‘And it would have been mine!’ Shadowthrone hissed in sudden rage. ‘If not for that confounded fat man with the greasy lips! Mine!’
‘Iskaral Pust’s, you mean.’
Shadowthrone settled down once more, tapped his cane. ‘We’d have seen eye to eye, eventually.’
‘I doubt it.’’
‘Well, who cares what you think, anyway?’
‘So where is he now?’
‘Pust? Back in the temple, poring through the archives of the Book of Shadows.’
‘Looking for what?’
‘Some provision, any provision, for a High Priest of Shadow having two wives.’
‘Is there one?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Well,’ Cotillion said, ‘didn’t you write it?’
Shadowthrone shifted about. ‘I was busy.’
‘So who did?’
Shadowthrone would not answer.
Cotillion’s brows rose. ‘Not Pust! The Book of Shadows, where he’s proclaimed the Magus of the High House Shadow?’
‘It’s called delegation,’ Shadowthrone snapped.
‘It’s called idiocy.’
‘Well, hee hee, I dare say he’ll find what he’s looking for, won’t he?’
‘Aye, with the ink still wet.’
They said nothing then for a time, until Cotillion drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, and then said, ‘We should give him a few days, I think.’ And this time, he was not speaking of Iskaral Pust.
‘Unless you want to get cut to pieces, yes, a few days.’
‘I wasn’t sure he’d, well, accept. Right up until the moment he…’ Cotillion winced and looked up the street, as if straining to see some lone, wandering, lost figure dragging a sword in one hand. But no, he wouldn’t be coming back. ‘You know, I did offer to explain. It might have eased his conscience. But he wasn’t in-terested.’
‘Listen to these damned bells,’ said Shadowthrone. ‘My head’s hurting enough as it is. Let’s go, we’re done here.’
And so they were, and so they did.
Two streets from his home, Bellam Nom was grasped from behind and then pushed up against a wall. The motion ripped pain through his broken arm. Gasp-lug, close to blacking out, he stared into the face of the man accosting him, and then slumped. ‘Uncle.’ And he saw, behind Rallick, another vaguely familiar face. ‘And… Uncle.’
Frowning, Rallick eased back. ‘You look a mess, Bellam.’
And Torvald said, ‘The whole damned Nom clan is out hunting for you.’
‘Oh.’
‘It won’t do having the heir to the House going missing for days,’ Torvald said. ‘You got responsibilities, Bellam. Look at us, even we weren’t so wayward in our young days, and we’re heirs to nothing. So now we got to escort you home. See See how you’ve burdened us?’
And they set out.
‘I trust,’ Rallick said, ‘that whoever you tangled with faired worse, Bellam.’
‘Ah, I suppose he did.’
‘Well, that’s something at least.’
After they had ushered the young man through the gate, peering through to make sure he actually went inside, Rallick and Torvald set off.
‘That was a good one,’ Rallick said, ‘all that rubbish about us in our youth.’
‘The challenge was in keeping a straight face.’
‘Well now, we weren’t so bad back then. At least until you stole my girlfriend.’
‘I knew you hadn’t forgotten!’
‘I suggest we go now to sweet Tiserra, where I intend to do my best to steal her back.’
‘You’re not actually expecting she’ll make us breakfast, are you?’
‘Why not?’
‘Tiserra is nobody’s servant, cousin.’
‘Oh, well. You can keep her, then.’
Torvald smiled to himself. It was so easy working Rallick. It had always been so easy, getting him ending up thinking precisely what Torvald wanted him to think.
Rallick walked beside him, also pleased as from the corner of his eye he noted Torvald’s badly concealed, faintly smug smile. Putting his cousin at ease had never taxed Rallick.
It was a comfort, at times, how some things never changed.
When Sister Spite stepped on to the deck, she saw Cutter near the stern, leaning on the rail and staring out over the placid lake. She hid her surprise and went to join him.
‘I am returning to Seven Cities,’ she said.
