Darkborn Part 17

"Yes. Once I put on my mother-in-law's voice."

She tried to straighten her fingers. The pain was excruciating. Was a wound left by the light different from other wounds? Would it heal? "Maybe he'll finally have that wall closed up properly. He loves her, you know," she confessed with a sob. "Always has, as long as I've known him. I don't think he even admits to himself how much he loves her. But I know. I tell myself it could be worse: It could be a Darkborn mistress. Someone he could touch touch."

Sylvide crooned wordless sympathy and rea.s.surance. The lurching of the coach was making Telmaine nauseated, lying down. She hauled herself upright with her sound hand and elbow, holding her injured hand to protect it from jarring, and was almost pitched to the floor by a particularly violent lurch. Sylvide's quick brace steadied her.

The coach had stopped. Sylvide unlatched and slid down the side panel. They had been too absorbed in their own conversation, the sound of wheels on paving too close for them to have heard the crowd outside, but now they did, an excited hubbub around them with a murk of sonn too dense for theirs to penetrate. Telmaine realized that they were in the Lower Archduke's Mile, near the courts and the main newspaper outlet, and opposite Speaker's Square. Speaker's Square was the place where the proselytizers and rabble-rousers of the city traditionally had their public say. One of the latter was in full volley. He had a powerful voice, and had drawn an unusually large crowd, which had spilled back onto the roadway. ". . . this is our our city. city. We We founded it. founded it. We We built it. We made it what it is today. built it. We made it what it is today. Without Without magic. magic. Without Without making our women dirty their hands and strain their soft bodies. Without endangering our sons' and daughters' health and morals." making our women dirty their hands and strain their soft bodies. Without endangering our sons' and daughters' health and morals."

At the end of each statement he paused, inviting low surges of muttered agreement that rose and fell like the sea. "We built this city with honest labor. It was safe, and peaceful. Now what do we have? Great fires killing hundreds. Magical storms killing who knows how many hundreds more. Our archduke's brother magically sickened. A lady murdered. A mage accused of murder and sorcery." The rumbling surged in outrage. He spoke more swiftly now, building momentum. "One of our n.o.bility shot down in the street. That's the way they they behave toward each other. It's not the way behave toward each other. It's not the way we we behave. Let them take their poisoning magic and their poisonous women and their barbarous ways and go back where they came from. Let them go back to live amongst the Mad Baron's kind. Let them go back to the Shadowlands, among their foul brothers and sisters." behave. Let them take their poisoning magic and their poisonous women and their barbarous ways and go back where they came from. Let them go back to live amongst the Mad Baron's kind. Let them go back to the Shadowlands, among their foul brothers and sisters."

The muttering surged into a muted roar. A thin, anonymous voice yelled, "Break in their doors. Turn out their lights!" Other voices took it up. "Send them back to the Borders. Melt them all."

Sylvide said faintly, "Oh dear."

There were laws against the fomenting of race hatred, violence, and revolution from Speaker's Square, albeit laws too often more honored in the breach than the observance. The authorities were alert to such instances, and would shortly move in to quiet if not arrest the speaker and disperse the crowd-but the crowd was surely of a size and volatility to be teetering on the verge of riot. Telmaine could feel the seething violence around her, as febrile as the miasma over Balthasar's door had been chill. The coachman redoubled his efforts to clear the rippling fringes of the mob, people too concerned with getting close enough to hear to attend much to their surroundings, even had the density of sonn allowed it. The coachman must be proceeding as much by feel and sound as by sonn now, desperately trying to bring them out of the crowd before it turned on them, while doing no injury that would make them turn-a near impossibility in a press like this. There'd be at least one person crushed under hoof and wheel today, if not several. And still the speaker railed on, a celebration of vitriol. "Burn the mages!" she heard him scream, and experienced a sudden, furious wish that he lose his voice. lose his voice.

He croaked to a sudden silence in midrant. Her mouth opened at the beginning of a shocked protest. She had not . . . She could not . . .

Then she heard the overlapping clatter of multiple hooves, shouts, shrieks, and several shots. Sylvide scrambled her pistol out of its box. A man's voice bellowed orders, followed by a curse and a whip slash as someone challenged the orders. The carriage lurched forward, erratically gaining speed under an unknown escort. Sylvide clung with one hand to the seat arm, with the other to her pistol. Telmaine held on to the seat arm with her unburned hand. The coach swung through a turn into a side street and stopped. They heard a man's vigorous voice giving directions to their driver. Sylvide said faintly, "That's Ferdenzil Mycene."

A moment later, they resolved movement outside the still-open door panel. The man himself leaned forward along the neck of his tall horse to sonn inside, in a fashion too crisp to be entirely gentlemanly. "Are you ladies all right?"

She had always thought that the sculptor who created his statue-one tended to think of statues with Ferdenzil around-would need genius, or be driven mad with frustration. He was overmounted, as usual, on a tall, powerful horse that stomped and snorted under his hand and crop. His physical appearance was commonplace: a little less than average height, his strength wiry rather than sculpted, with a face a.s.sembled from off-the-shelf features, its only distinction the distinctive asymmetry of his cheekbones. His allure was all intangible: the abundant energy, the intelligence, the will. In any room he drew and held attention as he pleased, and every adventurous woman in the city schemed for him to notice her. He had paid court to Telmaine before she married, but she had found the devouring ambition beneath the charisma frightening.

"Are you ladies all right?" he said again, while each waited for the other to speak, whether as a result of their tangled state of social precedence, or profound uncertainty as to whether they were all right, Telmaine did not know and was too weary to wonder. "Yes," Sylvide said at last. "Yes, thank you, Lord Ferdenzil."

"I can't spare you an escort; the situation's going to . . . downhill too fast, and we'll have to turn it in the next few minutes if we're to turn it at all." He lifted his head at a new wave of shouts and heckling and the sound of a horn. "Good day, ladies."

"Wait!" Telmaine said, pulling herself forward to the window. "He-the speaker-said there was a n.o.bleman shot down on the street."

"Guillaume di Maurier," Ferdenzil said with dispa.s.sionate impatience. "They found him alive this morning, but they say the wound's mortal." Refusing further questions, he swung his horse and disappeared out of range of sonn.

Telmaine felt chill, as chill as she had standing on the steps of that cursed and light-filled house. Ishmael had sent Guillaume di Maurier searching for Florilinde.

Telmaine Guillaume di Maurier's close, overheated bedroom was fetid with the stink of blood and infection. The large young man lay gasping with agony and fever amidst disarrayed sheets on a bed whose ornately erotic carvings would have otherwise overwhelmed Telmaine with embarra.s.sment. As a frame to his mortal suffering, they seemed merely pitiful and grotesque. There was a broad bandage over his exposed lower abdomen, where the sonn echoed crisp with sweat saturation; he'd been shot in the lower belly, and while he lay hidden through the day, peritonitis had set in. A stiff-lipped doctor rattled a dense clutter of hypodermics and bottles-a scene too uncomfortably reminiscent for her-and a starched nurse bustled by with basins and cloths. Both exuded disapproval that family had been banished to the antechambers while strangers were admitted to the sickroom. The stoic manservant, who seemed to have taken charge of all, acknowledged them, but ignored their mood.

Sylvide, who had insisted on coming with her, gripped Telmaine's arm with her nails in silent distress. The manservant moved to the bedside and ordered the sheet decently, and firmly deflected the patient's attempts to toss it away. "Lady Sylvide and Mrs. Telmaine Hearne are here, sir, as I told you."

There was a long silence broken only by Gil's harsh breathing. The bloodless flesh had sunk between the bones of his face. "Hearne," he croaked at last.

"Mrs. Balthasar Hearne, sir."

"Tell her . . . I . . . found found . . . her." . . . her."

Telmaine pressed forward, pulling Sylvide after perforce. "Tell me!"

His hand came up, groping air, and then locked into a fist as a spasm of pain brought a new shower of sweat to his skull-face. The muscles around his neck stood out as hard and sharp as blades. The doctor stepped forward, hypodermic in hand, wrestling Gil's rigid arm away from his side. With a fastidious finger he probed the entire length of the scarred, knotted vein. Telmaine muttered, "Get on with it." The doctor jabbed with the needle. Sylvide whimpered and swayed on her arm. Telmaine steadied her, irritated at the interruption. "Go outside," she ordered. "I won't be long."

The nurse helped Sylvide out of the room.

Forcing herself to use her burned hand rather than her teeth, Telmaine slipped her glove off, and, bracing herself for what she would feel, folded her hand around Guillaume's clenched fist.

It was worse even than Bal, who though beaten and bleeding had been almost unconscious. Gil was in agony, consumed from within, fully aware he was dying. Prepared, she resisted an outcry. She released her magic, let it flood him, praying the witnesses would take the surcease of pain for the effect of the drug.

His gasping breaths steadied. "Lower Docks. Pier thirty-one. Lower level. Left-hand warehouse. There's a door-"

"I know the place," she said; from his memories she knew it.

"Shouldn't have let them surprise me. I know better." Voices behind him, a pile-driver blow in his lower belly, men kicking and taunting him as he writhed on the ground and then pitching him into the empty street as the sunrise bell fell silent. He'd dragged himself into a cleft that he could seal with rubble, and lain throughout the day beneath the burning flagstones-as he'd lain in the hot, dark place of his confinement with the rotting bodies of his dead sisters. Even with her vicarious experience of so many kinds of inner torment, she had never imagined torment like this.

"Tell . . . tell your husband"-the rictus of his smile was ghastly-"he saved me . . . for a better death than . . . the one I sought." Through his memories, she glimpsed her Bal, a gentle and inexorable healer, banisher of monsters, hunter of demons, giver of hope. It wasn't just for Florilinde that Gil had lived out the terrible day.

She lifted her head and sonned the doctor. He was no one she recognized, but she said crisply, "My husband is Dr. Balthasar Hearne. This young man is a patient of his. If my husband were here, I suspect he would tell you Baronet di Maurier needs much more of that than you are giving him. It does not matter whether you, personally, disapprove or not. You have a duty to relieve suffering."

The doctor's face was tight with disapproval and resentment. Gil croaked a laugh. "No use, there. He's my family's."

Telmaine bore down on the doctor. "You took an oath, did you not? The same one my husband took."

Grudgingly, the doctor began to prepare another syringe. "Is that enough?" she challenged, the moment he hesitated. Grudgingly, he yielded, drawing up what seemed to be a frighteningly large volume. She fervently hoped she had remembered correctly Bal's explanations of addiction and tolerance.

She felt the needle punch through his scarred vein and, unnervingly, Gil's rush of gratification at the sensation. She'd needed that dose to be given to cover what she was about to do. She had a sense that Ishmael di Studier was crouched beside her, his hand over hers, his awareness overlapping hers, giving her insight. The heavy bullet had torn the bowel on its entry, and lodged deep in the pelvic cavity; in its removal, more damage had been done. The bleeding had been severe and critically weakening, and the spilled bowel contents had started a raging peritonitis. Delicately, she knitted together the torn bowel, sealing its poisons within. Then, as she had done with Bal's incipient pneumonia, she swept away the infection clawing at the raw membranes. That was all she could do; he was still dangerously weak, though the drug had finally eased his agony. An even more potent a.n.a.lgesic was his profound relief at having delivered up his message, at having not failed at his appointed task. She leaned over and brushed his burning cheek with her lips. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Tell Ishmael," he rasped, his breath foul. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d mage or no, he's a great hunter. He'll find her for you."

"You found her," she said, ignoring the chill that that "b.a.s.t.a.r.d mage" gave her. Gil di Maurier had better cause than most to hate magic. "And you'll find and save others." She straightened, laying his loosening hand back onto the covers. If he lived, they would simply call it a miracle, which suited her fine. If magic couldn't ever return what it had taken from him, surely she'd added something to the balance. found her," she said, ignoring the chill that that "b.a.s.t.a.r.d mage" gave her. Gil di Maurier had better cause than most to hate magic. "And you'll find and save others." She straightened, laying his loosening hand back onto the covers. If he lived, they would simply call it a miracle, which suited her fine. If magic couldn't ever return what it had taken from him, surely she'd added something to the balance.

For the first time, she truly understood why sixteen-year-old Ishmael di Studier, of high birth and slender talent, had exchanged his birthright for his talent and thought the bargain sound.

She found Sylvide in the sitting room, quietly sobbing in an armchair, the only one of the dozen or so there, men and women, who was. Telmaine acknowledged Guillaume di Maurier's kin with the necessary civilities, but no more; she had no desire to talk to them, gathered like carrion birds at the deathbed of a son and nephew they had shunned in life. Though, she thought with a rising blush, if the carvings on that bed were anything to go by, Gil was hardly the blameless victim of social disapproval.

"Oh, Tellie," Sylvide said with a hiccough as they climbed back into the carriage, "that was so sad. I know he was dissipated and a great disappointment to his family, but I knew him as a boy, and he was . . ."

"Rather horrible, I suspect," Telmaine said, as her friend faltered. "Most little boys are, at least to little girls. Let's pray for him, Sylvide. He's had so much suffering in his life; surely there should be some redress." She drew a deep breath. "I need you to take me to the prison."

"To the prison prison?" Sylvide said, incredulous.

"Baron Strumh.e.l.ler asked Guillaume to search for Florilinde, and Guillaume found found her just before he was shot. If the people who have her think he died before he could tell anyone, they won't have moved her, and that's our opportunity to get her back. But the man who knows best how to rescue her is in that prison." her just before he was shot. If the people who have her think he died before he could tell anyone, they won't have moved her, and that's our opportunity to get her back. But the man who knows best how to rescue her is in that prison."

"Tellie, he's held for sorcery and murder. They won't let you visit him."

"On false charges, Sylvide," Telmaine said in a voice hammered hard with anger and resolution. "False, foul charges."

"Tellie . . ." Sylvide wrung her hands. "You can't go rushing off to the prison to visit a sorcerer. It doesn't matter if you think he's innocent; other people don't. Think of your reputation. Think of mine, if you don't care about yours. Your sister will . . . she'll eat me alive!"

"I don't"-care, she started to say. But she did care about the opinion of a society in which she had been embedded since birth. And about her friend's safety and life. Gil di Maurier might be dying because Ishmael had involved him. Ishmael was in prison, surely, because he had been drawn in. Bal . . . She drew a deep breath, thinking swiftly, and then released it in a sigh.

"You're right. I'll go back to Merivan's, tell the inquiry agents. But you must go to Bal for me. He should know about Guillaume. He'll know someone he can send over there, someone who can treat his pain properly. If you set me down at Bolingbroke Circle I'll be able to get a carriage from there."

Sylvide argued, without effect. She set Telmaine down at the interchange, protesting still, while Telmaine reiterated the message she was supposed to give Balthasar. She sonned Sylvide's worried, unhappy face, framed in the window of the departing coach, as she climbed aboard the hired carriage and gave her true destination, the Lower Docks.

Nine

Ishmael

T o Ishmael's mind, the riot was a mixed blessing. It kept the corridors full and the prison staff busy-too busy earning their licit pay for their thoughts to turn to earning their bribes, and constantly within play of one another's sonn. On the other hand, it made escape well nigh impossible, even without taking into account the two-man guard on his cell, the private agent engaged by Ish's lawyer, and the single prison guard whom the superintendent couldn't really spare, but did, now that his honor was staked on Ish's life. There wouldn't be another attack like the first two, but given the burning of the Rivermarch, Ish found that the thought of spending another day confined made him profoundly uneasy, both for himself and for the thoroughly mixed bag of his fellow men who'd share his fate. So. o Ishmael's mind, the riot was a mixed blessing. It kept the corridors full and the prison staff busy-too busy earning their licit pay for their thoughts to turn to earning their bribes, and constantly within play of one another's sonn. On the other hand, it made escape well nigh impossible, even without taking into account the two-man guard on his cell, the private agent engaged by Ish's lawyer, and the single prison guard whom the superintendent couldn't really spare, but did, now that his honor was staked on Ish's life. There wouldn't be another attack like the first two, but given the burning of the Rivermarch, Ish found that the thought of spending another day confined made him profoundly uneasy, both for himself and for the thoroughly mixed bag of his fellow men who'd share his fate. So.

He shifted his fingers, feeling the lock picks slide inside his gloves. A couple of hours before sunset would be the best time. If he couldn't escape by stealth, taking advantage of the guards' confusion, fatigue, and dilution by inexperienced men-and his little sc.r.a.p of magic-then he'd trust Kip's cunning and plan to leave feet-first, a victim of unexpected delayed effects of the poisoning. As a mage, he'd the body control to enact a fatal collapse most convincingly, with Kip there to deny the remaining suggestions of life. It would be chancy, since nothing held the young opportunist to his course but the promise of a reward, and Ish might be at any moment outbidden. Except that he had, implicitly, promised to enact Kip's revenge for his lost child, Shadowhunter that he was. So he rested, sitting on top of his bunk with his back propped against the wall, listening carefully to the voices and sounds around him, the feet hurrying and shuffling past his cell, and waiting.

The mental whisper was as clear, suddenly, as if Telmaine were there in his cell with him. It wavered with her uncertainty that she should be able to address him so intimately. Defiantly she claimed his name and hurled it through his mind like a shaft of fire. He jolted upright. Sweet Imogene, she was powerful! His sense of her was as acute as if she were sitting here on his lap, and his body responded to that thought. He tamped down his response; he didn't want to frighten her into retreat. -you to be able to do this, seemed insulting, and perhaps disingenuous.

There was a pause. He felt the simmering of her personality, and her power. She sensed his immediate impulse to dissemble; her thought stabbed him. He formulated his thoughts carefully. He sensed her remembering dreams not her own, spun out of his memories. Ouch, he thought, though if she was dreaming of that that, she'd every right.

he asked. The memories spilled into him, swirling around that single moment of searing heat and horrified realization at the touch of light. His horror mirrored hers, the visceral horror of the Darkborn contemplating light, and the horror of knowing how near she had come to death. In this intimacy, there was no deceiving either of them about how he felt about her. Or she about him.

In his distraction, the chill and terror she had experienced on the doorstep nearly pa.s.sed him by unnoticed. But not quite. He had felt hot horror at the possibility of her burning. Now he felt the cold horror of recognition.

She sensed that. He did not respond, remembering barren lands, twisted bushes, and that chill sense, like a miasma over it all. Inside his mind, the Call throbbed, stronger than he'd ever felt it this far north.

Reluctantly and full of dread, he responded, Vladimer was right Vladimer was right, he thought. Vladimer was surely right, by whatever uncanny instinct he possessed. The Shadowborn have elevated their attack on us beyond the crude marauding that already has the Borders in constant skirmishes. And I never even recognized it. Vladimer was surely right, by whatever uncanny instinct he possessed. The Shadowborn have elevated their attack on us beyond the crude marauding that already has the Borders in constant skirmishes. And I never even recognized it. he said. he said. she said, and once again her unschooled impressions crowded in on him: of Lysander as perceived through Bal's thoughts, of Gil di Maurier, suffering in his sickbed.

He remembered all the other men and sometimes women who had died while he sat or lay helpless beside them, his meager power spent. How many more must we lose? How many more must we lose? he thought achingly. He felt her reach out to him, and it was as though she cradled his head gently in her hands. he thought achingly. He felt her reach out to him, and it was as though she cradled his head gently in her hands.

Diffidently, as a student seeking approval.

He inspected her memories, surprised that she could have done so much. But maybe he should not have been: She was the mage wife of a fine young physician. She'd been learning from her husband, too, all this time.

If he'd been in the least inclined, he'd have been jealous. As it was, his heart wanted to open up and fold her in. he said. she said, His thoughts split, one path a swift flow of possibilities, the other eddying in conflict and self-contradiction. She s.n.a.t.c.hed at the flow, vexed by the distractions of the latter with its mingling strands of protectiveness, desire, envy of, and pride in her. And at that, the resentment and fury beneath her defiant willingness flared up to scald him. She had seldom used her power, and never without furtiveness and guilt. She had given men their due in submission, and society its due in conformity. In exchange, men and society were supposed to give her their protection, not submit to blackmail or scheme to use her powers or censure her for something she had never wanted and could not prevent. He realized he had curled up on his bunk, arms uselessly over his head, instinctively trying to shield himself from the intangible.

The awareness of the pain she was causing shocked her into remorse. she said, her mental voice a tiny whisper.

he said firmly.

There was no answer, no sense of her. He wanted to reach out, though it would render him helpless once again. She She had been sustaining this contact entirely by herself, following a magical healing of a mortal wound and who knew what else. She was a powerhouse. had been sustaining this contact entirely by herself, following a magical healing of a mortal wound and who knew what else. She was a powerhouse.

And, he thought, she was the wild card in the pack, the gaming piece their enemies did not know was in play. They'd-those mysterious, powerful, frighteningly organized Shadowborn-they'd taken down Vladimer. If they hadn't yet killed him, it was only to extract maximum benefit from the disarray that his incapacity had caused. As surely as Vladimer had planned around his own death (as he planned around others'), he had not planned around his incapacity. He found it too unthinkable.

He'd not make the same mistake again, if he lived.

But he might well not live, because so far his loyalists were losing the field badly. The enemy had taken down the mages, who'd be grieving and drained by the aftermath of the burning of the Rivermarch. Who knew what havoc they were already causing amongst the Lightborn. They'd taken down Ishmael himself, and seemed determined to eliminate him entirely, presumably for his role in the Borders defense, possibly for his magic, possibly because, in the course of the last few days, he'd simply annoyed annoyed them too much. Alive or dead, he'd annoy them further. Any enemy who a.s.sumed the Borders defenses depended on him or on any one man would be deservedly sorry. He was ten years older than Vladimer and had spent enough time laid out flat, whether from wounds or from overspending his powers, to make full provision for that in them too much. Alive or dead, he'd annoy them further. Any enemy who a.s.sumed the Borders defenses depended on him or on any one man would be deservedly sorry. He was ten years older than Vladimer and had spent enough time laid out flat, whether from wounds or from overspending his powers, to make full provision for that in his his plans. plans.

The person they hadn't known to take down was Telmaine Hearne, gracious lady and mage of precocious and surprising facility.

The moment they knew they had to, she was going to be in mortal danger.

she said in his mind. He had no idea when she'd started listening to his thoughts again. Her emotions told him that there was no purpose to argument, whether concerning the risk to herself or the cost to others if she were hurt or captured or even killed. And the sooner she had her daughter, the sooner he could persuade her to go to Vladimer.

Ish said. The lady was not flattered by the a.s.sociation. He'd have to get control of his thoughts. Couldn't risk distracting her, or spilling something he didn't want spilled, or she didn't need spilled on her. Their thoughts came together so easily, so fluidly, it was the not-doing that was difficult, not the doing. He'd never worked with so congenial a mage.

he said, in response to her sense of pique. She visualized her dress for him. He feared that, plain as it was, its quality would be immediately apparent to the habitues of the docks, who had a sense as fine as gold measures for the coin worth of anything. She did, readily for the earrings, more reluctantly for the pendant around her neck, an intricate love knot in silver. She held it in her hand, thinking of the young student who had given it to her, and how he had paid for it. Hearne was evidently an accomplished card-sharp. Sweet Imogene, Ishmael thought, if he could only be going with her. Even her husband would be better than having her do this alone.

she said, sensing his dithering. He tried to avoid thinking in detail of the habits of the residents, except to say, From Balthasar, she knew such unhappy people existed, and how they might behave as their craving induced them to ever more desperate attempts to avert withdrawal.

Ish said. he said forcefully. The coach drew into the Upper Docks Circle, as far into the docks as any coach from the center of town was willing to go, and the coachman fulfilled his social duty by descending to open the door. Slipping into her intended role, she offered him a hand that trembled slightly and let him steady her down. "Wait here, please."

She fumbled out the money, gave him three coins, and clenched the others tightly, swallowing as though in the grip of anxiety or nausea. What she felt was neither, only a sense of profound unreality, as though she moved through a story she could not even imagine wanting to read.

she said sternly. he advised her. He knew the Upper Docks well, and the Lower Docks better than he cared to. Here, in the Upper Docks, which thumped with industry, the danger was more the danger of meeting with an accident rather than mischief. There were sidewalks along the wide boulevard, clear of the main tram tracks that grooved the paved road and made walking treacherous, but every side road and every major warehouse and dock had its own side branch of the tracks, to allow the trams to move in and out. Most were still drawn by draft horses, but some were pulled by the internal combustion engine, which added its own unique contribution to the cacophony. On the docks, onloading and off-loading proceeded from the barest interval past sunset to the barest interval before sunrise-there'd been recent worker agitation against owners working them through the sunrise bell, ended by an archducal edict that no one was to be denied immediate shelter. From the waterside, she could hear the grinding of pulleys, the bellowing of foremen, the crash of cargo roughly handled. Packing, sorting, and loading were carried out by the day shift within the light-sealed warehouses on either side of the boulevard, loading the trams for transfer to the huge covered station. Already there were four tracks engineered for day trains, with two more under construction.

she asked, bewildered.

Her mental voice was still as fresh now as when they had established the connection, though she alone was sustaining it. They could risk a little conversation that had nothing to do with her errand. Indeed, the Shadowborn had ravaged the waters around the Scallon Isles until the ma.s.sed fleet of the islanders hunted them down. Past invasions by sea had suffered badly at the hands, cutla.s.ses, pistols, and cannon of those ships. Ferdenzil Mycene seemed well aware of that; his buildup of men was gradual and inexorable.

Telmaine said, stepping sideways to evade a cadre of briskly moving factory women being quick-marched between sites by a loud-voiced supervisor.

The supervisor accosted her. "Where's you supposed to be, then?"

Ish quickly prompted her; she repeated it. The woman, hearing the distinctive upper-cla.s.s accent, said, "It's over there," in a tone that was marginally less abrasive, but much more curious. Telmaine thanked her civilly, and continued on.

Ish said.

She recalled the encounter for him; in his cell, he shifted a hand to hide a grin at her irreverent reflections about statues. Telmaine said. He felt her push down a thought, bound up with loathing and protectiveness: the loathing toward Lysander Hearne, the protectiveness toward her husband.

Ish noted, tactfully, of the nearest warehouse. Those ranged from sunset raids that involved dozens waiting through the day in shelter, to audacious burglaries of the houses of the then-richest in the land-some attributed to the sixteen- and seventeen-year-old Vladimer himself-to months and years of careful a.n.a.lysis of the movement of goods and moneys to discriminate legitimate trade from graft, blackmail, and peculation. The trials that had ensued had occupied the tabloids for months, and the courts for years. They had sent dozens to prison and a handful to the shackle posts, and driven several more to choose suicide over disgrace. The consequences had shaken the foundations of three aristocratic dynasties, and ruined several large merchant houses. But the operation had secured the city's economic health, and established the career and reputation of the archduke's young half brother.

He carefully did not think of the human debris that the flushing of the ca.n.a.l also removed. That foul stench was likely to include one or more rotting corpses; for all that the great criminal dynasties had been vanquished, their lesser offshoots remained.

Cut your throat Cut your throat, was the thought he kept from her. Florilinde's there. If she's not, promise me you'll leave, go t'your brother-in-law, and get him to organize a search of those warehouses. If they have moved her-What is it?> He had felt her suddenly halt, but even as he asked the question, he had the answer in that flush of chill and terror he felt sweeping over her, the unmistakable sense of Shadowborn magic emanating from the warehouse ahead.

And Telmaine pulled up her skirts and ran. He started- The faint sense of a reply came back that she must must move now, or stop, rooted, until they came to hunt her down. move now, or stop, rooted, until they came to hunt her down.

Ish twisted on his back on the prison bunk, gripping the side rails in anguish. He reached for her-surely it would be easier now that they had spent so long in rapport-but the pain of the futile exertion was like a sheet of fire through his skull. Oh, sweet Imogene, this could not be happening again.