisfaction.

She could almost forget the cold lump of wretchedness that sat under her heart. She’d thought she’d been alone and miserable in Tenebro House, but that was nothing compared to what she felt now. Was it possible to be more miserable because you weren’t alone? What was she going to do about Gun? Was she even sure of what she felt?

Suddenly Mar remembered Lan-eLan, and that woman’s kindness to her. Where was Lan now? Mar hadn’t even thought to ask Dal if the older Tenebro woman was safe and well. Mar blinked rapidly, willing the tears not to flow. She was always leaving her friends behind. Sarita in Navra, Lan-eLan in Tenebro House. Even Dhulyn Wolfshead.

“I’m scum,” she whispered.

“Nonsense.” The Tarkina’s gentle voice startled her, the slight Berdanan accent giving a musical lift to the word. “I’ve known women like the Wolfshead, she’ll forgive you.”

Mar felt the heat rise to her face.

“Maybe,” Mar said, lining up the edges of her parchment squares. “If she thought she had something to forgive.”

Zelianora took the parchments and set them to one side, sat down beside Mar in the chair that Mar had drawn up for Bet-oTeb. The Tarkina just sat, quietly waiting, and somehow this loosened the knot in Mar’s throat, allowing her to draw in a deep, ragged breath.

“The Wolfshead said that I hadn’t betrayed her, that I couldn’t because, well, because I wasn’t her Brother.”

“And that doesn’t help, because you feel that you did.”

“Yes.”

Zelianora reached across the small space that separated their two chairs and laid her fingers, the signet of the Tarkina twinkling in the light of the lamp, on top of Mar’s clenched hands. “She is right. You can only be betrayed by someone you trust. In that pure sense, a Mercenary can only be betrayed by another of their Brothers, because she would never give her trust to anyone else.”