once, she would make an exception.
Ischade’s downstairs living room was much bigger than it should have been,
considering the outside dimensions of the house. It was a mad scattering of rich
stuffs in a hundred colors, silks and furs thrown carelessly over furniture,
piled in corners. Here were man’s clothes, a worn campaigning cloak, muddy
boots, sitting on ivory silk to keep them off the hardwood floor; over there was
a sumptuous cloak of night-red velvet scorching gently where it lay half in the
hearth, half out of it, wholly unnoticed by the hostess.
Ischade was courteous. She poured wine for her guests, and set down a bowl of
water and another of neatly chopped meat for Tyr. Once they were settled, she
looked at them out of those dark eyes of hers and waited. To mortal eyes she
would have seemed deadly enough, even without the flush of interrupted
lovemaking in her face. But Mriga looked at her and simply said, “We need your
help.”
“Destroying my property, and my wards, and upsetting my servants,” said Ischade,
“strikes me as a poor way to go about getting it.”
Siveni laid her spear aside. “Your wards and your gate are back,” she said, “and
as for your servants … they’re a bit slow. One would think that a person of
your … talents … might be better served.”
Ischade smiled, that look that Mriga knew was dreaded upwind and down, in high
houses and alleys and gutters. “Flattery?” she said. “Do goddesses stoop to
such? Then you need me indeed. Well enough.” She sipped from her own goblet,
regarding them over the edge; a long look of dark eyes with a glint of firelight