“Because someone told them,” Cathrynne said. When she and Gavriel had visited Casolaba’s mistress, she’d noticed cheap hostels along the riverbank. “Durian and his friend must have stayed somewhere when they came to the city. I’ll shake some trees and see what falls out.”
Mercy gave a grim nod. “Do what needs to be done.” She glanced at the gaunt figure on the bed. “I’ll watch over him.”
Cathrynne scoured the hostels near the Corniche, asking questions of anyone who worked there. The first seven denied seeing a young man with a birthmark on his face, but at the eighth, the barkeep gave her a flat look.
“Don’t want trouble with the witches,” he said.
“All I need is information.” She slid several gemstones across the bar. He hefted them in a palm.
“Those are hot with ley,” she said. “Guaranteed.”
His brows rose. The gems disappeared into his apron pocket. “They stayed one night. Couple of weeks ago. Didn’t see them after, but I read about the boy in the papers. Shame, that.” He paused. “Do you want to see the ledger? I got proof.”
She shook her head. “It’s okay. Did they talk about where else they’d gone in the city?”
“No, but they were sitting at the table next to Rafi.” He nodded his chin at a huge man with a forked beard hunched over a glass in the corner. “Maybe he heard something.”
Cathrynne thanked him and ordered another round of Rafi’s favorite drink, which the newly rich and chatty bartender explained was called a Spiked Admiral, named after a horned species of desert Sinn. She brought it over and slid into the seat across from him.
“A present,” she said, sliding the frothy glass across the table.
Rafi sneered. “Piss off.”
Cathrynne unwrapped the bandage from her left hand and gave the fingers an experimental flex. The bruises were almost entirely faded. Angus Valinger had done an excellent job resetting the bones.
Rafi stared at the raven tattoo below her knuckles. The sneer turned to hatred.
“Listen, bitch, I have nothing to say?—”
Cathrynne grabbed his beard and slammed his cheek down on the scarred table.
“You can’t—” he spluttered.
“I’m not from here,” she said softly, using an elbow to keep him pinned. “So I don’t give a damn about your civil rights. File all the complaints you want. Now, quiet down and you can have that drink, plus another one.”
He stopped struggling. “What do you want?” he asked from the corner of his mouth. It sounded like wuh-oo-un?
Cathyrnne eased up a little. “There were two kids in here a while back. One drowned. You probably read about it in the gossip rags.”
He said nothing.
“You were sitting next to them. I want to know where they went, who they talked to.”
He grunted. “Damn, psycho, just let me up.”
She sat back. Rafi smoothed his beard and shot an affronted look at the bartender, who nodded.
“Look, all I heard was some jeweler on Beryl Street. They thought he’d ripped them off or something.”
“Which jeweler?”
A shrug. “The kid didn’t say a name.”
She unhooked the whip from her belt and gave it an expert flick. The loud pop nearly made Rafi piss himself.
“D’Amico, okay!” he exclaimed. “Travian’s bones, that’s all I know.”
“Thank you.” Cathrynne stood up and dropped another gem on the table. She left him nursing his two drinks and asked the bartender for directions to Beryl Street. It wasn’t far, but it stretched for twelve blocks and had dozens of jewelers. She couldn’t find any called D’Amico, but inquiries confirmed that there was a jeweler named Simão Gomes D’Amato.
