Livion stops at his door to collect the breath he spent running from South. As he reaches for the latch, Trist’s friend Asper opens the door.
She’s dressed as usual in a white silk tokar and turban, from which descends a cloud of white veil. Her partner, Gaster, was killed by the plague before the Comber returned to Hanosh, and her outfit, worn decades after mourning ceased to be fashionable, has earned her the sobriquet the White Widow. Her inheritance made her extremely wealthy, which Livion considers some recompense. She’s lately befriended Trist. Her relationship with Chelson is cool, given her attempts to make her silent shares in the Shield more vocal, and the scuttlebutt is that she hopes to influence him through his daughter. Livion’s more concerned with her influence over Trist, who spends more time at her house than theirs.
“You’re here early,” Livion says.
“I spent the night,” Asper says, stepping outside. “I can’t approve of what you did at Council,” she says, “but I do think Tabs feels more betrayed than she should. Why did you—”
A whistle’s shriek from above cuts her off.
“Because it’s true, whatever you heard,” Livion says, “and possibly worse.” He looks up. “She’s on the sundeck?”
“Yes. Herse says—”
“I have to see her,” Livion says and slips inside. He flips the door closed. The whistle echoes through the house.
A pergola keeps the sundeck cool with a drapery of grape vines and paper flowers. Tristaban stands at the railing with his whistle.
“That girl didn’t show up this morning,” she says. “And she won’t come now.” The whistle shrieks again.
Livion feels a pang that her fury at the girl has distracted her from being furious at him. “She’s not coming,” he says. “She’s dead.” He sits on a bench. “I saw her body. Several bodies. At South. It was horrible.”
“How?” She actually sounds upset, not inconvenienced. “Why did you . . .”
“The Guard wanted to know what I thought.”
“You?” And she’s back, the daughter of a shipowner who married a lackey. “Ject is not a friend, Livion.”
“I’m not sure anyone is at this point,” he says. “And I’m worried about your safety.”
Tristaban looks incredulous.
“The girl’s wasn’t the only body I saw. I saw my informant’s too.” He makes room on the bench.
She doesn’t leave the railing. “The one who fed you that dragon nonsense?” Tristaban says. “I guess his lies caught up with him. You can’t be the only one he sold them to. Father says Herse is furious. And Herse is our friend.”
“There was another maid too,” Livion says. “I saw her wounds. I saw theirs. I’ve seen them before. It was a dragon, a small one, like the one that attacked Solet.”
“How convenient,” she says. “Herse is right. You and dragons. You had your moment. Now you want more.”
“I don’t want anything,” he says, “except for you to be safe.” He gets up. “The maids were found nearby. One was ours. Something is hunting around here. And it’s getting closer and closer to you. Ject is organizing a search.”
“During which I’m sure he’ll go lane by lane, house by house, to say Ayden didn’t attack our ships, it was this dragon.” She pokes her finger at him the way her father did. “He’s using you.”
“I don’t care,” he says. “So’s your father.”
“That’s why he pays you!” she says. “You’re not Hanosh’s hero. You’re his.”
“I saw what I saw,” he says. He stands in front of her by the railing. “Look,” he says, “I’m scared. Maybe I didn’t see what I saw. But I know what could happen if there is a dragon here.” He reaches for her wrist, which doesn’t move an inch. “Do me a favor: Stay home today.”
He does look worried, the way he did when they snuck around behind her father’s back. She remembers finding that endearing.
“I have appointments,” she says. “Business. Do you know how that will look?”
“Like you trust me,” Livion says, “the way I trusted you so your father wouldn’t catch us.”
“I can’t just think about you,” she said. “I have to think about him. And the Shield. And the future. And so do you. It’s what you chose when you chose me.”
“Think about them inside today,” he says. “I wouldn’t even stay on this deck.” He would say “please,” but she would consider that absurd.
Tristaban looks through the pergola. “What happened to the girl?”
“She had her throat torn open. The other maid was scooped out like an avocado.”
Her wrist shifts against his hand. “I’ll rearrange some things,” she says. “I’m tired anyway. I didn’t sleep.”
He kisses her knuckles.
“You’re going out.”
“To help the search,” Livion says.
“When will you be home?” she says.
“Dusk. Maybe later.”