There had been some kind of fracas involving a goldsmith and a lot of crowd in that area. Crit had been there. Had found the woman Moria in the middle of it and she was in custody, along with the jeweler and a lump of gold. That, Strat reckoned, had nothing to do with it. Crit had ridden out of there, the guard swore to that, ridden out of there and down the street and vanished somewhere within that district, to judge by where they had first reported the loose horse.
He began to build a scenario in his mind-the crowds, the likelihood of cutpurses and pickpockets, and Crit maybe spotting something-
-running into trouble and ending up just a corpse someone had to get rid of, down some sewer, into some basement, under some rubbish heap: gods, Crit, to end like that, in some damned alley, in a damned police action, in something that was not his job. because Crit, being Crit, tended to be all over what he was managing-
-or maybe Crit had seen someone; or someone had seen him, who had a grudge. Gods knew there were people with grudges. He had a vision of blood in the streets again, some new set of crazies with an agenda, murdering any symbol of Authority they could get their sights on. Sanctuary had seen blood and blood and blood, and it had been quiet a while, but the same damned lunatics were still in town, those some other lunatic had not killed.
He felt sick at his stomach, that was what he felt, sick and helpless and scared, because he had shot his mouth off with Crit and done everything wrong he could do-
-he had been stinking drunk this morning when Crit had been riding the streets alone, because he had no partner he could rely on any more. And he hated himself. He despised himself. He could not figure out how he had become what he had become. As good as if he had run and left his partner to face his killers alone. That was what he had done. And if men shied off from him this morning and if he could not meet their eyes, there was reason for it.
Oh damn, he wanted his hands on someone.
He wanted Crit alive, he wanted Crit to come walking in that gate all right and madder than hell; and he would listen to everything Crit had to say and swear that it was right, and go back to him and make it right if Crit would have him, that was what he would do. Crit needed him, needed him in the worst way; and Ischade had thrown him out and battered his pride for the last time, he swore she had. It was over. Finished. He had no more intention to go crawling to her a second time.
Gods, if he’d come walking in here-lost his horse, that’s all; we’d give him a hard time, he’d curse us to hell, I’d stand there and maybe he’d know without my saying a thing, know what hell I’ve been through-we could talk, then. Let him swear me to hell and gone, no matter, get him talking and maybe I could talk to him, the way we used to-way we used to be-
A man came up on him, a guard sergeant, to report they had a man in hand, from the gate-“-asking after the woman, the one they arrested, says he can prove whose the gold is-”
He had told them he wanted to know everything about everyone involved. He had sent a man he trusted to ask Moria if there was anything she could tell him, though he doubted it. This man was at hand.
Was Stilcho. He saw Ischade’s former lover, conspicuous in his shabby cloak and in the black patch which covered his missing eye. City guards hastened him along with a firm grip on his arms; and Strat’s mind raced wildly, trying to make connections with facts which did not, no matter how he pushed and pulled them, fit any pattern he could understand.
And damn it all, Ischade and her household were not what he wanted to deal with now.
Except Stilcho was no longer Ischade’s. Nor was Moria. And somehow, for some terrible reason, they were here, under this wan gray sky, with Crit missing, himself and Stilcho who had met often enough in Ischade’s house; and Moria under arrest: that was at least some vestige of connection in events, but it was on the wrong problem, surely it was the wrong problem.
“Stilcho,” he said, and did not tell the guards to let him go. One of them handed him the paper.
Ischade’s spidery, elaborate hand. Her signet. To Critias, under the authority of His Imperial Highness Theron, and His Grace Kadakithis. Commander of the City: You have arrested one of my servants for possession of property I gave her, to which she has legal title. The lady Moria is therefore innocent of wrongdoing. I ask for her immediate release and will thank you for your prompt and earnest attention to this matter. Under my personal seal: Ischade, herself.
Straton read it through twice. To Critias.
Critias.
“Let him go,” he said sharply, and when the guards did not take their cue: “Leave him!” And waited until the city guard was out of earshot, the paper trembling in his hand. “What’s this have to do with Critias?”
“To do with-”
“My partner’s missing, dammit, missing while the city guard hauled Moria and that gold out of a jeweler’s shop, the last damn place they saw him! Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Stilcho said, bewildered-looking, and was not lying. Straton’s heart sank. the little that that chance Jiad raised it. “I don’t know. Moria got picked up-that’s all. Critias was there. I saw him. Comer of Regent Land and High Street. He was on a gray horse. I didn’t want to get picked up too; I ran and he didn’t follow. That’s the truth, Strat. I was one of you. My oath-it’s the truth, it’s all I know.”
“Moria know anything?”
Stilcho shook his head. “I don’t think so. I was there because she sneaked out with the gold, I knew she was going to get in trouble-” It was too much truth now. Stilcho let his voice trail off, with that desperate look in his eyes, the look of a man who had committed himself too far to a man no longer in the same game. “It’s in the letter. Her seal.”
“Her seal. Dammit to hell, is this her game?”
“No! Gods-no, I don’t think so.”
She wrote to Critias. She didn’t know.
But by the gods, she can find out.
“Sergeant!”
“Sir!”
“Tablet. Fast.” He grabbed Stilcho by the arm, pulled him close. “I thought you’d left her house. Alive.”
“I’m g-going b-back.” Stilcho pulled to free the arm, desisted when he did not make it easily. The single eye was desperate, distraught. “N-not easy b-being on the streets.”
“I can slip you into the guard. Call it a favor. You could have come to me. I owe you one.”
“Too Mate.” There was all hell in that look. “Too late.”
“She’s got you.” Dead again? In the chill of the wind, there was no way to tell.
“She’s got me. And M-Moria. No help for us. Strat, for godssakes, get Moria out of there-if you owe me anything, get her out of that hole-”
The sergeant came up with the tablet and a stylus. Straton took it and wrote: Walegrin-and a long scratch that stood for all the damned protocols. Send the woman Moria to the palace guardstation with this messenger and your order to hold her there until I sign the release. Straton, for Critias- Another long line, for all Crit’s authorizations. He slammed his ring into the soft wax of the tablet and shut it. “No damn time for an overseal. Get this to Walegrin at his headquarters and hurry about it.”
The sergeant left at a run.
“I’ll go with him,” Stilcho said, and Strat caught him a second time.
“She’s not free.”
“Not-”
“If Ischade wants her out, Ischade can find Critias. Come on, man. We’re going to go tell her that.”
Stilcho said nothing, only came as fast as he could, exhausted as he was.
“Horses,” Straton yelled, and the horses were waiting at the gate.
Crit moved, tried to pull himself up from the upside-down position in which he had waked, in which he had already suffered hell, coming to soaking wet and staring upside down into the face of a lunatic with a knife.
He had lost consciousness several times, and vomited his gut out along with a good amount of the water he had swallowed when the Ilsigi who avowed he wanted to kill him slowly had lowered him upside down into a rain barrel and waited till he choked. Again. And again. And again. And in between times had let him down, trussed hand and foot, to lie heaving and puking on the floor of the basement.