“May your demmin increase,” he said. “The lock was one never before encountered, based on unknown principles; training was not a factor. No doubt our people could have conquered the lock in time, but the point is that they were not given time.”
“Go on,” Tegestu said. A Classanu appeared in the doorway, bowing; Tegestu ordered tea.
“The woman, Fiona, seemed somehow to be alerted,” Cascan said. “Even though she was at quite some distance, in the Square of the Lancers, occupied with her performance. Our person there reports that she suddenly looked startled, put her business in the hands of one of the other hucksters, and then ran for her hostel as fast as she could. Our person could not pursue without causing attraction herself, and so remained in place.
“Once back at the hostel, Fiona met our lookout in the corridor, who attempted to delay her. She struck him, stunning him momentarily, then ran for the door and broke into her room. Fortunately the lookout delayed her long enough for our people to make their escape through the window. There appears to have been no pursuit.”
Tegestu frowned. “This woman. Describe her.”
“Small. An inch or two over five feet. Deep brown skin. Black, curly hair. Black eyes. Built rather sturdily, but not fat. Perhaps twenty-five years of age.”
“And your lookout?”
“One of our best people for this kind of work,” Cascan said, stroking his chin. “He’s too tall, really, to be entirely inconspicuous, but he’s a talented actor and mime. Twenty years of age, broad-shouldered, adept at imitating the Arrandalu.”
“In his physical prime, in other words,” Tegestu said. “Yet this small woman disabled him.”
“A surprise attack, I believe, and — your pardon — stunned, not disabled. One does not expect violence in these situations — in fact the woman’s behavior was entirely unexpected. No doubt Fiona would have had the worst of it had the fight gone on, but our person was under orders to avoid entanglements and left as discreetly as he could. The surprise, I think, was not in her combative skill — no doubt a woman traveling alone in this land of tears must have one trick or another to avoid unpleasantness — but rather the fact she was alerted at all.”
They fell silent as the Classanu appeared with a small table and tea-things; she poured the fragrant tea into the clear glasses, then bowed and withdrew.
“There was no one who could have seen our people entering, and run to give her the word?” Tegestu asked, breaking the silence.
Cascan frowned. “Our people say not,” he said. “And our person in the Square reports no interruption — no one approached her, no one spoke, there were no shouts of alarm. She looked startled for a moment, then ran.”
“Witchcraft?” Tegestu asked. “She is a magician, after all.”
Cascan sipped his tea. “A possibility,” he said, matter-of-fact. “We have our own witches, of course; we can show Fiona to them and ask what they perceive. But most likely they will want some belonging of Fiona’s in order to read her aetheric emanations and that will mean another visit to her chambers.”
“No,” Tegestu said flatly. “Too dangerous.” He fell silent for a moment, then spoke. “We have our own Classani conjurors, as well. Can they view her performance with an eye toward how they’re done?”
“No doubt. Perhaps we can invite her to perform here, in our quarters, and give our witches and conjurors as much time as they need.”
“Do it.”
“Aye, bro-demmin. But there is another, more vital problem. Fiona,” Cascan said, “is scheduled to perform before the Abessu-Denorru tomorrow night, at the fête. What if she is an assassin sent by Tastis? How can we prevent an incident?”
Tegestu tasted his tea, letting the silence broaden as he mulled on the problem. “We must certainly send a message to the Abessu-Denorru’s people,” he said. “Fiona should be searched before being admitted to his presence. And some of your own people, dressed and accoutered as Classani, must accompany our own party, and position themselves so as to intercept any assassination attempt on the Abessu-Denorru. The Abessu-Denorru is a brave man,” Tegestu reflected, “who does not fully comprehend the danger he is in.”
Cascan’s eyes reflected approvaclass="underline" probably he would have recommended these steps himself. “Aye, bro-demmin,” he said.
“Your best, mind,” Tegestu said. “We don’t want any half-trained witlings blundering in the Abessu-Denorru’s presence.”
“Of course not, bro-demmin.”
Tegestu was about to add another admonition, but then realized it was prompted only by his own impatience and petulance, that he was still upset over the blundering duel that afternoon, and by his spies’ blundering as well, if blundering it was. He changed the subject. “Any reports from Neda-Calacas?”
“Nay, bro-demmin. No change reported.”
“Very well.” He rose, Cascan standing with him. “You will excuse me, ban-demmin. I have a busy schedule.”
“May your arm never weaken.”
“May your eyes never fail you, whelkran i cambrani.” He and Cascan bowed to one another, then to the Blue Scroll. Tegestu began the walk to his chambers.
Fiona, he thought. What kind of name is that? There was so much out of place concerning her, and it fretted him. Why couldn’t Cascan get to the bottom of it? He snorted. Strange locks, indeed. Incompetence was far more likely.
Well, the best spies were being deployed toward Neda-Calacas. No doubt they would best serve there.
He put the conjuror from his mind. Cascan had never failed him on this kind of assignment before, and if Cascan failed — well, then there were always the witches.
CHAPTER 7
The palace of Acragas was ablaze with light, and busy with revelers in their hundreds and servants in their thousands. It was a vast brawl of people: the oligarchs on horseback, surrounded by retainers with their torches, their women in gilded litters that glowed red in the flame; other people of importance coming by barge, the prows carved with the images of sea serpents, dragons, or the mallanto of Arrandal, the long-winged seabird with its fierce beak and wise, pale-gold eyes. It was the Fête of Pastas Netweaver, the god of judgment who had learned wisdom from the dragons of the Farthest Isles, and who, not coincidentally, was Acragas Necias’ patron deity, appearing with his curragh and net-of-souls on the Acragas banner.
Fiona, with her urchin hired to help her carry her trunk of tricks, came quietly in the tradesmen’s entrance, a dark cloak over her scarlet performing gown. There were Brodaini guards in addition to the militia, which surprised her, and she was further surprised by being taken aside to a small room so that her baggage and then herself could be searched. The Brodaini seemed particularly interested in her trunk and insisted on inspecting all her paraphernalia, and on her making clear the function of each device. The spindle she claimed as a musical instrument, and produced sounds from it to prove it — the rest, her various props, she claimed privileged, though she let them examine each to prove to themselves it could not be used as a weapon. Then the males left and she was forced to undress under the businesslike eyes of the two women Brodaini, who turned her gown inside out, looking for secret pockets — they found many, though none of them were yet filled with her tricks. They insisted on her stripping completely, and for a moment she felt unease as she slipped out of the privy-coat that protected her, and which she’d never removed except for her visits to the public baths, where she’d sat in a cabinet tub while hot water was poured into it by brawny women working behind the screen. The Brodaini searching the garment scowled at the unfamiliar catches and the strange material, but let it pass. They even combed her hair for strangling-wires, and probed elsewhere, intimately elsewhere, looking for poison capsules. No one else seemed to have been accorded this treatment. Fiona tried to submit with a good grace. It was, after all, a sign that she’d aroused their curiosity.