Not that Kama was any sort of man at all.
Having crossed the street, Crit looked back once because he’d heard Vis’s voice-not words, just a tone. And saw a wave of farewell so elo- quently hostile and so gloating that he almost shot the mere there and then.
But Kama read his mind and touched his arm. “They’re Ischade’s.
They’ll wait. They’ll run back with word if we don’t come out. We need that.”
“Crap,” Crit said.
“Agreed,” Kama said with a ghost of her father’s smile.
Then they climbed the steps and Crit put his back against the stone, crossbow ready, attempting to cover every avenue of attack while Kama tried key after key and cursed like a Nisibisi freeman.
Finally she said, “No luck. Nothing works.” And slumped against the doorjamb.
They looked at each other too long, and Crit had to look away. It was in that silence that they heard something move inside, behind the stout wood of the door.
Then they looked at each other again,
“Want to knock?” Kama said lightly.
“I don’t think so,” Crit replied in the same tone. “We could start digging at the wood with-“
“Wait,” said Kama, simultaneously digging in her belt. “This, maybe.”
She held out a piece of bronze about half the length of her hand and shaped like a knobbed bar or rod.
“Never fit,” he said critically, still holding his crossbow at the ready, still glancing from shadow to shadow down the quiet street. Still watch- ing Vis and Mor-am as best he could.
“Might not have to. It washed up on the beach. I heard about it from some of my … people. Turned a gold coin to lead, and copper to clay, in the finder’s purse.”