Gidula tossed a handful of gravel over the side of the Nose. “My wife went off here,” he said. “But that was before your time. Before anyone’s time, I think.”
It would take only the smallest pressure on the firing stud to set up the neural pulse. Ravn tensed. A command went from the motor neurons down the arm to the finger. She could actually feel it, like a line of fire. But the finger remained frozen. She reminded herself that he deserved to die for torturing her. And perhaps for betraying the Traditions he claimed to love.
But she lowered her arm slowly until the teaser dangled by her side.
Gidula sighed and raised his eyes to the sky. “To die,” he said, “might almost be a blessing.” Then he turned about. “Why did you not tease me?”
Ravn did not ask how he knew. There were a dozen ways he might have discerned her actions. And yet he had stood there waiting for her to act.
“I don’t know,” she answered him. “I have every reason to.”
“Do you? Every reason?”
“Why would death be a blessing?”
Gidula faced the cliff’s edge once more. “You never knew Ielnor. She was a woman to match a man: strong where I was weak; needy where I was strong. Her eyes were coal-black, her mind as clear as diamond. She was not in the Life, but she could have been. She held the Forks for me, and that during a time when the holding wanted wit and fortitude.”
“She fell off the cliff here?”
Gidula nodded. “And the baby.”
Ravn returned her teaser to its holster and secured it. “You must have cared for her very much.”
Gidula said nothing for a moment, then stepped to the edge. “Since that time, I have never loved anything.”
“Surely—”
“No, it is not good for a Shadow to love. Duty is the higher calling, and duty may one day call upon us to traduce our love. You saw how love led the harper into our trap, as by a nose-ring, and how love gives us now a handle on Geshler Padaborn himself. What was love to them but a hobble! And yet, I have grown passing fond of you during these years of struggle.”
“Of me!”
“As you seem to have grown fond of the harper.”
“She sings well.”
“And yet you turned her over to me.”
“I was oath bound to do so. I could not lure Bridget ban herself. But I think Donovan would have told you what you wanted even without the added spur. His memories were genuinely locked away.”
“Perhaps. We leave shortly for Dao Chetty. They are waiting for me at Mount Lefn.”
Ravn nodded. “Then we had better move.”
Gidula smiled briefly. “They won’t leave without me.” He glanced down the side of the Nose. “It does not look so far, but then it is the speed, not the distance, that matters.”
Ravn stepped beside him and looked down at the rushing waters below. It was far enough, she thought.
For an old man, Gidula was remarkably strong. He seized her and tossed her in a hip roll over the edge of the cliff.
She found herself suddenly a bird, though without a bird’s authority for flight. She spun, and sky, waters, and Gidula’s weeping face passed rapidly before her.
Endless training had taught her body what to do. Her right arm snatched a piton gun from her belt and fired a spike into the cliff face. The cable ran out and she swung at the end of it, striking the rocks with such brutal force that she nearly lost her grip on the gun. She grunted and pulled herself up, found a foothold, and shoved her left fist into a crack in the rock face.
Gidula looked down at her, judged where the piton had struck—well below the lip of the cliff. “It is much harder that way,” he said. “You will grow tired and lose your grip and only then complete what has begun. Better far to have concluded the business in one fell swoop.”
“Why? Because I thought to kill you?”
Gidula appeared to consider that. “Some might count that a reason, but mine is more serious. As I said: I had begun to grow fond of you.”
A horrible cold seized Ravn’s heart. “And Ielnor?”
Gidula’s head bobbed. “It was faster for her. She had no place to seize hold.”
“You pushed your wife off the Nose?”
“No! Oh no. She leapt. Trying to grab the baby. It was the baby I threw off.”
Ravn refused to let the image focus. “You threw your baby off the cliff?”
“Of course not. It wasn’t my baby. That was the whole point.”
“Ah.” Ravn had always thought of duty as a noble beast. But it had fangs. It had fangs.
“In each Shadow’s path,” said Gidula, “there is some fell deed that empties him out and after which there is no returning. Have you ever…?”
“I killed my gozhiinyaw when we moved the governor of Stratfondle.” Once more, she saw that farewell feast, tasted the wine they had toasted with. No one knew which side the others had chosen until one day she found the path to the governor’s life running through the body of Anwar Cheston.
“There, you see?” Gidula said in tones of sweet reason. “After that what other deed can be so dire? One may trod the Shadowed Path with a lighter heart.” He pointed to the rocky knob that crowned the cliff. “Best if you simply let go, Ravn. The upper face is unclimbable. Many others have tried. Why do you suppose Number One has not returned? You see what affection does to one’s instincts. Next time, Ravn, once the gun is aimed, don’t hesitate.”
“I will keep that in mind. For the next time.”
“Well…” He stood and dusted himself off. “I’m off to take down the Committee. Wish me luck.”
“Ooh, my sweet Gidula. I fear I can spare you none. For I need all of it for myself.”
XII. Hanging Tough
Méarana remained in good cheer, and this for two reasons. Although Donovan had gone with the kill team and left her here, she had reasoned that this was for her the safest course. Had he told Gidula everything and stayed here with her, the Old One would have had no further need of Donovan, and thus no further need of her. Until Donovan pointed out the secret entrance, Gidula might still need her to hold over him.
That did not mean she was safe. For so long as she was in the Forks, she walked among cobras, and felt small black eyes tracking her every step. They had not forgotten, in the midst of their civil war, that they had another enemy across the Rift. And if she was a lever over her father, she was also a bait for her mother.
Khembold had established Méarana in a small apartment, plainly furnished and of two rooms, just off Jeshire Street in the transient quarter. The sitting room featured a play deck, large stuffed chairs, and a well-supplied cabinet of sensory intoxicants. The back room had a two-fold bed with multiple pillows and a foldaway dresser and wardrobe. To the side were the usual conveniences for those with use for beds.
She had placed her harp atop the pillows and carefully loosened all the strings—metal strings that she played with the nails. Sometimes, when the music carried her, she would find afterward her fingertips red with blood. She bent over the harp and kissed it. Cecilia preserve me, she thought. And she added Jude for good luck.