Page 118 of A Trade of Blood

I sipped my clariphage and felt my fingers grip my sword.

She had said it would work. So it would work.

Then there: the lamp in the Empress Forgotten flashed once. I turned to it, all my attention fixated on that pale sphere of luminescence suspended in the shadows.

I waited. I waited for what felt like ages, my pulse pounding behind my eyes, the clariphage dancing in my blood.

Then, finally, it flashed once more—but just the once.

I let out a breath. False alarm, then. Someone suspicious had been spied walking that way, apparently, but it was not our killer.

I sighed, exhausted by the tension. What a fatiguing thing stress could be: a handful of tense seconds stole hours of energy from you. I slumped on my stool, sipped more clariphage, and blinked my dry eyes.

More time passed. Minutes, perhaps an hour.

Then the lamp in the Tottering Hand flashed once.

I blinked, surprised, and turned to it, watching it carefully, unwilling to blink even once more.

I swallowed, leaning forward on my stool.

Then it flashed two more times.

“He’s here,” I said softly. “By hell, he’s come.”

I slowly eased off my stool. I took a step back but did not leave my chambers. I needed to see three flashes before we were to spring our trap.

I waited, shifting my weight between my feet, trying to bring warmth and blood back to my stiffened joints. Combat seemed unlikely, given the sheer number of officers who would be converging on the target, but Ana’s warning rang in my ears:People do all manner of dumb shit when cornered.

The lamp flashed three times.

I flew to the door, flung it open, and leapt down the stairs.

The street was all chaos and confusion when I burst out the doors of the Green Drover. Every lane was suddenly swarming with custodi officers, all bearing lamps and crying, “Halt, halt!” or “Do you have him? Where is he?” I nearly gave in to the impulse to do the same, hurtling about screaming for the night to give me answers, yet I could see that there were so many custodi present that escape would have been impossible.

Then a shout from the corner: “We have him! We have him here!”

I shot forward, my sword bobbing in its scabbard at my side. Agroup of custodi were holding a man there in the street before the Tottering Hand. His head was bowed so I could not see his face, but I recognized the instrument that lay in the mud before him all too well: so much like Ana’s shawm, yet more complex, with far more fluting than a common instrument.

“What was he doing?” I asked quickly.

“Walking up the lane there, sir,” said one of the custodi restraining him. She nodded toward the lane beyond. “Approaching with that thing in his hands. That’s a cat pipe if ever I saw one.”

I reached forward and gently pushed the fellow’s head back. The face of a young Tala man stared up at me, narrow and handsome, with almond eyes and a thick crop of black hair. His eyes were hazy, as if he suffered some affliction, and his cheeks and mouth were slack. Something about this put a thread of fear into my heart.

I took a breath and consulted my memories: every face I’d seen, every person I’d glimpsed—not just here, but ever, in all my life.

“I do not know this boy,” I said.

Seriv pushed through to the front of the group. “No, sir? You’ve never seen him?”

“No. Never.”

Seriv studied the boy as well. “Nor I. He could be anyone.” He snapped his fingers before the young man’s eyes. “Well? What have you to say for yourself?”

The boy was silent, but he continued struggling, attempting to stand and walk.

“He will not speak,” mused Seriv. “Does that mean guilt?”