“Well, yes, but he was a very private man.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “There were meetings I wasn’t permitted to attend. He didn’t confide in me. I just took notes and ran errands. But Acting Consul Roloa was Casolaba’s deputy for many years before I arrived. He must know about it!” He raked a hand through his dark hair, causing it to stand on end.
“Calm yourself, Bottas. I am not accusing you. Why don’t you bring us all some kopi?”
The flustered aide departed.
“He’s lying,” Rowan said. “The whole lot of them are.”
Gavriel arched a brow.
“I could beat the truth out of him,” she offered. “It wouldn’t take long.”
Blackthorn winced. Gavriel wondered if it was a poor jest, but Rowan looked entirely earnest. “The investigation would go a lot quicker that way,” she added.
Gavriel turned to Yarl, who gave an amused shrug. “That is not how justice is administered in Sion,” he said severely, aware that his reputation would be tarnished by even a whisper of what she had just said. “I fear you are ill-suited to this posting. Perhaps I should request someone else.”
Her face froze. Then, a flurry of emotions. Embarrassment followed by regret and a flash of naked fear. “I apologize, Lord Morningstar,” she said in a humble tone. “I spoke out of turn.”
The abrupt shift intrigued him. There was very little artifice to Rowan; she seemed to voice whatever she thought.
“Very well. See that it doesn’t happen again,” he said.
Yarl cleared his throat. “It’s growing late, sir. You should get some rest.”
Gavriel eyed the papers yet to be sifted through. He was tempted to remain, but his broken wing was aching and he’d had little sleep in days now.
“The streets aren’t safe after dark,” Blackthorn said. “Too many vantage points for a hidden assailant.”
“I’ll arrange for a coach,” Yarl said, moving toward the door.
It arrived promptly, its matched foursome of tawny caracals padding silently in their harnesses. Gavriel settled into the cushioned interior, while the cyphers took positions on either side. Yarl sat opposite, his diary open on his knees as he made final notes from the day’s investigation.
As the coach pulled away from the Red House, Gavriel studied Rowan from the edge of his eye. Her methods were barbaric, but there was something bracing about her directness. In a world of half-truths and strategic omissions, it was a rare quality.
I will keep her as my bodyguard, Gavriel decided. At least for now.
Chapter 7
Cathrynne
The townhouse Lord Morningstar was renting looked even nicer than a hotel, not that Cathrynne had ever stayed in one. He kept making remarks about how tasteless the décor was, but if he had to spend a week in the cypher barracks, he might not be so picky.
As promised, their luggage had been left in the foyer. Brass lanterns hung from chains, and two curved staircases swept upward to the second floor.
“You’ll need to wait here while we check the house,” Cathrynne said.
Morningstar sighed. “Is that necessary?”
“Someone tried to kill you last night,” she reminded him. “So yes, it is.”
He waited with Yarl while she and Mercy conducted a thorough search. The first floor had a cavernous kitchen with acres of gleaming stone countertops, a formal dining room, a paneled library that also served as a study, two closet-like rooms for the maids, and a glass-walled conservatory overlooking the rear gardens.
The next two floors held a total of seven bedrooms, each furnished in the style of a different province. Cathrynne liked the Iskatar Room best. There were real palm trees in pots on the terrace and a wraparound mural depicting the month-long games staged by that fiercely competitive province, where the pursuit of glory was life’s highest calling.
The artist had done an incredible job. Cathrynne could have spent an hour studying the details, but the scene that caught her eye showed the archangel Raziel watching footraces from a red pavilion. He had deep brown skin and wore a white dashiki with a square, gold-embroidered neckline. Raziel’s neck and wrists were slender and elegant, the slight curve of his full lips intriguing. Was that a smile?
Cathrynne wondered if Morningstar had ever smiled in his life, which in turn made her wonder how old he was. He didn’t look more than thirty-five, but that meant nothing. Archangels aged at the pace of granite eroding beneath wind and rain.
She knelt to peer under the huge four-poster bed. No waiting assassins. Not even a speck of dust. But the guidebook on the side table looked interesting. Cathrynne leafed through it. Iskatar’s capital, Lagash, was apparently famous for cheese and salt.
