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  "The passes are open until the beginning of winter, yes?" Hawkmarten said.

  "Technically," the Rhoi replied. "But early autumn is safer, and a good deal less uncomfortable. I'll be sorry to see you go, Hawk."

  "Can't winter here again without our bonds as Luinsel lapsing. Still, we've all of summer ahead of us."

  Quiet dignity lay beneath the easy good humour. Had Hawkmarten noticed the Rhoi's change in attitude toward him? If so, there was no return reaction, for the Rhoi's attention was on the diners, gaze shifting restlessly from person to person. Weary, the strained undercurrent in the room reflected on his face, the Rhoi showed little interest in his own banquet's entertainments as a trio of men flipped their way to the centre of the performance area.

  The larger two joined arms and tossed the third into the air, and then seemed to hurl themselves after him as two women ran in from the right, adroitly avoiding Decsel Enderhay hesitating in the doorway. Ash watched, transfixed, as the new arrivals spun with a seeming lack of control, then bounced to a landing on the shoulders of the men. She had thought herself agile, but she was nothing compared to these performers.

  A girl of fourteen entered, leading a spangled tot only a little older than Sonia. Even the Rhoi began to pay attention as the elder girl climbed onto the shoulders of the women, and acted out broad gestures of encouragement while the child ran in a circle around the partly formed pyramid.

  "Clap for her!" one of the women cried, and the crowd obliged, cheering and calling until the little girl began to climb. It was a scene after Ash's own heart, as the child made it to the summit of the human mountain and threw her hands into the air in triumph.

  "NO!"

  Location was everything, for Decsel Enderhay had been crossing directly in front of Ash when he'd fumbled with his jacket and turned. She didn't even really see the knife, just a glint of light, and hurled herself forward, catching the Decsel's upraised arm.

  There followed a frozen moment, all of Ash's focus on his hand, the gleam of the blade, and his nails blue and white with the intensity of his grip. She thought he sobbed, breath sharp with aniseed, then with his free hand he grabbed her right wrist, and the knife came down.

  Dragged so that she faced away from him, Ash tried desperately to bend out of reach as metal parted cloth and flesh, the blade skipping across her back. He let go and she tumbled forward, slamming into Marriston as he rushed at them. They both fell to the floor amidst shouting, and a scrape of wood, harsh over the ringing in her ears.

  Ash looked up from her tangle with Marriston to see that Thornaster, trapped against the table, had thrust his chair back, knocking Enderhay off-balance as the Decsel turned again to the Rhoi. And then Hawkmarten, surging to his feet on the Rhoi's other side, ended matters through the simple expedient of clouting Enderhay with a heavy silver tankard. The older man dropped like a log.

  Marriston grabbed Ash by the upper arm, and she gasped at sudden fire, spots dancing before her eyes. There was blood on his face, but she could see no weapon.

  "Hold him here," Marriston ordered, as Heran dropped to his knees beside them, transferring Heran's hands to her upper arm. "I think it's the deepest." Then he stopped still, staring from the wash of red covering his hands to the Luinsel he had served, lying not a foot away.

  Thornaster, on his feet at last, lifted Marriston's tabard over the boy's head and pressed it firmly against Ash's back. She shuddered.

  "Heran, keep hold of his upper arm and try to put pressure on his forearm as well. And keep up." Thornaster lifted Ash to her feet and tilted her partway over his shoulder, an arm wrapped across her upper legs as if she was a toddler, the other holding the makeshift pad in place.

  "I'll fetch Master Tsimon," Lauren Carlyon said, as Thornaster moved quickly toward the door.

  Stairs followed, Thornaster taking great strides and Heran struggling to keep pace. Ash began to fade, and fought to clear her head, divided between outraged flesh, the realisation of inevitable exposure, and another point of primary importance that hovered just out of reach.

  "Key's in my right pocket," Thornaster said, and Hawkmarten loomed into Ash's view, opening the way to a receiving room lit only by Yurefaer's dull purple glow. "Grab one of the lamps from the hall, and then my travel kit out of the big chest in my bedroom," Thornaster ordered, depositing Ash on the lounging chair. "Heran, keep the pressure up on his arm. Stay upright, Ash."

  He lifted Marriston's tabard away, then swiftly stripped Ash of her tabard before pressing the pad back into place.

  "How is he?" the Rhoi asked, following a lantern-laden Hawkmarten back into the room.

  "Thoroughly filleted." There was no humour in Thornaster's voice. "It's the length that's the problem. He's already lost more blood than I'd care for. We'll bind the arm tight, then work on the back. What about Enderhay?"

  "Dead."

  "What?" Hawkmarten stopped halfway to the bedroom door. "What of?"

  "Tankard to the temple," said the Rhoi's senior guardsman, Farpatten, surveying the scene from the door. "My men are trying to revive him."

  Hawkmarten made a low noise, and then disappeared into the bedroom. Returning with the leather satchel Thornaster used to store medicking supplies, he dug out rolled strips of cloth and had Heran hold Ash's arm up.

  Carlyon arrived as they finished a hasty job of wrapping. "Master Tsimon's on his way."

  "Good, we'll need more bandages," Thornaster said, cutting off Ash's shirt. "Keep the pressure on that shoulder, Hawk and hopefully the bleeding will have stopped by the time we've–"

  Lifting the remnants of her shirt away, he paused. Enderhay had slashed a long twisting line down her arm, deepest and bleeding ferociously where the knife had come up against the thicker material of her tabard. There was a short expanse of skin left unscathed across the top of her shoulder, then another line starting a diagonal across her back, deepening where it had dug under her breast bindings before cutting through them half-way and skipping to below her shoulder blades, the wound thinning then becoming abruptly deeper as it reached the band of her trousers and the slight cushion of fat which marked her hips.

  "When did you hurt your ribs?" Heran asked.

  She looked at him helplessly, and then glanced up at Thornaster, whose face had gone still, wiped of expression. He slid the knife through the already half-cut binding, and she lifted her uninjured arm to hold it in place against her chest.

  "Ash?" Heran's voice dropped to a whisper. "You've got–?"

  "Yes, thank you, Heran. I had noticed."

  "Thorn, I cannot begin to imagine what you find funny in this situation," the Rhoi said.

  Thornaster was indeed laughing silently, still holding the knife he'd use to reveal her. He smiled at her expression, put the knife down and flipped open a leather wallet, revealing a practical array of tools, including needles and the sort of thread suitable for mending wounds.

  "To think I once prided myself on my powers of observation," he said. "But I must truly have been blinkered not to notice that my seruilis was a valarn."

  A valarn was an Aremish term for female warrior. Ash knew that much. So did the Rhoi, who stopped abruptly and stared down at her concealing arm.

  "Heran, fetch the jug from my room," Thornaster said, his voice going mild and measured. "And Carlyon, I would appreciate you closing that door. When Master Tsimon arrives, accept any bandages he has, and send him on his way. Guardsman, could I perhaps borrow Investigator Verel?"

  Heran moved to obey first, the motion smacking of retreat as he collected the jug of water from Thornaster's bedroom. He handed it to the Visel and stood back. Thornaster began using torn-off squares of Ash's tabard to clean blood from her back. The water was warm.

  "Lean forward Ash. Arun, keep pressure on the upper section." He waited until the Rhoi had collected himself enough to take over the job of preventing Ash from draining to nothing, and then plied his needle.

  Gritting her teeth, Ash shut her eyes as the Visel stitc
hed together the hip wound. She needed to think, to fight off distractions and keep herself awake and put together the pieces that nudged at the edge of her thoughts.

  "This is beyond anything," the Rhoi muttered, as they switched to the cut on her upper back. "That a girl should be struck down in defence of me. It shames me."

  "You're fortunate Aria isn't here to hear you say that, Arun."

  "Dammit Thorn, you know what I mean!" The Rhoi took a deep breath. "Perhaps you should think of what your mother would say."

  "She's certainly going to call me careless." Thornaster sounded irritatingly cheerful. "I suspect that my mother's reaction to Ash would be to try and add her to her collection. She does love to play mentor to talented valarns."

  "But you can't – it's not appropriate–" the Rhoi began, then fell abruptly silent, and Thornaster focused on his stitching until Farpatten returned with Verel.

  "What of Marriston?" the Rhoi asked.

  "His father quickly realised the boy might be compromised by his association with Enderhay, Ser Rhoi," Verel replied, smoothly replacing Rhoi Arun at Ash's back. "Whether he has any idea what the extent of his son's involvement might be, I don't know. The boy certainly had the means and opportunity to be the Veirhoi's assailant."

  "Heran," Ash said, and watched hard angles change the boy's face. He was not happy. "There's a thick book in Khanteck somewhere in my room. Pictures of plants inside. Would you please fetch it?"

  "Are you thinking the knife was poisoned?" Thornaster asked, hands stilling.

  "Just sharp." She waited until Heran returned, and rested the Herbal on the curving arm of the lounging chair. "Open it for me. Further on. About two pages more. There." She paused to read.

  "Kismollen?" Thornaster and Verel were both peering over her shoulder.

  "Blue fingernails, and breath that smells like liquorice. I didn't see his eyes – were the pupils dilated?"

  "I've heard of Kismollen." Farpatten abandoned his guarding-the-door position. "The puppet drug."

  "A small dose upsets the balance of the mind, makes the subject vulnerable to suggestion." She touched the flowing Khanteck script. "Regular doses – dull you, makes you obedient, unquestioning. If that's it, his lips will turn blue after death, and the skin around his eyes. Not every herbalist would recognise it, but Genevieve most certainly. They must have been killed against the possibility that a description of his body would be circulated. On a possibility!"

  Ash shuddered, and found herself tilting forward, vision hazing. Verel lifted the Herbal away, and they lowered her so she was propped against the raised end of the lounging chair.

  "If Enderhay was a cats paw, there must be a second stage to tonight's attack," the Investigator said. "Something that could be blamed on Enderhay. A trap, a poisoned drink."

  "It would be best if you and Veirhoi Heran do not return to your apartments tonight, Ser Rhoi," Farpatten said. "We will undertake a thorough search."

  "Very well," the Rhoi said. He sounded sick.

  "How difficult would it be to obtain kismollen?" Thornaster asked.

  Ash sighed, and struggled to put words together. "No respectable herbalist would supply it, because it doesn't have any legitimate use. It's native to Naggol, and has...liquorice taste. Long exposure...builds up to fatal dose. Genevieve didn't have any. Not likely to grow well in...don't know – don't know anyone who..."

  "That's enough, Ash." Thornaster paused in his stitching to press fingers to her throat. "Let's lie her down fully. Heran, grab a cushion to raise her feet."

  Ash briefly tried to remain awake, then wondered why she was bothering. The important point had been made, and the Guard would not treat Enderhay's attack as the conclusion of their investigation. Everything else – she'd rather think about when not being sewn together.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Wiping grit from her eyes, Ash levered herself stiffly upright, her arm and back burning in protest. No one in the room. Verel had been there during two previous wakings, matter-of-factly changing Ash's bandages, salving, feeding her and helping her with a chamber pot before mercilessly dosing her with something syrupy and bitter.

  Taking it slowly, Ash managed to dress herself, finding movement easier the more she tried. Once tidied, she sat on the bed and thought through her next step.

  Enough with playing seruilis, surely. The reason behind Genevieve's murder had been uncovered, if not the culprits, and Ash's herbal knowledge was no longer a critical hidden card. Nor, she suspected, would Heran make it easy for her to act as unofficial bodyguard after the revelation of breasts. Her time would be better spent looking into the disappearances.

  This settled, she went to face Thornaster, but the apartment was empty. Caught between relief and disappointment, Ash headed to the kitchens instead, and was disturbed by the number of people who outright stared at her, even though she'd left her spare tabard behind.

  "Mirramar," she said, spotting the cook conveniently close to the kitchen's inner entrance. "Could I bother you for some food?"

  Mirramar nearly dropped her mixing bowl. "Ash!" She hastily put the bowl down and took Ash by her uninjured arm. "What are you doing up and about?"

  "Dying of hunger."

  "Star's Grace, you little idiot, sit down before you fall down," Mirramar said, whisking a chair from nowhere and manoeuvring Ash into it.

  "I'm fine, Mirramar. Don't fuss."

  "Fine? You look like death warmed over. Don't you move from this spot."

  The whole kitchen was staring, and the loaded tray Mirramar brought back came accompanied by the head cook, congratulations and compliments. Ash dealt with this by assuming mortified shyness until the man went away.

  "How you can put on that butter-wouldn't-melt face without a blush is beyond me," Mirramar said, once the head cook was out of earshot. "And why you must go jumping onto knives, I don't know. I've had Larkin in here two days running asking after you."

  "You know I love being the centre of attention."

  "Truer words have never been spoken."

  "What have they been saying, Mirramar? Not about me – about Decsel Enderhay."

  The junior assistant cook gave her a dubious look, and then a more serious one. "Of course, everyone knows that Decsel Enderhay tried to kill the Rhoi and you stopped him. I've heard a thousand stories as to why Enderhay would act that way. He was such an upright man, generous to a fault, and..."

  "And some people are saying he had to have had a good reason," Ash guessed. "That the Rhoi is weak, that Thornaster controls the Rhoi, and all sorts of outlandish claims as to what the real story might be." She sighed when Mirramar nodded. "Anything else being talked about?"

  "The Rhoi moved out of his apartments," Mirramar said. "A spider infestation. Another lad's gone missing out of the Commons. The high snows are lingering late this year, and the Milk's sluggish."

  "Who are they saying would have been put forward for judgment, if the Rhoi had been killed?"

  "Why, Veirhoi Heran, of course," Mirramar said, with a sharp glance.

  "But a wide open field after him."

  "Don't go borrowing trouble, Ash Lenthard. The Veirhoi's fine."

  Wishing she could be sure he would stay that way, Ash left a message for Larkin and started toward the stables. It was most important to reassure Cloud Cat that any neglect wasn't intentional. But she was hardly out of the kitchen before she discovered an urgent need to sit down. A nearby barrel spared her from ignominious collapse, and the fortunate advent of Cassia turned the situation into an opportunity to collect further rumours. Nothing new, and obviously plenty Cassia wasn't quite ready to mention.

  "I was going to the stable," Ash said finally, "but I think maybe I should put that off 'til tomorrow. Would you mind very much giving me a hand back to Thornaster's apartment?"

  "Happy to. Especially if we can go via the Water Court because then I won't even have to say anything to be the envy of the entire laundry."

  "Sounds like a fair bargain."<
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  An easy favour, but as Cassia escorted her past the stares of the Water Court, Ash began to wonder if she could escape the notoriety of the gutter seruilis without abandoning Ash Lenthard altogether. Being the centre of attention was only fun when it was on her own terms.

  ooOoo

  Thornaster was at his desk, writing. Pausing in the doorway, Ash struggled again with the question of playing gutter seruilis. Did her role in the palace hold any further value? Should she walk away from the official investigation to start out on her own? And could she even make it to the Commons without collapsing?

  But staying meant enduring this unexpected ache, as large as the sun and as dangerous. Thornaster had enjoyed partnering with an imp, and was not going to object to that imp being a girl, but would most certainly have some qualms if that girl revealed her overwhelming desire to slide her arms around his neck. It did not matter whether or not that was incredible, impossible: what mattered was that the question could not be raised. Genevieve was more important.

  She had to remember her anger and step back, not to the precocious brat, but the girl she had been a few days ago – amused by Thornaster and not yet lost. That version of herself had one purpose, and no qualms about allying with this man to achieve it.

  The glossy black hair was as usual trying to fall into his eyes, and he swept it back with an absent hand. Unnecessarily tall, but finely built, possessing a grace born of strength and restraint, he was infinitely desirable.

  "I'm guessing you won't be requiring me to dress you any more."

  Her Aremish Visel started, then fulfilled her expectations by laughing, and shaking his head ruefully.

  "You guess correctly." He rose, indicating that she precede him back into the receiving room. "I doubt I'll be calling you stripling any longer, either. Now my turn to guess – you've been out hunting up information about the disappearances?"

  "Asked for an update on them." She checked the lounging chair for stains, then sat down heavily, and waited until he took the opposite chair.