former shape.
‘I – t-turned – traitor,’ the traitor said, wept, sobbed. ‘I s-s-sold them, sold
other hawkmasks – to the Stepsons. My sister and I -we had to live, after Jubal
lost it all. I mean, how were we going to live? – We didn’t know. We had to. I
had to. My sister – didn’t know.’ She had let go the pain and the words kept
coming, with the tears. His eyes strayed from her to the mirror. ‘0 gods -‘
‘Go on,’ she said, ever so softly, for this was truth, she knew. ‘What do the
Stepsons want? What do you want? What are you prepared to pay?’
‘Ge( Moruth. That’s what they want. The beggar-lord. And this man – this man of
theirs, they think the beggars have got, get him back – safe.’
‘These are not trifles.’
‘They’ll pay – I’m sure – they’ll pay.’
She unfolded the note, perused it carefully, holding it before the light. It
said much of that. It offered gold. It promised – immunities – at which she
smiled, not humorously. ‘Why, it mentions you,’ she said. ‘It says I might lend
you back to Jubal. Do you think he would
be amused?’
‘No,’ he said. There was fear, multiplying fear: she could smell it. It prickled
at her nerves.
‘But when you carry messages for rogues,’ she said, ‘you should expect such
small jokes.’ She folded the note carefully, folded it several times until it
was quite small, until she opened her hand, being whimsical, and the paper note
was gone.
He watched this, this magician’s trick, this cheap comedy of bazaars. It amused
her to confound him, to suddenly brighten all the fires ’til the candles gleamed