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'If he was so damned all-fired concerned about how rashly I might act, then why in his departed god's name didn't he keep Bekin from getting killed in the first place?'
'You hid her too well. He didn't know who she was until she was dead, Cythen. You bought Myrtis's silence; she was the only one beside you who knew - and maybe Jubal, I guess. But, did you know she was working the Beysib traffic on the Street?' Walegrin paused and let Cythen absorb the information she obviously had not had before. 'Most of the women won't, you know. I guess it's not just their eyes that're different. But she was killed by a Beysib serpent - a jealous wife maybe? And, now that Beysibs are getting killed by an ordinary rip-and slash artist in numbers and places that can't all be written off to carelessness, you are a suspect, you Know.'
The anger had burned itself out, leaving Cythen with gaping holes in her defences; the grief slipped out. 'Walegrin, she was mad. Every man looked the same to her - so of course she'd work the Beysib, or Jubal. She didn't live here. She couldn't have known anything, or done anything to make someone kill her. Damn, if Molin cares who services the Beysib stallions he could have protected her anyway.' A few tears escaped and, shamed by them, Cythen hid her face behind her hands.
'You should tell him that yourself. You're not going to be any use to me until you do.' Walegrin rolled the parchment, then stood up to fasten his sword-belt over his hips. 'You won't be needing anything - let's go.'
Too surprised to object, Cythen followed him into the palace forecourt. A handful of gaudy Beysib youths, brash young men and lithe, bold women, pushed loudly past them, the exposed, painted breasts of the women flashing from beneath their capelets in the sunlight. Walegrin affected not to notice; no man in Sanctuary would notice the flaunted flesh - not if he valued his life. The Beysib had made that very clear in the first, and - thus far - only, wave of executions. Cythen stared, though not as well as the Beysib could stare, at their faces and finally looked away, unable to find any individuality in the barbaric features. Prism could have walked beside her and she would not have known it.
One of the Beysib lords strode by, magenta pantaloons billowing around him, a glittering fez perched atop his shaved head, and a well-scrubbed Sanctuary urchin struggling with a great silk parasol behind him. Both Walegrin and Cythen halted and saluted as he passed. That was the way now, if you accepted their gold.
She was grateful for the shadows of the lower palace and the familiar sound of servants shouting in Rankene at each other as they approached the much-reduced quarters of Kadakithis and his retainers. In truth, though, she no longer wanted to see the priest, if indeed she had ever wanted to see him. Her anger had escaped and now she only wanted to return to her tiny room. But Walegrin pounded on the heavy door and forced it open before the Torch's pet mute could lift the latch.
Molin set down his goblet and stared at Cythen in the old-fashioned way that said: What has the cat dragged in this time? Cythen tugged at her tunic, well aware that the clothes of a garrison soldier, no matter how clean or cared for, were unseemly attire for a woman - especially one who had been an earling's daughter. And if he knew about Bekin, then he might have known the rest as well. She would have run from the chamber, had that been an option, but since it wasn't, she squared her shoulders and matched his appraising look with one of her own.
The priest was Rankan and he'd managed to retain all the implied power and majesty that that word had ever carried, despite the low ceilings and the laundry-women battling outside his window. Bands of gold decorated the hems of his robes, adorned his boots, and circled his fingers. His midnight hair was combed to surround his face like a lion's mane - yet it was not so dark or shiny as his eyes. If the Torch's god had been vanquished, as some claimed; if the Prince was simply a puppet in the hands of the Beysa; if his prospects for wealth and honour had been reduced, then none of it showed in his appearance or demeanour. Cythen looked away first.
'Cythen has some questions I can't answer for her,' Walegrin said boldly as he laid the parchment on the priest's table. 'She wonders why you didn't protect Bekin when you first suspected there might be danger in dealing with the Beysib, as she did.'
The Torch calmly unrolled the parchment. 'Ah, three caravans yesterday; seventy five soldats. We've almost enough. They agree the first boat should be bought with Rankan gold, you know. The longer we can keep the capital ignorant of our situation here, the better it will be for all of us. If they knew how much gold was floating in our harbour, they'd bring half the army down here to take it from us - and neither we nor they want that.' He looked up from the parchment.
'Have you found me a man to take the gold north yet? I'll have other messages for him to carry as well. The war's not going well; I think we can lure Tempus back to his Prince. We're going to need that man's unique and nasty talents before this is over.' He rerolled the parchment and handed it over to the mute.
Walegrin scowled. He had no desire to have Tempus back in the town. Molin sipped at his wine and seemed to notice Cythen for the first time again. 'Now then, for your companion's questions. I was not aware of the unfortunate woman's relationship to Cythen until after she was dead. And I certainly did not know there was danger in bedding a Beysib until it was too late.'
'But you were watching her. You must have suspected something,' Cythen snarled, grinding her heel into the lush wool-and-silk carpet and banging her fist on the priest's fine parquet table.
'She was, I believe, a half-mad - or totally mad, you'd know better than I harlot at the Aphrodisia. I can not imagine the dangers or delights of such a life. She entertained a variety of Beysib men, one of the few who would, and as the welfare of the Beysib is important to me, I kept tabs on them, and therefore her. It is a pity she was murdered - that is what happened, isn't it? But, mad as she was - sleeping with the Beysib - isn't it better that she's departed? Her spirit is free now to be reborn on a higher, happier level.'
Theology came easily and sincerely to the priest. And Cythen, who knew her own sins well enough, was tempted to believe the resonant phrases.
'You knew something,' she said pleadingly, clutching her resolve. 'Just like the Harka Bey suspected something when I told them.'
Torchholder swallowed his pious words and looked to Walegrin for confirmation. The blond, ice-eyed man simply nodded his head slightly and said: 'It had been suggested by Yorl. Cythen seemed the most appropriate one for the task; she volunteered anyway.'
'Harka Bey,' the priest repeated, mulling over the words. 'Vengeance of Bey, I believe, in their language. I've heard rumours, legends, whatever about them, but everybody's denied that there's anything to the legends. Poison-blooded female assassins? And real enough that Cythen met with them? Very interesting, but not at all what I'd expected.'
'I believe, your Grace, that Yorl only suggested contacting the Harka Bey. It seems unlikely that they would have killed the girl: Indeed they deny it,' Walegrin corrected, clenching Cythen's upper arm in a bruising grip to keep her quiet.
'What did you expect?' Cythen demanded of Molin, wrenching free of Walegrin and raising her voice. 'Why is it so important that she slept with the Beysib men? Which one of them do you suspect of murder?'