conspicuous disturbance. But the prudent did not notice such things. The prudent
kept to their own districts, and Strat, having ridden past the several
checkpoints down mostly deserted streets, rode not oblivious to signs now;
thinking, and taking mental notes as he tethered the bay horse out in front of
this house that few saw.
He shoved the rusty gate aside and walked up the overgrown flags to the little
porch. The door opened before he knocked (and before anyone on the other side
could have reached it), which failed to surprise him. Musky perfume wafted out.
He walked in, in the dim light that shone through a milky window-Ischade was not
tidy except in her person.
“Ischade?” he called out.
That she would not be at home-that had occurred to him; but he had, in his haste
and his urgency, shoved that possibility aside. There was not that much of day
left. The sun was headed down over the White Foal, over the sprawl of Downwind
buildings.
“Ischade?”
There were unpleasant things to meet hereabouts. She had enemies. She had allies
who were not his friends.
A curtain whispered. He blinked at the black-clad figure who walked forward to
meet him. She was always so much smaller than he remembered. She towered in his
memory. But the eyes, always the eyes-
He evaded them, walked deliberately aside and poured him and her a drink from
the pitcher that sat on the low table. Candles brightened. He was accustomed to
this. Accustomed too, to the light step that stole up behind him-no one walked
up behind him; it was a tic he had. But Ischade did it and he let her; and she