“Why would you pay so much for depleted gems?” she asked.
Durian jabbed a hard elbow, which she ignored. The witches would know the moment they touched the stones that there was no ley inside. And they must know that anyway.
“We’re always interested in new varieties,” the man said. “To study. But we’ll need to see them first.”
“Durian—” Kal hissed, but he’d already handed the pouch over.
The woman opened it with caution as if there might be a scorpion inside. Her face gave nothing away as she studied the stones. But then she did an even more peculiar thing. She didn’t toss the purse back or tuck it into a pocket. She set it down on the street, next to her white boots, as if she didn’t want to touch it.
“Tell us exactly where you found these,” she said, “and we’ll complete our transaction.”
Kal scowled. You never gave up the exact location of a claim, not for anything.
“That’s not part of the bargain,” she said.
The male witch’s glinting smile evaporated. He raised a fist and Durian floated off the ground. A sudden wind whipped the sandy around his face, which wore a look of sheer terror.
“I’ll ask again. Where did you find these?” the woman demanded.
Without thinking, Kal reached down and pried up a loose paving stone. She hurled it with all her might. It clipped the witch on his beetled brow. Durian dropped to the ground, gasping. Kal grabbed his hand and dragged him down the Corniche. It was deserted except for a dog-walker across the river.
“I can’t—” Durian panted, his bad leg twisting.
“You can!” Kal gripped his hand tighter. “We’re not far from the market?—”
An invisible force tore him from her grasp. Time slowed as Durian sailed over the stone embankment and into the river. He went under and didn’t come up. The witches sprinted down the Corniche. The man was bleeding and furious, the woman livid.
“You idiot,” she snarled. “We need them alive. Get the girl!”
Kal took off like a jackrabbit as chips of stone exploded from the walls on either side. Each moment, she expected to be hurled into the river like Durian. Yet somehow none of the spells seemed to hit her. She ducked into a side street, then another and another, zigzagging through smelly stalls. The fish market. Kota’s morning crowds were thickening now, and a glance behind showed no white coats.
Only when she was certain she’d lost her pursuers did she slow to a walk, lungs burning. Her fingers found the pouch hidden in her pocket. The witches had Durian’s kaldurite, but not her share.
What did they want a bunch of worthless empty stones for anyway?
And Durian . . . Guilt stabbed her. It was her fault. She should have just let them have it.
Kal skulked through the shadows, trying to decide what to do next. She couldn’t go to the authorities and file a complaint, demand a search of the river.
The witches were the fucking authorities.
Chapter 9
Gavriel
The scribblers had found a new angle to their tedious narrative, one that struck uncomfortably close to home. Gavriel read the latest edition of the Daily Mumble with mounting irritation.
Morningstar’s Justice Reserved for the Rich and Powerful Only?
Even as Kirith’s archangel dedicates his prodigious energies to solving the high-profile murder of Barsal Casolaba, the recent death of a young speculator fails to merit similar scrutiny. When asked at the Assembly whether he planned to open a second inquiry, Lord Morningstar blithely replied that it was beyond the scope of his commission. Perhaps he should tell that to the grieving mother, who languishes in the gritty mining town of Pota Pras with no answers regarding her young son’s demise . . .
It was absurd.
And precisely the sort of accusation that would gain traction among the public. Gavriel folded the offending broadsheet and placed it atop the pile he’d already scanned. All touted variations on the same theme.
“It’s an obvious angle for the opposition to exploit,” Yarl remarked, “especially since they are demanding a new election. The consul’s death commands your full attention, while a poor boy from the mining country lies forgotten. It plays well to their base.”
“It’s inaccurate!” Gavriel exclaimed. “I do not have an open-ended invitation to look into every suspicious death in Satu Jos! This is a matter for the witches.”
