Adele sighed, then muted her display and stared at the wall across the table from her. It couldn’t really be called blank: successive water-stains had left patterns in gradations of sepia on the wallpaper.
She’d met Delos Vaughn the day Mistress Sand ordered her to Strymon. That was either coincidence—a vanishingly low probability; or Vaughn had penetrated Sand’s organization; or Sand herself was playing a double game.
There was no way to tell which was true. Adele grinned. Of course, she could ask Mistress Sand . . .
Tovera had attached an alarm light to the wall above the bed. It now pulsed three times in a deep yellow that wouldn’t disrupt vision at night. Someone was coming to the door. Adele turned but didn’t get up. She was confident it was Tovera, returning with the clothes for the party. Even so, Adele kept her left hand in her jacket pocket.
Tovera entered with a garment bag over her arm, aware of the pistol pointed at her and mildly amused. She didn’t worry that her mistress would shoot her by accident. Actually, Tovera probably didn’t worry about dying at all . . . any more than Adele did.
“Time to get cleaned up and dress, mistress,” Tovera said, hanging the bag on a cord strung the width of the room. She’d been carrying a dagger concealed beneath the garment bag; she sheathed it in a sleeve. Anyone who’d tried to snatch the bag would have been surprised, for a very brief time.
“Yes, all right,” Adele said, rising and shrugging off her jacket. The water tap was at waist height in the kitchenette, over a tile drain. It made an adequate shower if you squatted under it.
She’d learned all she could from documentary sources. Perhaps the party would give her some useful insight.
Aloud she said, “Delos Vaughn isn’t just a playboy, so why does he go to so much effort to pretend otherwise?”
Tovera smiled without humor or emotion as she took the garments Adele handed her. She looked like a menial servant, too downtrodden to have a personality, let alone opinions.
And that of course was the answer: because she looked harmless, nobody noticed Tovera until she struck. So when did Delos Vaughn intend to strike?
And where would Adele Mundy be when the blow fell?
* * *
The service area was a hollow rectangle and all four walls of the wine bar were mirrored. When Daniel heard over the hubbub the call, “There you are, Leary! Good to see you!” he had no idea where the voice was coming from. He looked to his left, turned to his right; saw hundreds of well-dressed men and women, infinitely multiplied in reflection, and Wex Bending slid in behind him. He’d come from the left after all.
It had to be Bending, though the goatee and flaring sideburns Daniel’s childhood friend now affected had changed his appearance almost beyond recognition. He hugged Daniel around the shoulders and went on, “How’s the Speaker keeping, Daniel? A splendid man, splendid!”
Daniel blinked, wondering if there was some mistake after all. Surely Bending would know that he and his father were on bad terms—or rather, on no terms at all?
“I haven’t seen my father in six years and more, Wex,” Daniel said. “From what I see on the news, he’s much the same as always. But I don’t have much call to watch the news, even now that I’m back on Cinnabar.”
One of the three liveried bartenders set a drink in a fluted glass in front of Bending without being asked. He’d obviously suggested the location because he was a regular here.
“Thank you, Torvaldo,” he said. He glanced at Daniel meaningfully. “Ah . . . ?”
“On my tab, waiter,” Daniel said, catching the drift quickly enough. A junior lieutenant’s pay was well beneath whatever Bending must be making in the Ministry of External Affairs, but Bending’s upkeep must be equally high. Certainly the mauve suit he wore was several times as expensive as Daniel’s uniform.
Daniel wasn’t the sort to object to buying someone a drink, even at the prices this place charged. He’d called Bending on a whim when he realized they’d have time to meet before Vaughn’s party, but he’d wondered if he’d be conspicuous in his Dress Whites. In fact, the doorman might not have passed him if he’d worn anything less pretentious.