in them, and a glint of something else: mockery, interest, calculation. Siveni
scowled and began to reach for her spear again. Mriga stopped her with a glance.
“Now is it goddesses, truly?” Ischade said, lowering the cup. “Or ‘goddess’ in
the singular? Gray-Eyes, if I remember rightly, was never a twofold deity.”
“Until now,” Mriga said. “Madam, you had some small part in what happened. May I
remind you? A night not too long ago, about midnight, you came across a man
digging mandrake-“
“Harran the barber. Indeed.”
“I got caught in the spelling. It bound all three of us together in divinity for
a while. But one of the three is missing. Harran is dead.”
Those dark eyes looked over the edge of the cup again. “I had thought he escaped
the … unpleasantness … at the barracks. At least there was no sign of him
among the slain.”
“Last night,” Siveni said, and the look she turned on Ischade was cruel. “Your
lover did it.”
Tyr growled.
“My apologies,” said Ischade. “But how cross fate is … that your business,
whatever it is, brings you to deal with me … and precludes your vengeance
against anyone under my roof.” She sipped her wine for a moment. “Frustration is
such a mortal sort of problem, though. I must say you’re handling it well.”
Mriga frowned. The woman was unbearable … but had to be borne, and knew it.
There was no way to force her to help them. “I have some experience with
mortality,” Mriga said. “Let’s to business, madam. I want to see what kind of
payment you would require for a certain service.”