Chapter Seven

So I’m going on a picnic with a Witch Lord in five hours,” I finished breathlessly. “I’ve never even courted before. I need to get him a present. Help me—I have no idea what to do.”

Zaira stood frozen on the grassy lawn of the Mews courtyard garden, one arm cocked back to throw a stick she must have ripped off a mangled-looking ornamental bush nearby. Her dog, Scoundrel, bounced impatiently at her feet, his entire back end squirming ecstatically.

“And you’re coming to me for advice? What am I, your matchmaking granny?” Zaira hurled the stick, and Scoundrel tore after it, pink tongue trailing.

“You’re the only person I can ask.” I spread my hands. “Venasha’s in Ardence with Aleki, visiting family.”

“If I’m all you’ve got, you need more friends.”

That stung more than it should have. My voice took on an edge. “I believe you are aware of the difficulties of making friends when everyone around you always wants something from you.”

Zaira sighed and turned to face me at last. “I know.”

“So, help me!” I spread my hands. “What do I do?”

Scoundrel caught up to the stick, shook it vigorously, and dropped onto his belly in the grass to chew on it. Zaira shrugged. “Damned if I know. I’ve never courted anyone either.”

“Really?” I immediately wanted to curse myself for the surprise in my tone. I spotted Terika approaching up the garden path, her brown curls disheveled by the wind and her face flushed, and modified what I’d been about to say. “I mean, you’re always so, ah, confident with your admirers at parties and such. I assumed you must have courted someone.”

Zaira snorted. “If you don’t know the difference between flirting and courtship, you need more help than I can give you.”

Terika joined us, tossing an amused glance at Zaira. “Yes, some people are a master of the first and hopeless at the second. Hello, Amalia.”

“Oh, quiet, you.” But the welcoming smile Zaira gave her was more free and easy than I’d seen her with anyone else but Scoundrel.

“I just don’t know what one does, on a picnic with a person one is courting.” I waved a vague hand.

Terika grinned. “That depends. Will you have a chaperone? Because if not, well, all sorts of things.”

“He’s a Witch Lord.” My voice rose nearly to a squeak.

“Should have thought of that before you agreed to court him,” Zaira said.

Terika tapped her lips thoughtfully. “If you want to keep him at a distance, you could try flirting with him.”

“Wouldn’t that have the opposite effect?”

“Some people have been known to use flirting as armor.” Terika didn’t look at Zaira this time, but mischief shone in her eyes. “Some people are surprisingly skilled at not letting others get close to them, in fact.”

Zaira rolled her eyes. “Some people are pushing their luck.”

Terika clasped my shoulder, with an air of great seriousness. “But you have to be careful. If you seem to welcome a person’s advances, and then keep them at a distance, they might become confused and hurt.”

Zaira snorted. “Or they might tease you incessantly. That could also happen.”

I knew full well Terika’s remarks were directed at Zaira, but I couldn’t help but think of Marcello, with a pang. “So what would you advise?”

Terika patted my arm with a show of sympathy. “You must be understanding. Your would-be suitor may have been through a lot and needs time to learn to trust you.” She paused, unable to repress the laughter pressing against her lips. “Like a stray dog.”

“Like a—why, you!” Zaira burst out laughing. “A dog, am I? Like this?” And she licked Terika’s cheek.

“Down, girl!” Terika wiped the drool off her face with her sleeve, then glanced back at me. “Have you gotten him a gift?”

“No,” I groaned. “I have no idea what to get a Witch Lord. A bucket of bones? Some creepy, rare, flesh-eating plant?”

“Perhaps an artifice device?” Terika suggested. “They don’t have many artificers in Vaskandar.”

“Good idea,” I approved, relief rushing over me. “I’ll go see if Istrella has anything she might be willing to part with.”

As I left, I heard Zaira bark teasingly at Terika, while Scoundrel came bounding back to caper around them.

I climbed the stairs to Istrella’s tower room but found her unwilling to open her door more than a sliver because she was working on something “extremely volatile” and the slightest disruption could be “catastrophic.” By the smoke that wafted out through the door crack, I took her seriously.

“Do you have any ideas for an artifice device that would make a good present for a Witch Lord?” I asked her.

Behind the colored lenses of her rune-circled artifice spectacles, Istrella blinked. “Why would I ever give anything to a Witch Lord?” she asked, with slow care, as if examining the bewildering question as she spoke it.

“No, no, I have to give a present to a Witch Lord.”

“Oh! Well, in that case …” She shut the door in my face.

I stared at the sign that hung there (Please Knock, or I Cannot Be Held Responsible for the Consequences), wondering if I’d somehow offended her. A rustle and a cascading crash sounded from inside her room—but then, that wasn’t unusual with Istrella.

The door eased open a crack again at last, and her skinny arm reached through, something shiny swinging from her hand.

“Here!” she said happily. “Spyglass pendant. Made it to pass the time while Marcello was rambling on about how I need to get out of my tower more often. Ten times magnification, and terribly stylish, I’m sure! Speaking of which, I like your necklace.”

I touched the cold, smooth claws at my throat. “Ah, thanks.”

Istrella shook the pendant at me, as if trying to tempt a cat. “Now, I should get back to this project before the fire spreads.”

I took the clear, round crystal wrapped in gold wire. “Do you need any help?”

“Oh, no, I think I have it all figured out,” she said vaguely. “Tell Marcello I talked to you, which makes at least two contacts with the outside world this week. So he should stop nagging and let me work.”

“Tell him yourself,” I laughed. “I’ll see you soon, Istrella.”

As I tucked the pendant into the pocket of my chocolate-and-gold brocade coat and started back down the stairs, it occurred to me that I had time to visit Marcello. A strange, fluttery apprehension replaced my usual delighted warmth at the thought of him. Oh, hello, Marcello, I have a couple of hours to spare before going on a potentially romantic picnic with the man I’m courting. You know, the one who isn’t you. Would you like to engage in some painfully awkward conversation?

I shook my head. I couldn’t start avoiding him out of misplaced guilt. He was still a good friend, and the last thing I wanted was to let this political courtship put a wall between us.

Crossing the courtyard garden, I veered toward the patch of lawn where I’d left Zaira, hoping to thank Terika for the gift suggestion and ask if they’d seen Marcello about. There was no sign of them on the open grass, but Scoundrel’s wagging rear end protruded from behind a hedge.

I peeked around it, lifting my hand in a cheery wave.

Terika and Zaira leaned against a tree trunk together. Terika’s eyes were closed, so she didn’t see me, which was for the best, since she and Zaira were engaged in a rather passionate kiss. Their curls twined into each other, and Zaira’s head tipped back, baring her throat, her hand firmly between Terika’s shoulder blades.

Zaira didn’t spare me a glance but did use her free hand to signal with a crudely eloquent gesture her annoyance at my interruption. I quickly ducked back out of sight, my cheeks warming. But I couldn’t help grinning as I hurried off.

It seemed as if Terika had gotten through Zaira’s armor at last.

I’d made it nearly across the garden when I spotted Marcello heading toward me, his face pale, seeming on the edge of breaking into a run. That couldn’t be good. I hurried to meet him.

“Amalia. Thank the Graces you’re all right.” The words burst out of Marcello with the urgency of ill tidings piling up behind them. “I’ve been on the courier lamps since the reports started coming in, so I didn’t know if you’d …” He pushed a hand through his hair. “If you were safe.”

I sucked in a breath through my teeth. “I take it there’s bad news?”

He nodded grimly and pulled a paper from his pocket: a copy of the Vaskandran assassin’s list of names. It trembled in his hand as he jabbed a finger at it. “Lamonte Clare. An artificer, in his twenties. He was supposed to arrive at his family’s home in Loreice yesterday. I granted him leave to go ask his parents for permission to marry the woman he was courting.”

I could hear the strain in his voice. Oh, Marcello. “He failed to arrive?”

“He and his Falconer vanished on the road, along with the additional guards I assigned to escort him; their horses made their way back to the post station last night, saddles empty. The soldiers at the post station are looking, but they haven’t found the bodies yet.”

I searched for words, at a loss for any comfort to give him. But he wasn’t done. His finger moved to another name.

“Parona da Valisia. An alchemist. Smart and meticulous in her work; you would have liked her. She was stationed in Callamorne, providing cures and elixirs to the people there. The inn she and her Falconer were staying at on their way to her next call burned to the ground before dawn this morning. The proprietors and all six guests failed to escape the blaze.”

“Grace of Mercy,” I breathed.

He moved on to another name, speaking more quickly, forcing his way through. “Halim of Osta, an elderly alchemist. He was attacked while visiting the lace festival in Palova today. His Falconer and guards successfully fended off the attackers, though some were wounded. And Harrald Callo, a quiet artificer with a passion for baked goods. He was visiting his elderly parents at their farm near Ardence when he and his Falconer went missing last night. Their bodies appear to have been dumped in the farmhouse well.” He folded the list with unnecessary vigor. “Not to mention the attack on Istrella a week ago, and Namira’s murder.”

I let out a low whistle. “That’s four attacks in the past day. Six, if you count the two earlier ones.”

“Yes.” Marcello met my eyes. “All across the Empire, people on this list are dying. The extra guards I assigned to them weren’t enough. Vaskandar has made a list of the Falcons most key to our military preparations, and they’re expending enormous resources to kill everyone on it.”

A spike of raw, wild energy jolted through my veins—half fear, half anger. “Have you warned the others?”

He nodded. “That’s why I was on the courier lamps. I’m on my way to a meeting of officers now. Colonel Vasante said you should come, too.”

That struck me as odd, but I fell in by his side, and we strode off toward the colonel’s quarters. If the problem hadn’t been so serious, I would have been grateful for the distraction; it kept me from worrying about how much distance to place between us.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “This must have taken an enormous amount of planning and effort. Advance setup to get their people in place, coordination to strike around the same time, sufficient force to overcome the extra guards. All that to kill a handful of artificers and alchemists?” A thought struck me. “Could they be killing them to steal their jesses?”

Marcello shook his head. “Someone tried that a couple hundred years ago, and the artificers came up with a solution. Once they’re bonded to a Falcon, jesses destroy themselves if they’re removed. The only way to steal a jess is to get one that hasn’t been used yet.”

“Then this must be part of some larger plan we’re not seeing.”

“If the Lady of Thorns has a plot this big and well thought out, I’m worried,” Marcello confessed. “One of our advantages against Vaskandar in the past has always been that Raverran strategy is superior; the Witch Lords we’ve fought tended to act impulsively and without coordination, rather than carrying out long-term plans or working together. If we’re now facing different Witch Lords with more of a mind for the long game, we could be in trouble.”

Ruven. This was his sort of twisted cunning. I’d thwarted his attempt to steal books of dangerous magic from the Empire a month ago, but I should have known he’d have other plans. He wasn’t the type to sit quietly and accept defeat.

We’d come to the door of Colonel Vasante’s study, where she called her officers for their most important meetings. Marcello reached for the handle with the surety of familiarity.

“I think we’re already in trouble,” I said quietly.

And then he opened the door, and I saw how right I was.

Maps, books, and antique weaponry lined the walls of Colonel Vasante’s study, and draperies in Falconer scarlet swathed the windows. Most of the officers gathered around the scarred mahogany table also wore uniforms bright as blood. But one man, seated at Colonel Vasante’s left hand, stood out ominously in his impeccably tailored black velvet coat despite the nondescript droop to his shoulders and his attitude of quiet deference.

Lord Caulin, the Chancellor of Silence. Hells, what was he doing here?

Colonel Vasante gestured us in with a curt wave of her hand, scowling. But as she met my eyes, I could tell her irritation wasn’t for us. She knew, as commander of the Falcons, what Lord Caulin truly was. And she wasn’t happy to have him in this meeting, presiding over the room like the Demon of Death with his obsidian ax.

“Glad you could make it, Lady Amalia.” She bit off the words as if annoyed we’d arrived last, but her intent gaze carried another message. “I want you here for this.”

Ah. So she’d invited me as her ally: the only other person in the Mews who would understand the disturbing implications of Caulin’s presence.

“I appreciate the invitation,” I murmured, and settled into a chair beside Marcello. Lord Caulin gave me a respectful nod.

Colonel Vasante flipped her iron-gray braid over her shoulder and swept the assembled officers with her gaze. Most of them straightened; Jerith, always contrary, slouched deeper into his chair. “You all know why we’re here,” she said. “Vaskandar has launched an assault on our Falcons, working down a list of targets that Lady Amalia intercepted last week.” She turned to Marcello. “Verdi, have you accounted for everyone on that list?”

Marcello nodded sharply. “Yes, Colonel. Aside from the losses I’ve already reported, the rest are confirmed safe, either in person or over the courier lamps.”

“Perhaps,” Lord Caulin suggested in a silky voice, “it would be best to keep all Falcons under guard in secure fortresses until such time as we are certain the threat has passed.”

A muscle jumped in Colonel Vasante’s jaw. “Lord Caulin, I understand that the doge has placed you in charge of his investigation into the murders. However, I’ll thank you to leave the running of the Falcons to me.”

“Of course,” Caulin murmured. “His Serenity merely wishes to be certain such valuable resources are well guarded.”

Jerith sneered at that, and a few of the other officers stiffened. Some of them were Falcons, and I rather doubted they appreciated being called resources.

“We’ll follow standard procedure for a known, active threat against Falcons,” Colonel Vasante told her officers, ignoring him. “But there’s another concern. Any of you notice a pattern in the attacks?”

“They were all traveling,” Marcello said immediately. “Three on leave, and one on assignment.”

“But the assassins knew when and where to strike,” I realized, the implications pouring in like cold lagoon water. “They had people in place already. They knew where those Falcons would be before they arrived.”

Jerith frowned. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. And then he spoke the words I hadn’t wanted to say, for fear of making them real.

“You’re saying we have a traitor.”