The Jasuru collapsed to the ground, and Geder thought for a moment that he’d died. Then, weakly, his voice came.
“Callon. Callon Cane.”
Basrahip turned back. His eyes met Geder’s, and Geder shrugged. The name was nothing to him.
“Who is Callon Cane?”
“For God’s sake, kill me. Kill me.”
“I am your only hope of peace. Who is Callon Cane?”
“He’s some rich bastard in Herez. Put a price on the Lord Regent’s head. Me and Siph and Lachor found a mess of angry Timzinae ready to help us if we made the try. Thought if we hit fast—Oh God. They’re in me. They’re under my skin! Kill me! Please, by all that’s holy, kill me!”
“No,” Basrahip said. “That will not happen. The hand of the goddess is upon you now.”
The Jasuru screamed, his body arching until only his toes and the top of his head were touching the ground. Basrahip turned back to Geder.
“You must not approach him, Prince Geder. You and your men should return to your places. There is no danger now.”
Geder felt a wash of relief, but he didn’t sheathe his sword.
“What happened to him?”
“The hand of the goddess is upon him,” Basrahip said. “He is our brother now. We will care for him as we would any initiate to her truth.”
Geder’s jaw dropped.
“Are you serious? Basrahip, he just tried to kill me.”
“The goddess is upon him. He will not rebel again.” The Jasuru screamed again and kept on screaming, barely pausing to catch his breath. Basrahip put a wide hand on Geder’s shoulder. “The lies and sin are being burned out of him. It will take time, but he will become holy or he will die.”
“You’re sure about this?” Geder asked.
“I am certain.”
“Well. All right,” Geder said. “But this won’t make it easier to sleep.”
Suddapal was a strangely diffuse city. It had no wall, no defenses. Not even a solid marker to say where the city began. Shacks and low buildings became a bit more frequent. Paths crossed the wider track that Geder and his men had been following. And mile by mile Suddapal grew up around them. The spot where Fallon Broot and his men waited to greet him wasn’t particularly different from any other, but they made it the edge of Suddapal by their presence. Geder gave the order to sound the halt and climbed down from his carriage.
Fallon Broot looked older than the months since he’d left with the invading army could explain. His face seemed pinched, his skin an unhealthy color. Geder felt a rush of sympathy for him. Broot was a decent man, and well-meaning, but possibly not suited for the burdens of authority.
“Lord Regent,” Broot said, dropping from his saddle into a deep bow. “Welcome to your city.”
Geder grinned. “You don’t need to bow to me, Broot. We’ve known each other long enough we can afford a little informality, don’t you think?”
Broot’s smile was sickly. “Good of you, my lord.”
“I don’t want any feasts,” Geder said, setting off deeper into the city at a walk. Broot followed, and Geder’s personal guard behind them. “I’m not here to take control of anything. It’s more private business. You understand.”
“Of course, Lord Regent,” Broot said.
“All going well in the city, I hope?”
“Some troubles,” Broot said. “Nothing desperate so far. We’ve … ah. Well, we’ve found some evidence of a group that was spiriting Timzinae away.”
“What do you mean away?”
“Hide them on ships. Sneak them into caravans. Away.”
That wasn’t good. It was almost certain that any of the people central to the conspiracy against him would have been the first to escape. They were, after all, the ones with the most power. The most connections. They’d been able to corrupt Lord Ternigan and Dawson Kalliam. These were a dangerous people.
They reached a corner, and Geder paused, letting Broot show him the way, only instead the man stopped, laced his hands behind his back, and faced Geder like he was sizing up his executioner. Between the gravity of his demeanor and his lush mustache, Geder couldn’t help thinking he looked vaguely comedic.
“Have you broken the conspiracy?” Geder asked.
“In a manner of speaking. We’ve reason to believe it’s not operating any longer.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’ve had several people confess to the minister you sent us that they were brought into a group for this purpose by Isadau rol Ennanamet, voice of the Medean bank in Suddapal. And a Timzinae.”
“Hmm,” Geder said. “What does Cithrin say about it?”
“Cithrin bel Sarcour, you mean? She doesn’t say much, my lord. She fled the city last night along with all her people.”
Geder smiled and shook his head. Broot had spoken, but something must have distracted Geder. He hadn’t heard the words.
“Well, where’s the bank? We can go there now.”
“She’s not there, my lord. She and her guards and what was left of her staff got on a boat last night. They’re gone.”
Something cold was happening in Geder’s chest. Some kind of thickening. He hoped he wasn’t getting sick.
“No,” he said. “That didn’t happen. She knew I was coming. I wrote to her.”
“That’s as may be. But what I’m telling you is the woman left the city. She and the old magistra before her were shuffling Timzinae out of the city right under our noses. And with your grant of immunity,” Broot said, an angry buzz coming into his voice, “there wasn’t anything we could do to stop her.”
The meaning sank in, and the coldness in Geder’s chest detonated. For a moment, he couldn’t hear. Then he was standing in the street, his fist hurting badly, and Fallon Broot was on the ground with blood flowing down his mustache and shocked expression.
“Take me to her house,” Geder said. “Do it now.”
The compound of the Medean bank stood deserted. The doors swung open and closed in the wind. Straw from the stable littered the yard, caught up in tiny whirlwinds. Geder walked through the abandoned halls and corridors, tears running down his cheeks. He’d ordered Broot and his guards to wait in the street. He didn’t want anyone to see him.
She was gone. He’d come all this way for her, and she was gone. He’d told her how he felt for her, and she was gone. He loved her, and when he came to her to feed that love, to make it something that would have lived for the ages, she’d betrayed him and left. She hadn’t even had the kindness to tell him to his face.
He found a small bedroom with a mattress and pillow still in place. He lay down and curled up into himself the way an animal might to guard a wound. He didn’t feel sad or angry. He didn’t feel anything. He was empty in a way he’d never felt before. Cithrin had emptied him. When he began to sob, it was a distant sensation, but with every breath it grew closer and harder. When the grief finally came, it was like nothing he’d felt before except once. When he’d been a boy and his mother had died, it had felt just like this. His body shuddered and tensed. His breastbone ached like someone had punched him, and tears flowed down his cheeks like a rainstorm. He was sure they could hear him in the street, sure that they knew, and he wanted to stop, but he couldn’t. He’d started, and now he was too far gone to stop. He raged and he wept and he kicked the bed to pieces and ripped the pillow apart with his teeth and then collapsed on the floor, beaten and humiliated.
It was almost night when he drew the shell of his body up, blew his nose on a scrap of the ruined mattress, and did what he could to clean his face. His eyes felt like someone had rubbed sand in them, and his chest ached to the touch. His limbs felt heavy, like he was waking from too deep a sleep.