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'Not so loudly, child,' the priest pleaded, remember, we survive on sufferance; we can have no suspicions.' He gestured to the mute, who went to the window and began playing a loud folktune on his pipes. 'We have no rights.' Taking Cythen's arm, he ushered her into a cramped, windowless alcove, hidden behind one of his tapestries.
Molin began to speak in a hoarse whisper. 'And keep quiet about this,' he warned her. 'The Aphrodisia is the favourite gaming place of our new lords and masters, especially the younger, hot-headed ones. There's an element among them that does not appreciate the current policy of restraint. Remember, these people are exiles; they've just lost a war at home; they've got something to prove to themselves. Sure, the older men say "Bide your time," "We'll go home next year, or the year after that, or the one after that." They weren't the ones on the battlefields getting their asses kicked.
'The Beysa Shupansea listens to the old men, but now, with the murders of their own people, she is becoming nervous herself. The clamour for a stronger hand is rising ...'
Molin was interrupted by the sound of someone banging on the outer door. 'The palace is a sponge,' he complained, and he was in a position to know the truth. 'Wait here and stay quiet, for god's sake.'
Walegrin and Cythen pressed back into the shadows and listened to a loud, unintelligible conversation between Molin and one of the Beysib lords. They did not need to understand the words; the shouts told them enough. The Beysib was angry and upset. Molin was having small success at calming him down. Then the Beysib stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and Molin rushed back into the alcove.
'They want results.' He rubbed his hands together nervously, releasing the scent of the oils he used on his skin. 'Turghurt's out there calling for vengeance and his people are listening. After all, no Beysib would kill another Beysib in such a crude ma
Walegrin frowned. 'So they believe it's a Sanctuary man, or woman, behind it. But at least one of the bodies was found on the rooftops, right here, in the palace compound. This place is guarded, Molin. We guard it; they guard it. We'd have seen him, at least.'
'Exactly what I've told them. Exactly why I'm sure it isn't one of us. But no; they've been frightened. They're convinced the town is smouldering against them - they don't intend to be pushed any further and they're not about to listen to me.
'I figure it works this way: there are malcontents in this court just like anywhere else. I knew the bulk of the hotheads congregated at the Aphrodisia. I didn't think there was danger to it; I just meant to keep those young men watched. Their leader is the eldest son of Terrai Burek, the Beysa's prime minister. And a child more unlike the father you can't imagine. It's no secret the boy hates his father and would do anything to spite the old man - though I expect bullying the townspeople would come naturally to him anyway. Yet, the father protects his son and the common laws of Sanctuary can't reach him.'
'You're talking about Turghurt, aren't you?' Walegrin asked, obviously recognizing the name, though Cythen didn't recall having heard it before. 'Still, Cythen's sister was killed by venom - and the Harka Bey are all women.'
'True enough, but if the Harka Bey is real then it's likely a number of other things are - like the rings with reservoirs for venom and razor-sharp blades to simulate the fangs. They've told me the venom can't be isolated, but I don't believe them now -'
'Who is this Terket Buger?' Cythen inquired, her thoughts warming to the idea of a name and face she could blame and take vengeance upon. 'Would I recognize him?'
'Turghurt Burek,' Walegrin corrected. 'Yeah, you've probably seen him. He's a big man, a troublemaker. Taller than most of the Beysib men here by a head or more. He's a coward, I'm sure, because we can never find him alone. He's always got a handful of cronies around. We can't lay a hand on him anyway - though this time we're talking about killing.' He looked hopefully to the priest.
'Not this time, either.'
They were once again interrupted by a hammering on the outside door and the sounds of masculine voices shouting in the Beysib language. Molin left the alcove to deal with the intrusion and fared worse this time than before. He was roundly berated by two men who, it appeared, had made up their minds about something. The priest returned to the alcove, visibly shaken.
'It fits together now,' he said slowly. 'The boy has boxed us all. Another Beysib woman has been found dead - and mutilated, I might add - down by the wharf. Young Burek has played his hand masterfully. That was him, and his father, to tell me that the populace must be controlled or wholesale slaughter of the townsfolk will be on my conscience. The men of Bey will not see their women defiled.'
'Turghurt Burek was here?' Cythen asked, her hands moving instinctively to her hip, where she usually wore her sword. She cursed herself for not having dared to lift the tapestry a fraction to see his face.
'The same, and he's convinced his father now as well. Walegrin, I don't know how you'll do it, but you've got to keep the peace until I can get the old man to see reason - or catch the murderers bloody-handed.' The priest paused, as if an idea had just occurred to him. He looked hard at Cythen and she fairly cringed from the plotting she saw in his face. 'Catch them bloody-handed! You - Cythen; how much do you want your revenge? What will you sacrifice to get it? Turghurt is full of himself, and he'll likely go back to the Aphrodisia to celebrate this victory. He hasn't been back since your sister died, but I doubt he'll wait much longer. If not tonight, then tomorrow night. He'll go back because he has to gloat - and because his kind get no satisfaction from these high-handed Beysib women.
'Now, somehow your sister learned something she shouldn't have and died for it. Could you lure him into the same mistake and survive to let me know of it? I'll need proof absolute if I'm going to confront his father. Not a corpse, you understand; that will only fan the flames. What I'll need is Turghurt and the proof. Can you get it for me?'
Cythen found herself nodding, promising the Rankan priest that she would get her vengeance as she got him his proof; as she spoke another hidden part of herself froze into numb paralysis. The meeting had become a dream from which she could not seem to awaken: a continuation of all the nightmares that made her past so unpleasant to remember. Bekin was dead - but not gone.
She stood mute while the priest and Walegrin made their plans. Her silence was taken for attentiveness, though she heard nothing above the screaming other own thoughts. The priest patted her on the shoulder as she left his rooms, following Walegrin into the forecourt again. Knots of Beysibs had gathered there, talking among themselves with their backs to the Sanctuary pair as they walked back to the garrison. One of the men did turn to stare at her. He wasn't tall so he wasn't Turghurt, but all the same. the feel of the cold fish-eyes regarding her finally loosened her tongue.
'Sabellia preserve me! I know nothing of Bekin's trade. I'm still a virgin!' It was as much of a prayer as she had muttered since her father went down with an arrow in his throat.
Walegrin stopped short, appraising her in surprise. 'You told me you'd worked on the Street of Red Lanterns?'