Liar's Moon (7 page)

Behind me, Wet Onions had awakened again. “Lift your skirts up a little more, girl. I can’t see much from here.”

I was tempted to give him a taste of what I kept under those skirts — a three-inch steel blade that I was getting pretty good at throwing — but I just gave
him a tart look as I passed by. “Watch your fingers,” I said. “Someone might come by and bite them off.”

He gave a cackling laugh, but it was Durrel’s small chuckle I heard, all the way down the stairs and across the bridge.

As I walked away from the Keep, a pall seemed to fall over the afternoon. I wasn’t making much progress. The only real lead I had was the magical residue I’d found at Bal Marse, plus the name of a maid I may or may not be able to track down, and I had to admit that neither of those might amount to anything in the end.

One problem was that merely
seeing
magic wasn’t
terribly useful. I couldn’t determine anything about the trace of power I’d discovered — how old it was, how it got there, where it came from, or how to track it back to its source. The presence of magic at Bal Marse intrigued me, but without more information, it was just another tantalizing mystery. Durrel needed
answers.

I stopped at the storehouse adjacent to the bakery, squeezed into
a nook out of view from the street, and pulled myself up onto the low roof. There was a loose tile near one of the chimneys, a good little spot to stash things. I pried the hot tile aside with my fingernails, leaving a line of red dust beneath it. Inside I kept the few small treasures of my life: a pair of black leather gloves; a silver bracelet; a single gold sovereign I could never bring myself
to spend; and a tiny, fragile book hardly bigger than my small hand. I slipped the little book into my bodice, where it felt warm against my breastbone, and I carried it back inside, climbing gracelessly over Rat, asleep in the bed beneath the open window.

“Uf! Gerroffme —” I dodged flailing limbs and bedclothes to land neatly on the shabby rug. Rat propped himself up on his elbows to glare
at me. “I am
not
taking that to the laundry this time.”

I bit my thumb at him, then peeled off the stained sleeve and flung it at his head.

“Cabbage,” he said judiciously, pulling it away from his face. “Nice.”

As Rat wrangled himself into something akin to respectability, I perched on the cheese barrel in the kitchen and pulled the little book from my bodice. It was warmer than
ever now, and the worn velvet of the cover flickered briefly when I stroked the plush fibers. It contained a somewhat fanciful history of magic in Llyvraneth, from the days long before Sar’s power had faded from our land — myths, songs, drawings, and legends set down by various authors through the years. I had been given this book by the only person I knew who could truly be called a mage, Master
Tnor Reynart, one of the Sarists — in the truest sense of the word, followers of Sar — I had encountered at Bryn Shaer. When I met him, he had been Meri Nemair’s secret tutor in magic, and the leader of a band of refugees camping in the Carskadon Mountains, but now he was the commander of Prince Wierolf’s magical army, a small company of magic users made up primarily of those selfsame refugees,
now better dressed and fed and legitimized. I had seen a taste of what Reynart’s troops could do in battle, with Meri’s powerful magical support to fuel them, and it was awe inspiring. But they were only a handful, and they weren’t nearly as powerful or well trained as the rumors claimed, and the Sarist forces were far outnumbered, even with allies from Corlesanne and Varenzia fighting alongside
them.

With a sigh, I flipped through the pages of the little magic book, seeing if it said anything to explain the stains and scratches on the Bal Marse floor. It would be helpful to have someone like Reynart here now, but as far as I knew, there
weren’t
any other people like Master Reynart — or if there were, somehow, knowledgeable magic users hiding in Gerse, I certainly didn’t know how
to find them.

I had tried when I first got back to town, armed with Reynart’s book. I had studied its pages — the ones in languages I could read — thirsty for the knowledge within, veiled lessons well hidden in stories and verse, and hopeful that it could tell me something about myself, about those like me and how to find them.
Magic settles in the low places
, the chorus of a song had told
me, and so I had sought out sewers and river basins and basements in abandoned homes, never coming any closer than one crude, seven-pointed star scratched into a lintel. The charm was so old and worn, my touch could barely coax its magical light from the wood, and when I tried, it left me feeling cold and sick, my skin prickling uncomfortably at the idea of hunting down Sarists. Gerse already
had
people to do that, equipped with green uniforms, nightsticks, lodestones, and scalding silver irons to force magic to show itself. Whether it was the thought of leading the Inquisition straight to a magic user’s doorstep or the fear of coming too close to my brother’s work that stopped me, it amounted to the same thing. I wouldn’t do it.

“What’s that?” Rat said, sitting across from me
at the table. He had dressed and shaved, and set about slicing an apple into wedges, half of which he piled before me.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, pushing them aside. Someone had let the orange cat in, and it hopped onto the table beside me, stalking my apple with its slow, amber gaze.

“You’re
always
hungry. Still trying to figure out your Bal Marse mystery?”

I snapped the book shut.
Rat was good about the whole magic issue, and I’d mentioned my curious discovery at Talth’s house — but this was one area where I didn’t push the boundaries of trust. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt either one of us.

“Fair enough,” he said equably. “I’ve solved your other one.”

I looked at him blankly. He’d solved . . . the murder?

“Your anonymous letter?” He whipped it from his
doublet. “It was sent by —”

“Raffin Taradyce,” I said, feeling only a little bad for interrupting.

“Well, you certainly know how to spoil a surprise. Still, it wasn’t wholly a waste of time. You may thank the grocer’s next to the stationer for your breakfast, mistress. Since you’re unlikely to thank me.”

I met his gaze solemnly. “Thank you. May Mend-kaal of the hearth praise your
everlasting generosity.”

“See? Was that so —”

“I need a favor.”

“What a surprise.” Rat plucked the cat from the table and settled it in his lap, waiting.

“I need to see Lord Decath,” I said. “Can you arrange that?”

“You mean, can
Hobin
arrange that? Why don’t you just go visit Decath? I thought he knew you.”

“I tried. I couldn’t get in to see him at home, and I don’t
know where else to find him. But it needs to be discreet.”

“Digger, love, you do realize
discreet
and Lord Hobin don’t belong in the same sentence, right? I’m sure he’ll do it. But you won’t like it.”

“What does that mean?”

Rat grinned evilly across the green rind of his apple. “He wants you to come for dinner.”

Lord Hobin’s
teriza
sat just a few piers down from the house where I’d met the Ceid family. Rat took me there by boat the next evening, just as the moons were rising over the water and the heat from the day was starting to lift. Together, we looked the part for dinner with nobs. Rat wore his powder blue suit, and I wore a heavy gown of coppery red satin that Rat had produced out of thin
air, perfectly tailored to my small frame.

“And you’re sure Decath will be there,” I pressed for the thousandth time.

“Stop fidgeting.” Rat leaned over the edge of the boat to trail his fingers in the water. “This is Celyn Contrare’s debut into Gerse society. Try not to ruin it for her.”

Lord Hobin was an official in the Ministry of War, not a high-ranking noble but comfortable
enough. As if anyone could really be comfortable in that position in this climate, with word spreading of border skirmishes and pitched battles that drew closer to Gerse by the day. If Wierolf really was gaining ground, as some of the more optimistic rumors claimed, Hobin’s job, and along with it his favor at court, had to be in jeopardy. As we neared the
teriza
, I took in the ivory brick façade,
the green banners listless in the airless evening, the guests already gathering on the terrace, and told myself I’d survived worse.
This is for Durrel.

When we mounted the travertine steps to Hobin’s back terrace, a dozen pairs of eyes swung my way, curious, measuring, predatory. Nobody actually whispered anything, but they might as well have. Their thoughts were as loud as any gossip:
There goes the Inquisitor’s sister. Oh, is
she
the one? Funny, not much to look at, is she? I can’t decide — does she look like a Sarist?

“You must be Digger,” said a robust voice behind me. “Halcot talks about you endlessly.”

I turned to see a trim man in his fourth age, graying at the temples and softening at the waist, but still handsome. “Lord Hobin,” I said. “Thank you for your
hospitality.” I gave him my very best curtsy, learned backstage at tavern theaters and perfected at the court of Bryn Shaer.

“Think nothing of it,” he said. “I’ve been dying to meet you, but Halcot said you’d never come. I must say, you’re not nearly so shocking as he described you.”

I had to laugh at that. “Oh, wait. It’s early. I’m sure there’s still plenty of time for me to disrupt
your evening.”

“Digger,” he said confidentially, hooking his arm through mine and leading me across the terrace, “look around you. You would have to make a very concerted effort to overset this society. Oh, look, here’s Koya. Do you know Davinna Koyuz?”

The same Mistress Koyuz was at that moment springing lightly up the terrace steps, trailing yards of pearl gray beaded silk behind her.
Her color was high, and she waved at Hobin.

“Koya! My treasure.” Hobin bowed low and kissed Koya’s outstretched hand. “I was so hoping we’d see your husband this evening.”

“Don’t be silly, you know he and Claas never go anywhere.” She rose from her curtsy and gave him a glittering smile. “They’d love it if you visited them, though.”

“Here, darling, why don’t you take Celyn,” Hobin
said with careful emphasis on the name. “I think she’d feel more comfortable with you. You’re the only person here more notorious than she is.” With a completely wicked smile, he kissed us each and strolled off into the tangle of his guests.

As Koya dragged me about, introducing me to people as if she and I were lifelong friends, I realized that Hobin was right. My presence here tonight no
doubt deflected attention from her mother’s murder and her relationship with Durrel. I saw Lord Ragn across the court and tried to move in his direction, but Koya was steering me toward the banquet table.

“Rat looks good,” she said, giving the neckline of her bodice a tug. I didn’t blame her; it was getting warm in here.

“You know Rat?”

“Everyone knows Rat,” Koya replied. “His parents
are wealthy, you know. Growing up, whenever the Granthin and the Ceid gathered, the children got thrown together by default. He’s a nice boy.” She sounded almost sad when she said that.

Suspicious, I probed gently. “And Hobin?”

“Hobin’s Hobin,” she said inconclusively, ending the conversation with a smile. “And look, here’s our dinner. He’ll want you to sit with him.”

Hobin’s food
was good — rich, expensive, much of it imported or heavily taxed, tiny slices of some pink citrus fruit from Talanca, the sweet, blue mussels harvested from the Oss at low tide (I’d heard about them all my life but never eaten them before; after my first bite I decided I’d never eat anything
else
), goblets of sparkling Grisel from Corlesanne. “The last in the city, my good gentles, so drink up
and enjoy it!” Corles wine had been banned a few months earlier, when that nation openly pledged its support for the Sarists.

Conversation swung easily from topic to topic, but only skirted the surface of any but the lightest of subjects. No one mentioned the war, the succession, the Inquisition, or the Green Army spreading through our streets like a summer plague. It was exactly what I would
have expected from a dinner party held by someone Rat was involved with. But by the time they served us a frothy confection of strawberries and some kind of flaming sauce (fire! And dessert!), talk shifted to more serious matters.

“What do your sources tell of the war, milord?” a plump woman in pink asked Hobin.

“What do yours say?” he replied, to general laughter.

“Only that the
front will reach Gerse by the end of the summer,” she said. “Do you think that’s true?”

“Nonsense. There hasn’t been fighting in the city in a hundred years,” one of the male guests said. “Even the last uprising never came near our gates.”

“This is more than an uprising,” someone said. It was not until I felt everyone’s eyes on me that I realized it was
me.

“Mistress Celyn has it
right, as she must surely know,” Lord Ragn said. “We must be careful not to discount Prince Wierolf’s army as a band of disgruntled rebels. With support from Corlesanne and Varenzia, and more
popular
support than anyone wants to admit, they won’t be as easy to defeat this time.”

“Spoken like a true Sarist,” said the lady in pink.

“Not I,” Lord Ragn said.

“Then you’re for Astilan,”
said the young man beside me, but Lord Ragn only smiled.

“And why
haven’t
you made your allegiance plain, milord?” Lord Hobin said.