Torchholder had been everywhere. The archetypical bureaucrat had kept his
beleaguered temple open for business; his Prince well-advised, the Beysib amused
and, ultimately, Walegrin and his band employed in the service of the city. In
return, Walegrin had begun to hand back a portion of the garrison’s wages for
Molin’s speculations. It was not such a bad partnership. Walegrin’s duties kept
him apprised of the merchant’s activity anyway, and Molin seldom lost money. But
for Cythen, whose family, when she’d had a family, had been rich in land, not
gold, the rabid pursuit of more gold than you needed was degrading. And, though
she would never admit it directly, she did not want Walegrin degraded.
‘He told me,’ Walegrin replied after an uncomfortable silence, his voice
carefully even, ‘because you are still part of this garrison and if something is
going to make you act rashly he would want me to know about it. Bekin’s death
isn’t the only one that’s got us edgy. Each night since she died at least two
Beysib have been found dead, mutilated, and the lord-high muckety-mucks are
thinking about showing some muscle around here. We’re all under close watch.’
‘If he was so damned all-fired concerned about how rashly I might act, then why
in his departed god’s name didn’t he keep Bekin from getting killed in the first
place?’
‘You hid her too well. He didn’t know who she was until she was dead, Cythen.
You bought Myrtis’s silence; she was the only one beside you who knew – and
maybe Jubal, I guess. But, did you know she was working the Beysib traffic on