expected in several different ways.
‘I’ve seen the priest, Molin Torchholder, and he’s made a plan; a way to snare
the one he suspects. I thought he would have sent you a message by now,’
Cythen said quickly.
Myrtis shrugged, but without unclenching her fists. ‘Since Bekin there have been
other deaths: gruesome murders, many of them Beysib women. All the reliable
couriers have been kept busy. There isn’t time for the death of a Sanctuary
girl. Perhaps you can tell me who Molin Torchholder suspects of using beynit
venom when the Harka Bey denies all knowledge of it?’
‘He suspects a man, a Beysib man. He suspects that the death of my sister is not
so different from the Beysib deaths.’
‘Has he given you a name?’
‘Yes, Turghurt Burek.’
‘The son of the prime minister?’
‘Yes, but the Torch suspects him anyway. He comes here, doesn’t he?’
‘That man has spies everywhere!’ Myrtis grimaced as she relaxed and raised her
fist towards the smouldering hearth. Cythen heard a small click; then watched as
the flames leapt high and crimson. ‘Once primed, it must be shot,’ Myrtis
explained, while Cythen shuddered. ‘We called him Voyce here; and he was always
a gentleman – for all that he’s fish-folk. Bekin was special to him; such
childlike innocence is not at all common among their women. He grieved over her
death and hasn’t been back since she died.
‘But he was also the second person to suggest the Harka Bey to us.’ Myrtis
paused, and just when Cythen despaired of being believed at all, the starkly
beautiful woman continued: ‘I like him very much; he reminds me of a love I once