Part 91 (1/2)

In safety for the Magi.

But she offered him no threat, and indeed, the courtesy of a nod, and he closed the distance between them and offered her his arm, his elbow bent at the correct height, his bearing, so often discarded, the bearing of the son of a n.o.ble family of old blood.

She glanced at his face, but made no comment; she did, however, accept the use of his arm, and she let it bear some of her weight. If she was not ancient, as she often chose to appear, she was not young.

But then again, neither were the trees that girded the Common from great height. She chose frailty as her mantle, but it was one she could put aside at will or necessity. And she saw no need, in this room, to do either. Not yet.

But she saw, as well, the daggers that lay in isolation across the perfect sheen of a long table, and her steps faltered. Her hand, in the crook of his arm, shook. He could feel it, although he could see none of it in the seamless neutrality of her expression.

Were all women of power so guarded?

Jewel, in her youth; Amarais in her prime, and this woman in her aged wisdom-they could have been kin, for a moment. He saw traces of each in Sigurne's face, and knew that he would search, in future, for such traces in Jewel's. But his sister, he did not intend to see again while he lived.

And for the first time, he regretted it; the bitter pride. But regret was not enough to break what had given his life meaning to this point. Now? He had to find a different meaning, for the anger he felt had s.h.i.+fted and changed. His sister's betrayal had become a shadow, a ghost; it no longer lived in him, and through him.

His own betrayal was greater, and more personal, and there was only one way to expunge it. He had done this. And he could live-barely-with the loathing he now felt for himself. Because to die was to leave it unanswered; to leave Jewel unavenged. This, he would not do.

For he was certain, and meant to be more certain, that this had not ended with the death of the Patris; that it had not ended with the demise of Lord Waverly. Even that-even that had been denied him; Jewel had taken it from his hands, had offered it-demanded it-of Duster.

He could have interfered-but she had suffered everything for just that demand. And having paid the greater price, he could not sunder the possible failure or success from her without paying a heavier price than the one he paid now.

Sigurne said, in a flat voice, ”So.”

”Yes,” he told her, equally uninflected. He walked her to the table, and there, removed his arm so that he might pull out a chair. She accepted it wordlessly, as if it were her natural right. And it was, in this place, although he knew she had not been born to it.

”Who?”

”Patris AMatie.”

”Where, Ararath?”

He did not deny her the use of the name he despised. Because he owned it now. Son of ancient Handernesse.

”In the Ivory Retreat,” he told her quietly.

Her brows rose slightly. ”There were witnesses?”

”None.” He paused, and added, ”No body.” Not of the demon; Lord Waverly was a different concern. But Lord Waverly was not entirely Sigurne's concern, and he did not intend to share everything.

She nodded. ”Both daggers,” she said. ”What was he?”

He frowned. Understood the question only after a moment's pause. ”He had wings,” he said at last, joining her in the chair closest to her side. ”Large and dark. He had talons that were the length of these daggers, but in other aspects, he was not dissimilar from either you or I.”

”He was a lord, then,” she said, and age seemed to weigh more heavily along the slump of shoulders. ”And not merely kin; he was of the Kialli.”

”He is dust now.”

”They are not so easily destroyed,” she replied, ”although we will not see his return in our lifetimes. And for that, we must be grateful.”

He was not grateful, but did not tell her so; it would have been beneath his station. And he had thought nothing beneath it, in his time. But the thought that the Patris would return, and that he could be killed again and again, had an appeal to Rath at the moment that mere words could not contain.

All of his times, all of his life-it led here. He had never thought that it would lead to this place.

She said, ”You are not here merely to return these to my keeping.”

”You grace me with your perception, Member Mellifas.”

She looked at him carefully, as if attempting to glean some humor in the words, some lightness of expression, some hint of triviality; there was none. ”Why, then, are you here, Ararath? You are not . . . calm, now. Nor are you frightened, and given your evening's work, you should be.”

”You do not-and G.o.ds willing will not-understand my evening's work,” he replied bitterly. ”And I am not man enough to admit or confess it. But I know that it is not yet done. The Patris was not here alone.”

She was silent. Almost, she rose, but he caught her frail hands in his, and she subsided. ”You suspect that there are those within your Order who have been compromised in some fas.h.i.+on; you suspect that because of the investigation that is ongoing in the death of Member Haberas, a man I admired, and held in some esteem.” He paused and said, ”Yes, I mocked him, but never without affection; he was what he was, and he was of aid to me.”

She nodded. ”All that you have said is true, Ararath. But all that we might speak of is forbidden. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

”What help you offer-I cannot accept it in any legal fas.h.i.+on. I cannot acknowledge it plainly; I cannot claim it. You cannot work with the magisterial guards; you cannot work with the Order itself. There is only one other that I would trust completely, and you have met him. There are few indeed within the Order who could work either under him or by his side; we are known for being somewhat fractious.”

”I don't care,” he said. ”I have not cared for decades about the official and the unofficial. I have not claimed a role for myself-”

”You have claimed many, Ararath.” Her eyes were now intent and pale; he could not see his reflection in them. Magic, he thought; she used some sort of magic. But let her. Let her understand the intensity of his intent. The truth of it.

”If I cannot come to you,” he told her quietly, ”I will not. But what I do, I must do.”

”And if I ask why?”

”You will not ask me why.”

She nodded after a moment. ”Your girls-”

He shook his head. ”Nor about them. I have played my first hand, and played it poorly.”

”But you did not lose them.”

”No,” he told her, and he told her more than he had intended and more than he desired. ”But not through any skill of my own. I have learned much about myself that I would have been happier not to know, Sigurne.

”And I accept it as truth and judgment. There are demons in this city, and they play a game that neither you nor I fully understand. But I want them. I will have them, with or without your help.”

”You are mortal,” she said slowly. ”Do you understand that they have seen millennia pa.s.s? That they have witnessed the death of G.o.ds?”

”I neither understand nor care. Give me the weapons that you have given me, and I will return them with my reports. Or deny me them, and I will find other weapons.”