I lay there and listened to the surrounding sounds: the drip, drip, drip of water and the distant cries of seagulls. Nothing sounded like people or the heavy breathing of a large dragon, so I sat up and looked around the cave.
A few pieces of incongruous furniture decorated the place: the reed mat I had been lying on; a large chest; a table, two chairs. Small lanterns fixed high into the walls provided light. The cave was large, though not large enough to fit the dragon I had seen. The glossy, smooth black stone walls looked like they had melted and solidified many times in rapid succession.
The air was warm and humid against my unclothed skin: the rough Black Brotherhood robe was gone. I panicked for a moment, reached up for the Stone of Shackles, and sighed in relief as I realized it was still there.
I searched through the chest and found a pair of loose-fitting trousers (I’ll give you one guess what color), a set of sandals woven from reeds, and a small silver hairbrush and clasp. There was nothing to wear for a shirt, but the kef and sandals fit well enough. I spent several minutes forcing the brush through the mess of my hair before pulling it away from my face with the clasp.
The cave ended in folds of ropy, coiled rock, which let in a bit of light. I walked to the edge, and even with my love of heights I felt a moment’s dizziness.
The cave opened out onto the side of a cliff, near the top. The opening was so high I could see above the treetops of the jungle stretched out below me. A thin fog obscured the foliage below, thickening into a wall of white in the distance: the mists of the Desolation. The calls of birds and monkeys, and other sounds I couldn’t pretend to identify, echoed in the distance. There was no sign of anyone: human, vané, or otherwise.
I leaned out. A net of interwoven vines grew up the sides of the cliff. The vines spidered, leading not only to this cave, but to hundreds of others. Narrow ramps woven from wood planks and dried vines formed awkward stairs and walkways tracing the route from heights to ground. This cave possessed no such advantage, but if their intention had been to trap me, they’d miscalculated. Many of the vines looked sturdy, and as good as any ladder to a thief such as myself. There was nothing to keep me from escaping.
Except the gaesh.
Except … I stopped. Could I escape? They must have boats, or Teraeth wouldn’t have needed to memorize the safe route through the rocks. Taja had said they would bring another. I could sneak down to whatever harbor they used, steal on board a ship …
I waited for the pain of the gaesh to overtake me.
Nothing.
Khaemezra’s words echoed, almost an audible whisper: I’ve removed the previous prohibitions.
Then Taja’s words: You can walk away. If you want.
I bit my lip to keep from jumping up and down and whooping out loud.
I climbed down the cliff. When I reached the bottom, the jungle seemed claustrophobic. Thick fog blocked most of my vision. I wasn’t blind, however: I saw a path formed by the passage of many feet, a smoothed line of rock snaking around the base of the cliff, where it faded into the mist. There was no one around, and no sounds but those the jungle gave me.
I was on an island. The jungle was no shelter for a city dweller like myself. Whoever had me captive, Black Brotherhood or black dragon, was obviously aware of this, which was why they’d made no effort to put me under any kind of guard. The clothes and furniture made me think the Black Brotherhood still had me. Good enough. Once I had the lay of the land, I would organize my escape.
Whistling a tune, I headed down the path.
22: A GOLDEN HAWK
(Talon’s story)
Morea stumbled out of bed as Kihrin ran through the door. He carried a large triangular package slung over his shoulder as he panted, out of breath.
“Are you hurt?” Morea rushed to him. “Ola didn’t see you, did she?”
Kihrin lowered the package to the ground. “Morea, I need you to hide this.”
“What’s going on? What happened?” She grabbed for her agolé to cover herself, but he paid no attention to her nudity.
“I have to go. I don’t have time to explain.”
“What—” She reached for him, realized her mistake, and instead placed a hand on the cloth-wrapped triangle. “The harp? You met with the General?”
Kihrin shook his head. “Yes, I mean, no. He was there. Your nobleman was there.”
“MY nobleman? But I—”
“The one with blue eyes. Darzin D’Mon. I saw him.” A desperate look haunted Kihrin’s eyes. “He saw me. Shit. He saw me. He must have sent the demon. I know he sent the demon to attack me, but why did he seem so surprised to find out it had? Was he acting? They were looking for something—” He rubbed the sides of his temples.
She gasped. “Wait—Darzin is the one who sent the demon? Oh no!”
“I want you to find my father and Ola and get them out of here. We need to leave the City. We need to leave tonight. Surdyeh should be upstairs. Find him.”
“What do I tell them?”
“You tell Ola I saw a golden hawk. Understand? It’s a code phrase that means—” Kihrin stopped midsentence.
“That means what?”
Kihrin ignored her. He looked like he had been stabbed.
“Kihrin, what does it mean?” Morea asked again.
He blinked and looked at her. “It means we’re in danger. Danger so bad we have to go into hiding.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Isn’t that odd? That Ola would use that as a code phrase? Do you realize that the symbol of House D’Mon is a golden hawk?”
He closed his eyes.
“Ola, how could you?” he muttered. “Somebody set me up. Whoever fed Butterbelly the Kazivar House job must have known … Taja, what are you getting me into?”
Morea bit her lip. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to find out if we still have time to cover our tracks.”
Kihrin ran out the door.
* * *
Butterbelly’s shop was too quiet.
Kihrin eased himself through the back-alley entrance, fighting down bile. Butterbelly’s door hadn’t been locked, but that wasn’t so unusual. Who did a Shadowdancer fence have to fear? No one in the Lower Circle would be so stupid as to attack someone in the ’dancers.
The nobles might not play by those rules though. Kihrin was damn sure Pretty Boy and Dead Man wouldn’t.
He pulled out his daggers as he crept through the cluttered room. A few steps inside, he caught the metallic scent of blood. The kill was too fresh to have decayed yet in the warm night air. The young thief ground his teeth. He continued forward, although Kihrin dreaded what he would find.
Too late.
Butterbelly’s killer had left his body sprawled across the wooden table he used for business transactions. Flies hovered over the bloody corpse. A dozen wounds from daggers covered the body; slow, painful slashes across his throat, down his stomach. A few lacerations covered his arms from trying to fight off his attacker, but it must have been over quickly. The killer had left the murder weapons behind: twin daggers buried to their hilts in Butterbelly’s chest.
Butterbelly’s crossbow still rested in its cradle under the table.
It was never used.