blinked, breaking the spell, and took his life in his hands, grinned in the face
of her darkness and sobered up and kissed her. His best style. He could get
things out of a body one way; he had, now and again, used pleasanter
persuasions. He was not particularly proud of it, no more than the other. It was
all part of his skill-knowing a lie from a scrap of truth, and following a lead.
He had one. Truth was in her silence tonight.
“You want something,” he said, “you’ve always wanted something-“
She laughed, and he caught her hands down. Hard.
“What can I do,” he asked, “what is it you want me to do?” No one held onto
Ischade. He sensed that in the darkening of her eyes, in the sudden dimming of
the room. He let go. “Ischade. Ischade.” Trying to keep his focus. And hers.
Right now he ought to get up and head for the door and he knew it; but it was
infinitely easier to sit where he was; and very hard to think of what he had
been trying to think of, like the memory gaps, like the things they did/he
thought they did in that bed sprawled with silks. “You’ve got Stilcho, got
Janni, got me-is it coincidence, Ischade? Maybe I could help you more if I was
awake when you talked to me-” Or is it information you go for? “Maybe-our aims
and yours aren’t that far apart. Self-interest. Weren’t you talking about self
interest? What’s yours, really? And I’ll tell you mine.”
Arms tightened behind his head. She shifted forward and now there was nothing in
all the room but her eyes, nothing in all the world but the pulse in his veins.