SHIRONNE SPENT the remainder of the morning in the infirmary, listening to Jakob’s lecture about bones—an interesting change from pregnant women. She would likely never set a bone alone, but now that he knew she could assist as she had the day before, Jakob wanted her to learn everything possible before the occasion rose again. Deborah returned from the elders’ meeting after noon and rescued her, but spent the next hour quizzing her on Mikael’s dream in detail.
Most of the questions were less about the death and more about how she felt the dream itself worked. Deborah had theories about Mikael’s dreams, and hoped to get Shironne to prove them out. “For Valerion to reach Mikael in his sleep,” Deborah said, “indicates that there must have been a strong tie between them. I wonder if there might have been an aspect of binding involved, similar to what exists between you and Mikael.”
That was why she’d used that word, bound, earlier that morning. “I thought binding was just between . . . well, a man and a woman.”
Deborah sighed softly. “If a broadcaster can somehow trigger a binding,” she said, “as Mikael did with you, why would it only work between a male and a female? Why only once? Why can the broadcaster not bind four or five people? Or perhaps a strong bond with one person and a weaker bond with another? Or does a broadcaster form bonds with everyone in their life, bonds of varying strengths? As we don’t have any way to research that properly—or at least, not ethically—I can only guess at the answers. However, I had found at least one historical example where three people thought they were bound together. Three, so there is some precedent for my question.”
“Oh.” Three seemed like it would be awkward. In many ways. She wanted to give that idea some thought before she said anything more. “Well, how do we know that Mikael triggered it, and not me?”
“Hmmm . . . I honestly don’t know,” Deborah conceded, “but we always blame the broadcaster.”
That last part was meant jokingly, but Shironne suspected there was a hint of truth in there. About the blame. Kai had once told Shironne that Mikael would eventually drown out her mind, making her into a copy of him. It didn’t feel that way to her. “Maybe he tries to make a bond with everyone,” she suggested, feeling defensive now, “and I’m the only one it worked with. So maybe I . . . wanted to be bound, sort of.”
“That has also occurred to me,” Deborah said, a hint of laughter entering her voice. A surge of affection came with that, reassuring Shironne as to the woman’s intentions. “I only want what’s best for both of you. This would be easier if we could sit down like reasonable people and discuss what’s happening between you on a regular basis. But the elders have made their decisions, so we need to work within those constraints from now on. Do you understand?”
Shironne pressed her frustration firmly down. It probably showed on her face anyway. “Yes, ma’am.”
When she got back to her barracks, Shironne intended to ask Tabita to calculate exactly how many days until she became an adult.
* * *
Synen seemed to have a special sense for when Mikael would come down into town hunting a drink. Before Shironne, Mikael had come to the Hermlin Black to drink himself senseless before a dream; that would limit how much other sensitives picked up from his dreams. But this time he didn’t have the excuse of an impending dream. He just wanted to be somewhere other than the office, and a chat with Synen, who seemed to have a feel for the citizenry of this part of town.
Once Synen had put a glass of whisky in his hands, Mikael waited contentedly in the kitchen at the table as the man took care of the main room and his wife made lunch. She occasionally glanced at him with a rumpled brow, wiping her hands on her red apron. Mikael had sat at this table enough times that the kitchen with its large stove and pennants that prayed for warmth merely struck him as homey. It certainly smelled good, whatever she was cooking.
A man walked into the kitchen wearing an overcoat that likely cost as much as the garb of every customer in the tavern combined. He gestured toward Synen, who joined him by the doors, then bowed low. He called his wife over and the two exited into the tavern’s main room, leaving Mikael alone with the newcomer.
No, not quite alone. Another man in austere gray stood discreetly by the door, eyes evaluating. Big for a Larossan. That would be a bodyguard. His overcoat surely hid a weapon or two.
The first man regarded Mikael with little expression. Perhaps a touch of curiosity. His clothing told Mikael very little about him other than his wealth. His garb was conservative and well tailored. Larossan in style, which said he lived in the Larossan world, or that he preferred that. He removed his overcoat and handed it to the man by the door, leaving him in a dark blue tunic worn with lighter blue trousers having only a slight line of embroidery around his cuffs. His hair was neatly cut in much the same style as Mikael’s, and he wore neither a beard nor a mustache.
Mikael guessed he was at least half Anvarrid, tall and lean. His hair had a reddish tint, a rather unusual trait, but that didn’t limit his forbearer’s possible bloodlines. That red—originally picked up from the Six Families—appeared now in several Anvarrid Houses. His dark eyes, though, had to come from a Larossan ancestor.
Mikael didn’t know exactly who the man was, but he knew who the man’s daughter was.
“Have you figured me out yet?” the man asked as he sat on the chair set directly across from Mikael.
“I believe I know a young relative of yours.” Mikael couldn’t sense anything from the man, either making him emotionless, or very skilled at hiding his emotions.
“Very diplomatically said.” His lips drew up in a cold smile that didn’t travel to his eyes. “We both have some interest in the Anjir family and their safety, then, Mr. Lee.”
Mikael didn’t know how much this man knew, what Messine had told his contact about him. He settled for nodding. It was also interesting that he’d tracked Mikael down here to this tavern. Either this stranger had been waiting for Mikael to emerge from the Fortress, or he’d made a singularly lucky guess, or he simply had excellent sources of information.
“Do you know why we’re both here?” The man asked.
I’m here because I had a dream about my father and I needed a drink. “No. You’re not going to have me killed, though,” he said, “or you wouldn’t be talking to me.”
“You’re here to listen to me,” the man told him.
Mikael held up one hand. “Who are you?”
“Esil Gasanen.”
Ah. Mikael knew that name. Gasanen was . . . there wasn’t precisely a term for it, was there? He loaned people money at exorbitant rates, and unpleasant things happened to those who didn’t repay. At the same time, he was known for being discreet. He didn’t expose those who borrowed money from him, Mikael had heard. Not until they tried to escape him. Gasanen wasn’t quite a blackmailer, not quite a criminal, not quite a killer. Not from what Mikael knew. But if the man was discreet about money, he was likely just as discreet about any criminal activity his clients might engage in. “What did you want to tell me, then?”
“Your investigation is unnecessary,” the man said.
“I’m trying to determine who attempted to sell a young woman into slavery.” Mikael needed to tread carefully with this man, but he still wanted to see what he could turn up.
“It was Faralis. Leave it alone and I’ll see that you get all the evidence you need.”
Gasanen said that without a sliver of doubt reflecting through his mind, so Mikael didn’t bother to question him. He leaned closer. “I was not following this to learn who killed the man. I need to know who was trying to buy Shironne Anjir.”
The man gazed at him, hard eyes unmoved by Mikael’s urgency. “That can only be determined by questioning Faralis and his closer associates. Yet doing so opens the House of Valaren to exposure on certain fronts. I can promise that when I go through Faralis’ paperwork, I will keep an eye open for that information, but I strongly suggest the man not be questioned by the police.”
“What are you suggesting, then?”
“There are three courses this can take. Continue your investigation and I will hand the evidence on Faralis over to the police. Drop it, and I will hand the evidence on Faralis over to the Daujom when I am done with it.”
He hadn’t promised to hand over Faralis, had he? So those options likely ended up with Faralis dead in the river. Not that Mikael would mind, but there were laws about people who did things like that. “Or?”
“Or compromise. Work with me on this. We share information, we break Faralis down together, and I will hand over the name of the man who killed Jusid. You get the answers you want and the Daujom can limit who sees information on the Anjir family.”
This was about more than protecting Melanna. Whatever had happened between this man and Savelle Anjir, he was trying to protect her as well. That was the only reason he could have for making such an offer. Either that, or he needed the Daujom’s resources, and that was unlikely for someone as well connected as he must be.
And it meant working with someone who was almost a criminal. Would that come back to haunt him in the future? “I should discuss this with my superior.”
“I would suggest going to someone other than Daharion,” Gasanen said in a dry voice. Amusement touched the air around him. “The king’s brother is known for his unpredictable temper.”
“He is my direct superior,” Mikael said.
Gasanen leaned back, eyes narrowing. “I understand that.”
That meant he knew there were other options than Dahar, an interesting development. They worked hard to convince the Larossan world around them that the Daujom was no more than a handful of men sitting in a chilly office somewhere.
Gasanen rose, eyes staying on Mikael. “And when you are ready to ask that one question you truly want answered, come to me. I think I know what that question is, and I can put my hand on the evidence you need.”
Mikael watched the man walk out of the kitchen, wishing he knew what that question was.
He had far more than one question muddling around in his mind.