women know.”
“Cut it,” the woman said. She tucked her feet up within her arms.
“What would it take,” the hawkmask said, “for you to consider yourself hired?”
Mradhon looked at the man, his heart pounding again. He sat down on the edge of
the firepit, making himself easy when his instincts were all otherwise. He
thought of something exorbitant, remembered the hawkmasks’ fallen fortunes.
“Maybe a silver bit-Maybe some names, too.”
“Maybe you don’t need them,” the hawkmask said.
“I want to know who I’m dealing with. What the deal is for.”
“No. Mor-am; Moria; they’ll deal with you. You’ll have to take your orders
there-Does that gall you?”
“Not particularly,” Mradhon said, and that too was a lie. “As long as the
money’s regular.”
“So you knew Mor-am’s face.”
“From across the river. From days before the trouble. I dealt with a man named
Stecho.”
“Stecho’s dead.”
The tone put a wind down his nape. He shrugged. “So, well, I suspect a lot were
lost.”
“Stabbed. On the street. Tempus’ games. Or someone’s. These are hard times. Vis.
Yes, we’ve lost a few of us. Possibly someone talked. Or someone knew a face. We
don’t wear the masks outside, Vis. Not now. You don’t talk in your sleep, do
you, Vis?”
“No.”
“Where lodging?”
“Becho’s.”
“If,” the voice grew softer still, difficult, for its timbre, “if there were a
slip, we would know. You see, it’s your first job to keep Mor-am and Moria safe.
If anything should happen to the two names you knew-well, we’d suspect, I’m
afraid, that you’d made some kind of mistake. And the end of that would be very