Montaigne didn’t care about process—he valued results, and so far Destin had nothing to show. If he was ever to get out of Delphi, he had to work smarter. He knew he’d been going about his mission in a haphazard manner, but he couldn’t think of a way to put a method in it. He’d called in a whole series of Delphians: miners and shopkeepers, smelters and serving girls and government officials. He’d questioned them all.
Destin was a gifted interrogator, a valuable resource at Montaigne’s disposal. That made torture unnecessary for the most part, unless he was dealing with other mages, who could resist his mind magic. People talked to Destin, and they told the truth. And then he wiped their minds, and they didn’t remember what he had asked, or what they had revealed. That singular talent had been the key to his rapid rise in the clandestine service.
Yet, so far, his talent for interrogation had turned up nothing of value in Delphi save the odd black marketeer or other small-time schemer. If the rune-marked girl was known, it was only to a few. No one could recall a family named Bandelow, and no one seemed to know anything about a girl with a birthmark on her neck.
It didn’t help that it was the custom in Delphi for women to wear their hair long, and most wore heavy black scarves to keep the coal dust out while they worked in the mines or walked the streets. That made any casual survey impossible. Why couldn’t this girl have a magemark on her nose?
Sleet rattled against the tin roof of the building. Destin had just finished his fourth ale, and soon he would have to go out into the storm again.
“It could be worse,” Clermont said, scratching his crotch. “You could be in the Fells, fighting monsters and demons. They say a man might as well fall on his sword as march into those cursed mountains.” He snorted. “The stripers are just as terrified as the recruits. ’Course stripers couldn’t find their manhood with both hands in their breeches and a map. Those black-robed crows of Malthus can prattle on about martyrdom and Paradise all they want. I’m not signing on.”
Destin shrugged, the safest response. He couldn’t decide which was worse: listening to Clermont or going out to the freezing privy. Difficult choice.
“The devil of it is, the Fells is ruled by a woman! They say she wears armor and plays soldier. The northerners spend their days picking wildflowers and dreaming and their nights fornicating under the stars. They’re just a bunch of pretenders and mystics.”
“So why aren’t we in Fellsmarch by now?” Destin said bluntly, thinking dreaming and fornicating sounded a hell of a lot more appealing than where he was now. “We’ve got to stop believing our own propaganda and take the witch queen seriously.”
“Cheer up,” Clermont said. “This girl you’re looking for probably died years ago. If she was ever here.”
“Keep your voice down,” Destin hissed, looking around to make sure no one had overheard. The more Clermont drank, the louder he talked.
Still, he had a point. Children died in droves in Delphi.
“I don’t know why it’s such a secret,” Clermont said. “All you do is, you post up notices all over town, demanding her surrender. Then execute the vermin, one a day, until she turns up. Or we run out of vermin. Either way, we win.”
Destin became aware that someone was standing silently before him. One of the servers had finally dared approach, but could not bring herself to interrupt.
“Yes, what is it?” he snapped. And then, when he really looked at her, he realized she was young, with silken blond hair and frightened blue eyes. He’d never seen her before, so she must be new.
“I wondered if you all would be wanting more ale,” she said nervously, in the soft cadence of the borderlands. “Or perhaps some supper, now or later on?” She set their empty tankards on the tray she carried.
Destin smiled at her, trying to reassure her. “I’ve had enough ale,” he said. He turned toward Clermont in time to see him push to his feet, grasp a handful of the server’s hair, and force her to her knees. The tankards slid off the tray and onto the wooden floor as the tray went vertical.
“Here’s an idea, Lieutenant,” Clermont said. Still holding on to her scalp, he drew his knife with his other hand. The girl saw the blade and let out a little cry of fright. She closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer.
Destin half-rose from his chair. “Clermont! Have you lost your bloody mind?”
Clermont wrapped the hair around his hand, the knife swept across, and then he opened his fist and allowed the golden hair to slide to the floor. Two more quick cuts, and she was left with a ragged helmet of hair, like some knight’s unkempt page. He shoved her head forward, almost to the floor, so he could examine her neck. Nothing there. “Guess she an’t the one,” he said, shrugging. “Oh well.” He sat down again, resheathing his blade.