from his.
‘The Stepsons – t-there’s another d-dead. They s-sent me.’
‘Did they?’
‘C-common problem. M-Moruth. The beggars. They’re k-killing us both.’
‘Stepsons,’ she said. ‘Do you know my name, Mor-am? It’s Ischade.’ She kept
walking, saw the panic grow. ‘Have you heard that name before?’
A violent shake of the head, a clamping of the jaw.
‘But you are more notorious than I-in certain quarters. Jubal misses you. And
you carry Stepson messages – what do they say to tell me?’
‘Anyt-thing you a-asked m-me.’
‘Mor-am.’ She stopped before him, held him with her eyes. Her hand that had
rested on his shoulder touched the side of his jaw, Stilled the tic, the jerking
of muscles, his rapid breathing. Slowly the contorted body straightened to stand
tall; the drawn muscles of his face relaxed. She began to move again, and he
followed her, turning as she wove spells of compulsion, until she stood before
the great bronze mirror in its shroud of carelessly thrown silks. At times in
this mirror she cast spells. Now she cast another, and showed him himself,
smiled at him the while. ‘So you will tell me,’ she said, ‘anything.’
‘What did you do?’ he asked. Even the voice was changed. Tears leapt to eyes, to
voice. ‘What did you do?’
‘I took the pain. A small spell. Not difficult for me.’ She moved again, so that
he must turn to follow her, with dreamlike slowness. ‘Tell me – what you know.
Tell me who you are. Everything. Jubal will want to know.’
‘They caught me, the Stepsons caught me, they made me -‘
She felt the lie and sent the pain back, watched the body twist back to its