“A little,” he admitted. He was beginning to recover his nerve.
“That might be just as well. Do you know who I am?” “They call you Lady Sarai,” Tolthar said. “I can still hear.” “That’s my name; you know who I am?” “Lord Kalthon’s daughter,” Tolthar answered. Lady Sarai’s face hardened. “I am Lady Sarai, Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of Justice to Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, Triumvir of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Armies and Defender of the Gods, and I am speaking to you now in the performance of my duties and with the full authority of the overlord. Do you understand that?”
“Uh...” Tolthar hesitated, then said, “I’m not sure.”
“That means that I can have you flogged, or tortured, or killed, right here and now, without having to worry about appeals or consequences. And I’ll do it if you don’t cooperate.”
Tolthar stared up at her. He did not see Deran and Senden exchange doubtful glances behind him.
“Now,” Lady Sarai said, “I understand that on or about the fourth day of the month of Summerheat, you received two knife wounds in your left leg. Is that correct?”
“Yes, my lady,” Tolthar replied softly, thoroughly cowed.
“These were both inflicted with the same knife, at approximately the same time?”
“Yes.”
“And that knife was used by a woman?”
“That’s right,” Tolthar admitted.
“How tall was she?”
“Uh... if you want...” Did they think he didn’t know who had stabbed him? “How tall was she?” Sarai shouted, leaning closer. “She’s short,” he said quickly. “I mean, not tiny, but she’s... she’s pretty short.”
“What was she wearing? What color?”
“Black,” Tolthar said, “she usually wears black.”
“What’s the shape of her face like?”
Baffled, Tolthar wondered why Lady Sarai didn’t just ask for Tabaea’s name. He said, “I don’t know...”
“Did you see her face?”
“Well, yes.”
“What shape is it?”
“Let me think for a minute!”
Sarai backed away from him slightly, giving him room to breathe. “Take your time,” she said.
“Thank you, my lady,” Tolthar said, resentfully. He tried to picture Tabaea’s face. “Sort of straight,” he said, “and wide. She has a square chin, almost.”
“Along nose?”
“No, it’s more wide.”
“Brown hair?”
“I think it’s black...”
“Green eyes?”
“I didn’t notice, I thought they were brown...”
“Dark skin?”
“No, she’s pale...”
“Full-bodied?”
“Skinny as a steer in Srigmor.”
“Clumsy?”
“If she were clumsy, do you think I ’d have let her get me with the knife?” Tolthar protested angrily. “I wasn’t that drunk!”
The door opened, and Lady Sarai paused in her questioning. She looked up as a thin, black-haired girl entered.
For a moment, Tolthar thought it was Tabaea herself, and he began to imagine elaborate schemes to blame him for some crime he had not committed, to punish him for making false accusations; then he saw that this person wasn’t Tabaea, that she was taller and generally thinner, though perhaps fuller in the chest. And the new arrival had a long, narrow face that was not like Tabaea’s at all. “Teneria,” Lady Sarai said, “we think this man may have survived an attack by the killer. We want you to check his wounds, if you can, to see if the same knife was used.”
“I’ll try,” the woman Lady Sarai had called Teneria said quietly.
“They’re healed,” Tolthar protested. “My wounds are healed!”
“I’ll try, anyway,” Teneria replied. “Thank you,” Lady Sarai said. “But first,” she added, turning back to Tolthar, “I believe that this man was about to tell us the name of the woman who stabbed him.”
The long-awaited question came as a great relief. “Tabaea,” Tolthar said. “Tabaea the Thief.”
CHAPTER 23
Tabaea was coming dawn the stairs of her current residence, a pleasant little inn called the Blue Dancer, and thinking out her plans for the evening, when she heard the sound of soldiers walking. There was the distinctive slapping of scabbard against kilt, the heavy tread of the boots—definitely soldiers, on the street out front, drawing nearer. She sniffed the air, but with the inn’s door closed she could make out nothing unusual. Dinner had been beef stewed in red wine, and she could still smell the lingering aroma of every ingredient, and of the half-dozen different vintages that had been served to the Dancer’s customers. The chimney was drawing well, so the scent of the hearthfire itself was relatively faint, but its heat was making Beren, the serving wench, sweat as she swept the floor; Tabaea could smell that, too. She could distinguish the moist odors of Beren’s cotton tunic and wool skirt.
Dogs were amazing creatures, Tabaea thought. She had never realized how amazing until she had started killing them. They could all smell all these details.
The booted steps were coming directly up to the door of the inn; Tabaea wondered why. Soldiers were a common enough sight in the taverns and inns of Wall Street, but the Blue Dancer was a quiet and rather expensive place several blocks down Grand Street from the market, and the city guard was not generally found here unless someone had sent for them.
There were other footsteps as well—she hadn’t heard them at first, with the door and the windows closed and the various sounds of the city drowning them out, but someone in slippers was walking with the soldiers, someone wearing a long, rustling garment.
Suddenly nervous, Tabaea hurried down the last few steps. The guards couldn’t have anything to do with her, of course-nobody except the innkeeper and a few strangers knew she was here, no one would have any reason to connect her with any recent disturbances—but still, she didn’t care to be caught in her room upstairs if there was trouble.
Now the soldiers were at the door, five of them, in addition to the person in slippers, and one soldier was lifting the latch. Now even Beren heard them; she straightened and leaned her broom in the chimney corner as Tabaea slipped back into the little alcove under the stairs. The table there was usually occupied at meals by young lovers, as it was the most private spot in the dining room; there was nothing suspicious about it if Tabaea should happen to sit there on a quiet evening, just minding her own business.
And it would scarcely be her feult that she could hear everything that went on in the main room. “Can I help you?” Beren asked.
“We’re looking for a woman named Tabaea,” an unfamiliar man’s voice said. “We don’t know what she’s calling herself. A little below average height, thin, black hair—probably alone.” Tabaea could almost hear Beren frowning. “Let me get my master,” the serving wench said. “Is she here?” a different voice asked. “I don’t know,” Beren replied, “I’ll ask.” Tabaea watched through the archway as Beren vanished into the kitchen.
Tabaea bit her lip, worrying and wondering. Why were these men—these soldiers—looking for her? How did they know her name, or what she looked like? And what should she do about it?
It registered that the alcove was a dead end, that she could be trapped in it. True, she could hold off a small army, as they wouldn’t be able to get at her more than two or perhaps three at a time, and she could use the table as a shield, but they could besiege her there and wait her out. That would not do. Better to get out now, while she could! But the soldiers were in the front door, while Beren and the innkeeper might be emerging from the kitchen at any moment, blocking that route. That left the window.