Rasko’s contact introduced himself as Vuhas Gota. Karys wasn’t sure what to make of him. He wore a green velvet travelling coat with silver clasps, and brimmed with a frothy exuberance that seemed too unremitting to be genuine; he talked slowly, but with a theatrical flair that demanded that they hang on his every word. His spry expressiveness—hands waving, fingers dancing, eyebrows waggling—gave the impression of a man thoroughly convinced of his own charms.
“So good to meet you,” he drawled, stringing out the vowels. “You were beginning to worry me, arriving this late.”
He did not ask about Pavian, or the bloodstains on Karys’ clothing. Although his smooth-skinned appearance suggested that he could not be many years past forty, he behaved like a much older man. Something about his mannerisms, Karys thought. They felt affected. She climbed into his awrig, and was immediately assailed by a fog of perfume. She wrinkled her nose. True to form, reeker.
The vehicle was comfortable, generously sized, and low-lit. Vuhas explained travel arrangements: they would be staying at his house for the night, and depart for Tuschait in the morning. From there, it was a day’s journey to Eludia via train. Karys found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying. Winola, seated on the bench beside her, was warm, and the Bhatuma-derived workings powering the awrig emitted a soothing hum like a purring cat. Little orange etherbulbs dotted the roof of the vehicle. Outside, the landscape stretched dark and featureless, the moon yet to rise. She should not be this tired, she should—
The vehicle rolled to a smooth stop. Karys opened her eyes with a guilty start.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” said Vuhas cheerfully.
The manor sat in the bowl of a small valley, surrounded by vineyards. Light shone behind the windows. The building seemed bewilderingly large and out of place; it stood two storeys high and sprawled decadently, lower-floor extensions locked like puzzle pieces to the main structure. The exterior was painted a rich orange brown, and glassy ceramic tiles decorated the window frames and ran in neat lines below the roof soffits.
A young woman waited outside the front door, her hands clasped at her waist. She offered a shallow bow as they got out of the awrig.
“We’re staying here?” asked Haeki, looking up at the rows of long, shining windows.
“Correct.” Vuhas straightened his coat, and then dismissed the awrig with a smooth gesture. The vehicle coasted down the road. “My home is yours. It’s all been organised, don’t worry. Now, Winola, was it? Yes, please come with me—we’ll see to that scratch on your face. Yviline, will you show our other guests to their rooms for the night?”
The woman, unsmiling and silent, nodded.
Inside, the house was pristine. High-ceilinged passages dripped with glass chandeliers, and their footsteps echoed on the polished granite tiles. Paintings decorated the walls, mostly portraits of Vareslian Bhatuma in their common aspects; Karys recognised the great two-headed ape as Eliskus, the woman with metal scales over her eyes as Tirrio. It was extremely quiet. Yviline stopped outside a polished wooden door on the first floor. She pressed a fingertip to the lock to open it, and then bowed again, motioning for them to enter.
“Thank you,” said Haeki.
Yviline nodded again, but her mouth remained severe. She kept her gaze lowered.
“What’s her problem?” Ferain muttered.
Standard Vareslian hospitality toward Mercians. Karys gave the smallest of shrugs and walked through the door. Vuhas’ servant obviously wasn’t thrilled about their arrival. And yet, in some minor, obscure way, Ferain’s obliviousness pleased her—although she did not have the energy to interrogate why.
The guest quarters comprised two adjoining bedrooms, a small washroom, and a parlour. Warm, quiet, clean, and well-lit as the rest of the manor. The dusty imprints of their shoes vanished as they walked across the cream-coloured carpets, absorbed by a subtle working. Four brown leather couches surrounded a teak coffee table beneath an ornate Toraigian tapestry, and a vase of fresh flowers sat on the mantel over the fireplace.
Behind them, the door closed with a click. The sound of Yviline’s footsteps receded down the corridor, and a deep silence descended on the room. Haeki shivered and brushed her fingertips over the back of one of the couches, as if she was not quite convinced it was real. She glanced at Karys.
“Do you think Winola will be all right?” she asked. “On her own?”
“She can handle herself.”
“I know, it’s just…”
“Just?”
Haeki gestured to the luxuriously furnished room like that was an answer in itself.
“You’re worried about her?”
A hard scoff. “I met her two days ago.”
“So?”
“These people are strangers. I don’t know.” She sank down onto the couch. “I’ll wait up for her here. Go to bed, Eska.”
Through the windows of the first bedroom, the vineyards formed uniform lines to the edge of the estate. Beyond, only dusty scrubland. No movement, no sound. Karys drew the curtains. Her shadow lay long across the floor, stretched to the entrance of the room. She shrugged off her pack, struggled out of her soiled shirt, and fell onto the bed in her underclothes.
Not what I was expecting, she thought. Through the wall, she could hear the ticking of a clock, the muted rustle of Haeki shifting on the couch. Why would Vuhas be involved with the likes of Rasko? It can’t be about cret. Her eyes closed. Makes no sense. I should ask Ferain. She dimly heard Haeki cough, and then sleep claimed her.
The morning brought strong winds gusting through the valley; Karys woke to the sound of the windowpanes rattling. She lay quiet a while, listening. There was no other movement, nothing she could hear from the rest of the house. On the other side of the bed, Haeki remained asleep, her breathing slow and even, her long red hair spilled over her pillow like a banner. When Karys slipped out of the bed, she did not stir.
The door to the second bedroom stood ajar; through the gap, Karys could see Winola curled up on a four-poster. She carefully leaned the door closed, then padded over to the bathroom. Painted in pale green and white, it was as immaculately clean as the rest of the guest quarters. Karys drank straight from the tap. Her haze of fatigue had lifted; she still felt tired, but no longer drained. Through the small window set at the top of the wall, the sky appeared cloudless, a blue like spilled ink.
“You feel better?” asked Ferain from the doorway.
“Mm-hm.” She splashed water onto her face.
“You definitely look it.”
“Thank you?”
“I wouldn’t. Your condition seemed to be my fault.” He paused. “Did it hurt? When I, you know…”
Karys dried her face on a towel. “Dropped a saint by punching him in the face?”
“That.”
She shook her head, and replaced the towel on the rail. “Just made me feel tired. How did you do it?”
“I’m not sure. It was sort of instinctual. Like … like finding gravity? I anchored myself against you, and used that purchase to push outward. Does that make sense?”
“Not at all. Can you do it again?”
“What, now?”
Karys nodded. “I want to make sure it still works in case there’s an emergency.”
Her shadow hesitated, then flowed into the bathroom. “An ‘emergency,’ like you wanting me to punch someone else in the face?”
“Possibly. You might have other uses, but that’s a start.” She lifted her arm to watch the Split Lapse scar in the crook of her left elbow. “Don’t do anything too drastic, I only want to see—”
Cool fingertips of shadow brushed the skin of her upturned wrist. Her stomach lurched, the scar rippled, and Karys jerked her arm backwards.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ferain quickly. “Did that hurt?”
Her skin crawled. “No, no, it’s fine. You just surprised—”
There was a curt knock on the parlour door. Karys fell silent instantly.
“Casin Gota requests the pleasure of your company for breakfast,” came a muffled female voice.
Karys glanced up at the window again. It seemed that Vuhas was an early riser. From Winola’s room, she heard a distinct thump. When she walked out of the bathroom, the scholar was blearily peering out into the parlour. The gash to her eyebrow had vanished, and she was wearing a new pair of glasses with delicate copper frames.
“Why is it so … morning?” she mumbled.
“Not much sleep?”
“It can’t even be five o’clock yet.”
Karys smiled. “I’ll hold him off for you.”
Yviline was still waiting outside when she opened the door. The servant’s expression remained grim as Karys explained that the others would need a little longer to get ready for breakfast.
“Of course, cas,” she said. “This way, please.”
Now awake and alert, Karys studied the manor with interest. Yviline led her down a long passage gleaming in the early sunlight. There was no trace of dirt or disorder, and still no sign that anyone lived here apart from Vuhas and his solitary servant. And if that was the case, then the place must be absolutely crawling with workings—expensive, complicated ones. Karys had grown up on a far smaller farm, and even her father’s wind-wracked fruit trees and hardy goats had demanded constant labour. Between Vuhas’ immaculate house and his expanse of tidy vineyards, there was no way he could manage out here without significant worked assistance.
Part of her felt tempted to peel open the Veneer to determine just how many derivations surrounded her, but she held back. The fear that had overcome her in the canyon was much fainter now, more discomfort than dread—but even so, it lingered. She didn’t want to touch the other side. Didn’t want it to touch her. Absentminded, she rubbed the skin of her left wrist.
The dining room was as opulent as the rest of the property, all polished hardwood and cut crystal and brass. Vuhas was already eating when she entered. When he saw her, he pushed back his chair and stood up. “Good morning. Karys, wasn’t it? You look well-rested.”
The table was laden with food—cut fruits, pastries, steamed vegetables, and oil-soaked fritters. A small feast. “You didn’t need to do so much for us.”
“Nonsense.” He pulled out the seat to his left, and motioned for her to join him. “I do hope you’re hungry.”
Gilded porcelain plates and silver cutlery set the table, flasks of ice water slowly beaded with condensation. Karys crossed the room and sat. Behind Vuhas, a massive painting of a Vareslian Bhatuma hung on the wall.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her shadow flinch. It was only a tiny movement, but something had startled Ferain. She looked around the room again, trying not to be too obvious. Vuhas offered her a sugared fruit pastry from one of the platters.
“You like art?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You were admiring my painting.” He gestured to the portrait genially. “It’s an original Liresti. His depictions of Ambavar are amongst my favourites.”
Ambavar. So that explained Ferain’s reaction. The Lord of Night’s aspect was mostly human in the painting; he appeared as a tall, austere man with deep brown skin. His eyes were transfixing; the artist had painted a golden crescent in each iris, as if the Bhatuma held twin waning moons within himself. His dreadlocks glittered with yellow stars; his cloak was black and edged with grey velvet. In his raised left hand, he held up an inverted chalice, smoke falling from the cup.
“Ambavar himself has always drawn me in,” said Vuhas. “Amongst our greatest, and such a romantic figure too. There’s something tragic about him—the broken-hearted herald presiding over the darkness. It’s a mercy that he was gone long before the Slaughter arrived.”
“It’s a very impressive painting.” Karys lowered her gaze to meet Vuhas’. An unsettling coincidence. Of all the Bhatuma … “You have a lot of artworks.”
“I’m something of a collector.” Vuhas seemed perfectly at ease. He picked up his cutlery again. “I worry about running out of walls for them all, but somehow there’s always room for at least one more.”
Karys had scarcely finished her pastry before Winola and Haeki entered the room, causing Vuhas to spring to his feet once again. Haeki frowned as he ushered her to a chair, uncomfortable and unsure of herself. Winola eyed the food with obvious interest.
“Sit, sit,” Vuhas encouraged. “Please help yourselves. Yviline, could you bring the oatmeal?”
“It must get lonely out here,” murmured Ferain. “He’s very eager to please.”
To please or to impress? The ostentatious chivalry still felt like a performance to Karys; something about it struck her as overly calculated. Of course, she was being unfairly judgemental—she had no real foundation for her dislike of the man. Vuhas had been nothing but generous, and Ferain was probably right: he was likely just happy to receive guests. Vareslians were known for being expressive; there was nothing wrong with that. Just a different set of cultural expectations. Karys poured herself a glass of water. Besides, what did it matter? They would be leaving soon enough anyway.
“How did you meet Rasko?” she asked.
Vuhas resumed his seat.
“Through the arts, funnily enough,” he said. “A lot of valuable work was lost during the Slaughter’s upheaval, and he’s helped me to recover several paintings in Mercia. In exchange, I provide the occasional favour.”
“Like helping us?”
“That’s right. Speaking of which…” He spread his hands apologetically. “I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a hitch. My long-distance awrig is an antique vehicle. I haven’t used her in a while, and unfortunately the propulsion working has degraded. I’m so sorry to hold you up, but the issue should be resolved by tomorrow morning.”
Karys’ stomach sank. “That’s—”
“May I take a look at it?” asked Winola, setting down her spoon. “It’s not my speciality, but I know a reasonable amount about mechanical workings.”
“Oh!” Vuhas laughed. “Oh no, please don’t trouble yourself. She’s a finicky old girl, but I’ve fixed her up in the past. It won’t be a problem.”
“You are a mechanical workings practitioner?”
“More a generalist—I dabble in a bit of everything. It keeps me busy, although I used to take the craft more seriously when I was younger. I take it you’re a fellow hobbyist?”
“I’m a practitioner, yes.” There was a definite primness to Winola’s tone now. “I’ve noticed some interesting domestic workings around your house, not to mention your kind assistance with my injury last night. That all seems fairly accomplished for a hobbyist.”
The world’s most polite pissing contest. Karys tried to conceal her frustration. “I’m sorry that your awrig is broken, but we have urgent business—”
“Yes, of course. In Eludia,” said Vuhas. “My dear, I understand your anxiety, but once I’ve repaired my vehicle, you’ll be able to make up the lost time. Even at her advanced age, she’s a quick one.”
What could she say? It would take days to reach Tuschait without an awrig. Repressing her sense of foreboding, Karys nodded reluctantly. “Of course. I—of course. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. The application of the working depends on the angle of the sun, so I’ll only be able to attend to it this afternoon. In the meantime”—he removed the cloth napkin from his lap, dabbed the corner of his mouth, and set it down on the table—“could I interest you ladies in a tour of my home?”
“We could hardly refuse,” said Winola, perhaps a shade too brightly.
Vuhas started on the second floor of the manor. He had inherited the property from his uncle twenty years ago, and spent much of the following two decades refitting and renovating. Where once the house could have comfortably slept thirty, he had since converted many of the bedrooms to working spaces for his “little projects.” Putting aside his self-deprecation, Karys judged that their host was, if nothing else, absurdly well-resourced. He kept stores of workings materials that she had only read passing references to: ambergris from the river whales of Ruthaen, spiderspun platinum from the far north. As he rattled off the contents of his supply cabinets, Winola’s expression grew increasingly strained—the scholar was clearly half-mutinous with envy.
“Maybe Rasko is supplying more than stolen art,” suggested Ferain, as Vuhas showed them around his third workings studio.
That would make sense. Karys trailed her gaze over the wall-mounted shelves, the neatly labelled flasks and phials and jars. How much money in this room alone? It would be unconscionable to rob a man who had offered them his hospitality, but she could not say she wasn’t tempted. A few cret might soften the blow if her gamble with Ferain didn’t pay off. Then again, Vuhas doubtless had security workings throughout the house, which would probably be triggered if she tried to lift anything—but maybe she could unwork those defences. Pull them apart, like how she had unbound the Construct. There was sure to be a buyer for this stuff in Eludia, and Vuhas could not possibly need it all …
“Fingers itching?” inquired Ferain.
“Mind your own business,” she muttered.
Vuhas turned to look at her. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Oh.” She stepped back from the shelves. “Nothing.”
There was a strange keenness in Vuhas’ eyes. He smiled at her, as if he could guess the trajectory of her thoughts. Karys’ skin prickled.
“I might have gotten carried away,” he said. “This sort of thing probably doesn’t hold much interest for the layperson. Come, let me show you my gallery of curiosities.”
The artefact repository stood adjacent the guest quarters: a large, windowless room filled with freestanding oak pedestals. There must have been over sixty; each bearing a single object. These ranged from the unremarkable—a tarnished amulet, a stained drawstring bag, an ordinary glass phial with a fluted stopper—to the disquieting—a headless rat’s corpse with a twitching tail, a cracked stylus lying in a pool of strangely glistening ink—to the beautiful—a tiny tree blooming with metal fruits like apricots, a conch shell engraved with pulsing beads of ice-blue light.
“My Bhatuma collection,” said Vuhas, spreading his arms in welcome. “Class A relics of the heralds of Mercia, Varesli, and the wider western Sunite region. The likes of which are only found in the best museums of the old capital.”
Haeki regarded a broken spinning top with such blatant scepticism that Karys almost choked. Winola, in contrast, appeared entranced.
“They’re genuine?” she said, then seemed to realise the question might be rude. “That is—how did you acquire so many?”
Vuhas gave an enigmatic shrug, and winked. “I can’t go revealing my sources. But unless I have been terribly deceived, yes, they’re genuine.”
He went around the room, introducing each item with obvious pleasure. The stylus had been used by Iros to transcribe the names of his Favoured prior to their consumption; the tree had been a lover’s gift from Babelire to her human mistress, each fruit delivering ecstasy when touched to the tongue. The rat was one of Tirrio’s victims, worn by the herald as jewellery; the conch shell had briefly served as Kortisath’s Sanctum. The amulet was Noaj’s; it prevented the wearer from performing workings. The phial had imprisoned Dimisci for sixty years; she had irritated Yarinu by altering the weather at the border of the far more powerful herald’s domain, a poor choice. The bag …
“My father would love this,” muttered Ferain. “Although it’s probably all fake anyway.”
Karys leaned closer to Babelire’s tree, examining the fruit. She spoke under her breath. “Why is it that all the nice things belonged to the Vareslian Bhatuma? Our heralds just ate us.”
“I’m pretty sure Babelire was eating her Favoured too.”
Karys parsed that, coughed, and hurriedly straightened. Ferain laughed. Although Vuhas was busy answering Winola’s questions, Karys caught him watching her.
Don’t worry, she thought. I won’t steal your toys. She moved to the next pedestal, peering down at Dimisci’s Prison—which was near indistinguishable from the empty phials in Vuhas’ workings stores. Although, if I did, they probably wouldn’t fetch very much anyway.
“Shall we carry on?” Vuhas suggested. “There are still the grounds to see. Perhaps there will be time for you to sample some of my wines, if we—”
“Excuse me.”
Haeki spoke in a reserved undertone. Vuhas blinked, like he had forgotten she was even there.
“Uh, yes?” he said.
“Please could I have a bowl of sugar?”
The request seemed to temporarily confound him, but, to Vuhas’ credit, he recovered quickly. “Of course! Would you like anything with that?”
Haeki shook her head. “Just the sugar. Thank you.”
Winola tilted her head a little to one side, like she did whenever she saw something that interested her. Vuhas cleared his throat, then clapped his hands together.
“I’ll let Yviline know, and she’ll sort that out,” he said. “Right. Let me show you the grounds.”
Invisible from the front of the manor were two large greenhouses: one for tropical flowers, the other for uglier plants used in particularly obscure workings. The sun had reached its zenith, and the air outside was dry and parching. Nothing edible grew on the estate except for the grapes, which were currently out of season. The vineyards rustled in the hot wind; the sky was a cloudless empty blue.
Why do you live out here? As Vuhas explained his irrigation systems and weekly food deliveries, Karys studied the bare dusty landscape. It was beautiful, in its way, but even if Vuhas had inherited the estate, the way he lived seemed wildly impractical. And he didn’t behave like any recluse she had ever met.
“You’re frowning again,” remarked Ferain.
She smoothed her face. None of her business anyway, the strange choices of reekers with more money than sense. Maybe he liked the solitude. And he had been a generous host. Gracious.
“Where do you keep your awrigs?” she asked.
Vuhas paused in the middle of an anecdote about orchid sellers in Cosaris.
“I have a small storehouse beyond the winery,” he said, and pointed to a barn at the end of the gravel track between the vineyards. “Over there. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve always been interested in transport workings, that’s all.”
He smiled warmly. “Mercians tend to be a little more novel in that area, I’m afraid. No, I have two vehicles: one for short journeys, the other for serious travel. I’ll be happy to show you both before you leave tomorrow, although they’re nothing revolutionary.”
“I’d like that.”
“On the subject, however…” He consulted his pocket watch. “I should probably get to work on my old girl. If you’re hungry, Yviline can arrange a late lunch? I hate to cut this short when there’s still so much to show you.”
“It’s no trouble,” said Winola. “Thank you for the tour.”
Vuhas nodded. “My absolute pleasure. I won’t be too long.”
Karys followed Winola and Haeki back up the stony orange track to the house, dragging her heels and thinking. She glanced around. Vuhas, walking in the opposite direction, had nearly reached the barn. Silhouetted against the sun, his hair haloed his head in pale fire. There was a cheerful bounce in his step.
She shook her head, and hurried to catch up with Haeki.
“I want to check something,” she said. “You two go ahead without me.”
Haeki’s brows drew together.
“Okay,” she replied slowly.
“If you run into Yviline, just say I had a question for Vuhas.”
“Are you going to tell me what stupid thing you’ve got planned?”
“It’ll be fine.”
Haeki rolled her eyes, not quite concealing her unease. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
When Karys looked around again, Vuhas was gone. She broke into a quick jog, gravel crunching under her shoes. Haeki wasn’t wrong, this was probably stupid, but she couldn’t shake her sense that they were being lied to. The sun was painfully bright, and she felt exposed. She moved onto the grassy verge, well-watered by the vineyard’s irrigation system, where her footfalls made less noise.
“Is this a good idea?” asked Ferain.
“Probably not.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t trust him either.”
Karys slowed as she approached the barn, moving more quietly. Cicadas hissed from the shade, and the smell of sawdust and sour wine hung thick in the air. The main doors stood slightly ajar, but she could not hear anything from inside. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
“Can you try to see what he’s doing?” she whispered.
Her shadow stretched over to the entrance, paused a moment, then returned to her.
“Reading a book,” he said. “He could be consulting it for the working.”
She pursed her lips. “And the awrigs?”
“Two of them, like he said. He’s facing the other way; you can get closer.”
She nodded, and padded over the long, yellowing grass. White paint had peeled off the barn wall in strips, and nails stuck out from the wood. The building did not look as well-maintained as the house. Karys took a steadying breath, then felt for the edges of the Veneer. It was thin here, light and unresisting in her senses. Unthreatening. She drew it aside.
Through the barn wall, she could detect the glow of workings, but not their precise shape. Ahead, an ephemeral mesh of elegantly constructed silver wire draped across the door, some kind of Bhatuma-derived security working. She was not sure what might happen if she touched it. She sidled closer. Didn’t need to go inside, just needed to see inside.
“He’s still reading,” said Ferain softly. “Careful.”
Karys peered through the narrow gap, holding her breath. A freestanding lamp shed a ring of orange over the workbench where Vuhas consulted his book. To his right, the two awrigs stood side by side. Their propulsion engines gleamed a misty green, humming gently in her senses. The vehicle they had travelled in yesterday was the smaller of the pair—the long-distance awrig was boxier and more rugged, with large, dark windows.
Karys squinted, studying the workings. From her distance, they looked almost identical. She could see nothing wrong with either, no sign of degradation at all. If anything, the larger awrig looked in better condition. She didn’t know enough about mechanical workings to be certain, she could easily be wrong, but—
Vuhas sneezed. Karys flinched, taking a small step backwards. A stone rolled under her heel with an audible crunch. She froze, her heart leaping to her throat. Not good, not good, not good …
He kept reading.
Karys cautiously let out her breath. She took another step back. Her pulse thrummed, her blood beat loud in her ears, but he had not heard her. She took a few more steps, and the rush of adrenaline faded. Lucky. She let the Veneer fall closed once more.
“I could go inside alone,” said Ferain.
She shook her head, continuing to back away from the barn. She spoke in an undertone. “I don’t think there’s anything else to see here. Did you notice the awrig’s working?”
“While you had the Veneer open?” Her shadow made a noncommittal sound. “I saw a lot of lights, but they don’t mean anything to me; I can’t interpret workings like you do. Why, what was wrong with it?”
Karys reached the edge of the vineyard. “Nothing. As far as I could tell, there was nothing wrong with either awrig.”
Her shadow sighed. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”
“I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am.” She wiped sweat off her forehead. “So he is lying to us, then.”
“Could he be working with New Favour?”
Karys grimaced, then turned and hurried back up the track toward the manor. “No, then we’d be long dead—you heard the saint in the canyon. I don’t know, Ferain. What is this all for? He didn’t have to give us that tour; there was never any reason to impress us.”
“That we know about.”
“What?”
Her shadow gave a small shrug at her side. “Maybe he does want to impress you. It’s not impossible.”
“But why?”
“Maybe the man enjoys a challenge.” Ferain blithely ignored her withering glare. “Or it’s leverage, possibly. He might want something from you—a favour, future goodwill, a word in the right ear. It’s soft diplomacy: creating the best conditions in which to befriend you.”
“Sounds like Vareslian logic.” A thought crossed her mind. “Is this what you did as a diplomat?”
“Are you asking if I was nice to other people?”
“No, I’m asking if you ever stranded anyone in the desert to bribe them more effectively.”
“Never came up.” He fell back into her silhouette as they approached the side entrance to the manor, mirroring her movements perfectly. “We don’t know what Vuhas wants, but he’s given no indication that he means to harm you. You need that awrig to reach Tuschait.”
“I know.” She glanced over her shoulder at the barn. “It’s just … this doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t like it either. But I’ll watch him. And, you know, in an emergency, I can punch him for you.”
She snorted and pushed open the door, walking into a wave of cool air and the silence of the house. The dust vanished from her shoes as she crossed the clean tiles of the antechamber. “As a last resort.”
“That is how diplomacy goes, yes. First you offer them food, then—”
Karys came to a sharp stop. After the brightness outside, her eyes had been slow to adjust to the relative dimness of the interior, and she had failed to notice Yviline standing in the entrance of the first-floor corridor. The woman looked uncomfortable; her cheeks were pale and her shoulders stiff. She stared at Karys.
“I was just…” Karys’ mouth had gone dry. “A question for Vuhas.”
Yviline’s expression was difficult to read. A muscle jumped in her jaw. “Yes, cas. Of course.”
Did she hear me talking to Ferain? “Well, that’s … thank you. And you can just call me by my name, there’s no need—you’ve both been very gracious. We appreciate it.”
Yviline shivered suddenly, as if touched by a cold wind.
“Leave,” she said.
“What?”
The woman winced. She turned and quickly walked away; her footfalls ringing loud and swift over the tiles. The whole exchange had been so abrupt that Karys could do nothing but stare after her in confusion. The sound of her footsteps faded, swallowed by the walls.
“What was that about?” asked Ferain.
Karys shook her head. For a brief moment, there had been something in Yviline’s eyes. Something like fear.
“I don’t know,” she said softly.