a plume but the bay horse, though it snorted and shied from the lingering scent
of the fire, made no mark on the night air.
“Strat?” Walegrin inquired and received a confirming nod. “Didn’t think you came
uptown much these days.”
The hawk cried again. Both men glanced up past the charred, skeletal roof-beams,
but the sky was empty.
“I was up here the other night at Moria’s dinner party.” Straton kicked the
broken barrel Mor-am had used for a seat aside and selected another one from the
rubble. “This place secure?” He glanced around at the gaping walls.
“It’s mine.”
“He might be worth listening to,” Strat said, shrugging a shoulder toward Mor
am’s path.
Walegrin shook his head. “He’s drunk, scared, and ready to sell the only ones
who’ve stood by him. I’m not looking to buy what he’s selling.”
“Especially scared-especially scared. I’d say he knows something no cheap wine
can hide. I’ve seen the new face Moria’s wearing these days; Ischade didn’t put
it there. I’d talk to him about that-get his confidence. Ease the burden on his
mind.”
Strat was known to live within the necromancer’s curse- and without it, if
current rumor were true. He knew Ischade’s household as no other living man knew
it. Likewise, he was the Stepson’s interrogator-a superb judge of a man’s
willingness to talk and the worth of what he said.
“I’ll talk to him, then,” Walegrin agreed, wishing he had a larger fraction of
Molin’s canniness. The Stepson had gotten the upper hand in their conversation.
He was sitting, silent and smiling, while Walegrin was sweating. The younger man