More messengers sped during the day. One great one lifted on black wings and
scattered a flock of lesser on his way from the river-house roof. The little
ones went a dozen ways.
And Ischade (she did sleep, now and again, but rarely of late) wrapped herself
in a dusky blue cloak unlike her nighttime black and gathered up certain other
things she wanted.
“Stilcho,” she said; and having no answer, thrust aside the curtains that hid
the Stepson’s small room.
There was no one there. “Stilcho!” She sent her mind out in a light scouring of
the immediate vicinity; and raised a thin, wan response.
She opened the door and took a look out back: and found him there, a shivering
knot of cloak by the rose-bush.
“Stilcho!”
There was refuge of a sort in the house, one of half a dozen hidey-holes they
maintained within the black zone for operations this far from base. And Strat
paid listless attention to the bay and saw it strawed and fed and watered in the
shanty-stable; and climbed the dirty stairs of the deserted place and pulled the
vent-chain that let a little light through the shutters.
There was a little food here. A little wine. A waterpot and a few other odds and
ends. He stumped about in the dusty silence and knew that he was safe from
hearing: below was only the stable, and to either side were warehouses and the
owners of them well-heeled and Rankene, uptown.
He had his breakfast. He washed. He found himself trapped in one of those days
that had gotten common enough lately, with horror on either end and sheer