The Morag looked younger than Cathrynne had expected, but witches aged slowly, and the strongest might reach two hundred years or more. She had long, dark hair worn loose around her shoulders, with only a few threads of silver. Like all witches, and cyphers, too, her eyes were a metallic pewter. Scars wound from her left cheek down her neck and into her robe. Lithomantic spell burns. Cathrynne could tell that much from the stellate pattern.
“Let me be clear.” Her voice was low and gravelly. “You are not wanted here. Were the choice mine, I would assign cyphers from Satu Jos to guard Lord Morningstar, but he has stubbornly refused to accept anyone outside his own province.”
Cathrynne tried not to wither under her stare. Mercy wore the bland, unflappable expression she had perfected from years of breaking up bar fights.
“I assume you are trustworthy or Felicity Birch would not have sent you. You will shadow him wherever he goes and report to me on the investigation. Everything he discovers, everyone he speaks with. You might serve Morningstar, but you are under my command, make no mistake about it. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes, mum,” they answered.
“I will have your things brought to Lord Morningstar’s residence. You will stay there as long as he remains in this city.” She stared at them hard. “If any harm befalls him, if a single feather of those infamous black wings is ruffled, the fault will be yours and yours alone. We cannot afford any more fiascos. Is that clear?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Good. Morningstar is at the Red House. You may proceed there directly. Do you know the way?”
“I do,” said Mercy.
Isbail tossed them each a bag of gemstones and made a gesture of dismissal. “I expect your first report tomorrow.”
“But how will we slip away?” Cathrynne wondered. “If we’re guarding him night and day?”
“I am certain you will think of something,” the Morag replied grimly.
They backed out of the room. When the doors closed, Cathrynne exhaled a taut breath.
“That went well,” Mercy said, as the male witch escorted them out. “How much worse can Lord Morningstar be?”
Kota Gelangi was dirtier than Arioch and hot as blazes. The sticky smell of ripe fruit hung in the humid air, and everywhere Cathrynne looked, she saw stone alcoves cluttered with paper monsters. A man in a fine robe approached one, knelt down, and furtively left a handful of figs.
“I see why it’s called the City of a Thousand Shrines,” Cathrynne remarked as they bulled through the midday crowds. “They really do worship the Sinn.”
“Well, most people have relatives scratching out a living as rockhounds,” Mercy said. “Or they work for the witches who own the big mines. Either way, the Zamir Hills are infested with Sinn and the papers say they’ve been getting bolder. Attacking in broad daylight. I guess they hope that if they pray hard enough, the Sinn might start listening.”
“I wish Minerva would listen,” Cathrynne muttered.
Mercy shot her a sharp glance. “You don’t know that she isn’t. Now, we’re almost there. Brace yourself, because Morningstar won’t be easy to please. I’ve heard stories about him.”
“Like what?” Cathrynne knew the archangel of Kirith existed in the same way she knew gravity existed. She believed it was real, but she didn’t think about it much. And she certainly never expected to meet it in person.
“To be blunt,” Mercy said in a low voice, “he’s a bit of a prick. High-handed, arrogant, and critical of every little thing.”
“And he’s an angel,” Cathrynne said. “I’m shocked.”
Mercy didn’t laugh. “We’re serving two masters now. The Morag wants us to spy on the Morningstar, but if he finds out, it’s straight back to Arioch.”
“Then we just have to make them both happy,” Cathrynne said. “How hard can it be?”
Mercy snorted. “The eternal optimist.”
They cut through an open-air fruit market, rounded a traffic circle clogged with various conveyances, and the Red House appeared, occupying one side of a square. Guards in scarlet uniforms flanked its wide entrance. They directed Cathrynne and Mercy to the second floor.
A crowd milled around outside the dead man’s office. A few seraphim, three tense-looking witches in flowing robes, and more uniformed guards. The door opened, and an elderly man emerged. His face was deeply lined, his eyes bloodshot.
“Are you the cyphers from Kirith?” he asked.
Mercy nodded. “I’m Cypher Blackthorn. This is Rowan.”
“Come in, come in.” He turned to the waiting crowd. “The rest of you are to disperse on the orders of Lord Morningstar.”
