hip, where she usually wore her sword. She cursed herself for not having dared
to lift the tapestry a fraction to see his face.
‘The same, and he’s convinced his father now as well. Walegrin, I don’t know how
you’ll do it, but you’ve got to keep the peace until I can get the old man to
see reason – or catch the murderers bloody-handed.’ The priest paused, as if an
idea had just occurred to him. He looked hard at Cythen and she fairly cringed
from the plotting she saw in his face. ‘Catch them bloody-handed! You – Cythen;
how much do you want your revenge? What will you sacrifice to get it? Turghurt
is full of himself, and he’ll likely go back to the Aphrodisia to celebrate this
victory. He hasn’t been back since your sister died, but I doubt he’ll wait much
longer. If not tonight, then tomorrow night. He’ll go back because he has to
gloat – and because his kind get no satisfaction from these high-handed Beysib
women.
‘Now, somehow your sister learned something she shouldn’t have and died for it.
Could you lure him into the same mistake and survive to let me know of it? I’ll
need proof absolute if I’m going to confront his father. Not a corpse, you
understand; that will only fan the flames. What I’ll need is Turghurt and the
proof. Can you get it for me?’
Cythen found herself nodding, promising the Rankan priest that she would get her
vengeance as she got him his proof; as she spoke another hidden part of herself
froze into numb paralysis. The meeting had become a dream from which she could
not seem to awaken: a continuation of all the nightmares that made her past so