He nodded.

"Good. Then eat your supper, and try to sleep. I'm going to rest myself, in the next room. If you need me, you can call me. Go on now, you should try that soup before it gets cold."

She watched him for a few minutes as he ate, until she felt her eyelids growing heavy. When she woke up, she discovered she'd fallen asleep in the chair next to his bed, and Nico was asleep himself, curled up near to her with one hand stretched out to touch her leg. Outside, she could hear rain pattering against the roof and the shutters of the house.

She brought the covers up over Nico and pressed her lips to his cheek. She left him then, closing and locking the door behind her.

She hoped she would see him again.

The White Stone.

NESSANTICO . . .

She had never seen the city before, though of course she'd heard much about it. Even with the Holdings sundered, even with the previous Kraljiki having been a pale shadow of his famous matarh, and even with the current Kraljiki a frail boy who-rumors said-wouldn't live to his majority, Nessantico retained her allure.

The White Stone had always known she would eventually come here, as anyone with ambition must. The pull of the city was irresistible, and for a person in her line of business, Nessantico was a rich and fertile field to be exploited. But she had not expected to come here so quickly or for these reasons.

After the nearly-botched and hasty a.s.sa.s.sination of the Hirzg, she had thought it too dangerous to stay in the Coalition. She'd slipped back into her beggar role as Elzbet, hiding herself among the poor who were so often invisible to the ca'-and-cu', and she'd made her way from Brezno to Montbataille in the eastern mountains that formed the border of Nessantico and Firenzcia, and then down the River A'Sele to the great city itself.

Playing her role, she settled herself in Oldtown. That was the best way to avoid drawing attention to herself. She was just another of the nameless poor walking the streets of the known world's greatest city, and if she conversed with the voices in her head as she walked, no one would particularly notice or care. Just another crazed soul, a mad-woman babbling and muttering to herself, walking in some interior world at odds with the reality around her.

"You'll pay for this. You can't kill me and not pay. They'll find you. They'll track you down and kill you."

"Who?" she asked Fynn's strident voice as the others inside her laughed and jeered at him. She put her hand to her tashta, feeling underneath the cloth the small leather pouch tied around her neck, and inside it the smooth, pale stone she kept with her always. "Who will come find me? I told you who hired me. Is she going to search for me?"

"You're worried that someone else will figure it out. You're worried that word will get out that the White Stone was also the woman who was Jan ca'Vorl's lover. They've seen your face; they would recognize you, and the White Stone's face can't be known."

"Shut up!" she nearly screamed at him, and the screech caused heads to turn toward her. A pa.s.sing utilino stopped in the midst of his rounds, his teni-lit lantern swinging over to focus on her. She shielded her eyes from the light, stooping over and grinning at the man with what she hoped was a mad leer. The utilino uttered a sound of disgust and the light moved away from her; the other people had already looked away, turning back to their own business.

The voices of her victims were laughing and chuckling and chortling as she turned the corner into Oldtown Center. The famous teni-lamps of Nessantico gleamed and twinkled on the iron posts set around the open plaza. She gazed up at the placards of the shops along the street. Here in the large plaza the shops were still open, though most of those along the side streets had been shuttered since full dark: the teni might light the lamps of Oldtown Center, but they didn't come to the narrow and ancient streets that led off the Center. They'd set the ring of the Avi A'Parete ablaze all around the city, so that Nessantico seemed to wear a collar of yellow brilliance, and they would illuminate the wide streets of the South Bank where most of the ca'-and-cu' lived, but Oldtown was left to dwell in night.

The moon had slid behind a cloud, and a drizzle threatened to turn into a hard rain. She hurried along toward the Center, knowing that the weather would send everyone home and set the shopkeepers to shuttering their stores.

There: she saw the mortar and pestle of an apothecary just down the lane, and she shuffled toward it through the rapidly-thinning crowds, keeping her back near the bricks and stones of the buildings and her head down. Once, a pa.s.sing man touched her arm: a graybeard, who leered at her with missing teeth and breath that smelled of beer and cheese. "I have money," he said to her without prelude, his face slick with rain. "Come with me."

Wh.o.r.e! the voices called out at her gleefully, mocking. Why not?-you let them pay you for other services. She glared at him, and showed him the hilt of the knife at her waist. "I'm not a wh.o.r.e," she told him, told them. Her hand grasped the knife, and raindrops scattered from her cloak with the motion. "Back away."

The man laughed, gap-toothed, and spread his hands. "As you wish, Vajica. No harm, eh?" Then his gaze slid away from her and he walked on, splashing in the gathering puddles. She watched him go.

She could rid herself of him, but not of the others. They were with her always.

She'd reached the apothecary and glanced inside the open shutters. There was no one inside except for the balding proprietor. She went inside, the man glancing up from his jars and vials behind the counter as the bell on the door jingled brightly.

"Good evening to you. A foul night-I was just about to close up. How can I help you, Vajica?" His words were pleasant, but the tone of them and the look he gave her were less inviting. He seemed torn between coming from behind the counter and returning to his interrupted preparations to close. "A potion for headaches? Something to ease a cough?"

The White Stone would have been firm, would have been certain, but she wasn't the White Stone now, only an unranked, nondescript young woman dripping on the floor, a person who could be mistaken for a common prost.i.tute walking the streets or trying to escape the weather for a moment.

Is this what you really want? She wasn't sure who asked the question, or whether it was her own self who asked. The voices had been quiet when she'd been with Jan. Somehow, being with him had quieted the turmoil inside her head, and that had been at least part of the attraction he'd had for her, had been why she'd let herself grow far more attached than she should have. With Jan, for that little time, she'd felt herself healing. She'd thought that maybe she could become someone other than the White Stone, could become normal. Jan . . . She wondered what he was thinking now, whether he was feeling that he'd been played the fool, or if he ever thought of her with regret. She wondered whether he knew who she'd been, that she'd killed his uncle, or if he thought she'd fled only because she pretended to be someone she wasn't and had been found out.

"Vajica?"

She wondered if he would ever know just how much she regretted it all.

She touched her stomach gently again, as she had more and more recently. She should have had her monthly bleeding even before she'd killed Fynn ca'Vorl. She'd thought perhaps it was the stress that had made it a few days late. But the bleeding hadn't come during her flight; it still hadn't come during the days she'd been in Nessantico, and there was now the strange nausea when she woke and there were stranger feelings inside.

It's all you will have of him. Do you really want to do this?

It might have been her own voice. It might have been all of them.

"Vajica? I don't have all evening. The rain . . ."

She shook her head, blinking. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I . . ." Her hand touched her abdomen again.

He was staring at her, at the motion of her hand on her belly. His chin lifted and fell, and he rubbed a hand over his bald head as if smoothing invisible hair. "I may have what you want, Vajica," he said, and his voice was gentler now. "Young ladies of your age, they come to me sometimes, and like you, they don't quite know what to say. I have a potion that will bring on your bleeding. That's what you need, isn't it? However, I must tell you that it's not easy to make, and therefore not cheap."

She stared at him. She listened. She put her hand to the collar of her soaked tashta and felt the stone in its leather pouch.

The voices were silent.

Silent.

"No," she told him. She backed away, hearing the door jingle as her heel slammed into it. "No. I don't want your potion. I don't want it."

She turned then and fled into the plaza and the harsh a.s.sault of the rain, the teni-lights flaring around her and reflecting on the wet streets.

That was when she heard the wind-horns begin to blow alarm, all across the city.

EVASIONS.

Karl ca'Vliomani.

Niente.

Nico Morel

Varina ci'Pallo

Audric ca'Dakwi

Allesandra ca'Vorl

Eneas cu'Kinnear

Niente

Sergei ca'Rudka

Karl ca'Vliomani

Jan ca'Vorl

Audric ca'Dakwi.

The White Stone.

Karl ca'Vliomani.

THE PLAN WAS SIMPLE enough-it had to be. Karl had no army with which to a.s.sail the Bastida. He had no compatriots among the gardai to open the gates for him or leave them unguarded or to give him copies of the ornate keys to the donjon. He didn't have the wild, powerful magic Mahri had possessed when Mahri had taken him from the Bastida, to just s.n.a.t.c.h Sergei away.

He had himself. He had Mika and Varina. He had what Sergei himself had told him.

He had the weather.

The Bastida had originally been designed as a fortress to guard the River A'Sele from invaders coming upriver; it had been turned into a prison late in its life. Portions of its legacy still existed, and no one knew all of its hidden ways, though few knew them better than Sergei ca'Rudka, who had long been in charge of the rambling, dank collection of black stones.

The trio borrowed a small rowboat moored east of the Pontica a'Brezi Nippoli, stepping into it a few turns of the gla.s.s after full dark, as the moon and the stars were lost behind the ramparts of scudding sky-towers and a fine mist began to fall. "I'd say thank the G.o.ds, if I believed in them." Mika grinned at Karl as he helped Varina in, then Karl. Knee-deep in the river, he pushed them away from the sh.o.r.e. "I'll see you two later," he said.

Karl hoped he was right. He watched Mika splash from the river and run back toward the houses along the South Bank.

Karl and Varina didn't use the oars for fear that the splashing would alert one of the roaming utilino or some curious walkers above them. Instead, they allowed the A'Sele's slow current to take them downstream. They were dressed in dark clothing, their faces obscured with soot and ash though the rain quickly washed them clean. As soon as they pa.s.sed the Pontica a'Brezi Veste and the grim, cheerless towers of the Bastida, they glimpsed wavering candlelight high up in the tower where ca'Rudka was kept-the sign that he was still there.

Karl steered the boat quietly to the sh.o.r.e. He and Varina stepped out into the muck and wet, ignoring the smell of dead fish and foul water, and slipped quickly into the shadow of the Bastida.

Karl found the door where Sergei had said it would be: where the gra.s.sy mound of the river wall-which Kraljica Maria IV had ordered built a century and a half ago to keep the A'Sele's annual spring floods from inundating the South Bank-met the flanks of the Bastida's western tower. The door was covered by sod where the flood bank swept over the stony feet of the Bastida, but the sod was but a few fingers' thickness, the barest covering, and Karl's hands quickly found the iron ring underneath. He tugged on it, carefully. The door yielded grudgingly, rain-clotted dirt falling away from it, but the sound of protesting hinges was largely covered by the hiss of rain on the river. Karl held the door open as Varina slipped inside, then he stepped inside himself, letting the door close behind him.

He heard Varina speak a spell-word, and light bloomed inside the hooded lantern they'd brought: the cold yellow light of the Scath c.u.mhacht. The glare seemed impossibly bright in the blackness. Karl could see moss-slick stones and broken flags, the walls festooned with strange fungal growths and decorated with curtains of tattered spiderwebs. The brown, sinister shapes of rats slid away from the light, squeaking in protest.

"Lovely," Varina muttered, the whisper seeming to echo impossibly loudly. She kicked at a rat that scuttled too close to her feet, and it chattered angrily before fleeing.

"Better rats than gardai," Karl told her. "Come on-Sergei said this should lead into the base of the main tower. Keep that lantern well-hooded, just in case."

The walk through the abandoned corridor seemed to take a full turn of the gla.s.s, though Karl knew it couldn't have been more than a few hundred strides. The air was chill, and Karl shivered in his soaked clothing. They came to another door, this one obviously long-shut, and Karl put a single finger to his lips: beyond here, Sergei had said, they would be in the lowest levels of the Bastida, where there might be guards or prisoners locked in half-forgotten cells. Varina took a jar of cooking grease from her tashta; opening it, she slathered the foul stuff on the hinges of the door and around the edges. Then, stepping away, she pulled tentatively on the door's handle; it didn't move. She pulled harder. Nothing. She braced her foot on the wall. The door rattled once in its frame but otherwise there was no response. Locked-Varina mouthed the word.

Varina placed her right eye to the keyhole, peering through. She shook her head, then hunkered next to the doorframe. She spoke a single spell-word, gesturing with her hands at the same time: wood shivered into sawdust around the keyhole, the work of a thousand wood-ants performed in an instant, and the metal mechanism slipped down in the ragged, new hole with a dull plonk. Varina caught the bolt and wriggled it slowly and carefully loose, then pulled on the door once more. This time it gave way reluctantly but silently, and they slipped through and onto damp, well-used pavestones, poorly illuminated by torches set in ring sconces at long intervals along the walls-at least a third of them having already guttered out, streaks of black soot staining the low ceilings above them. The corridor reeked of oil and smoke and urine.

Karl pulled the door closed again behind them and studied it quickly. A casual pa.s.serby might not notice the spell-bored gouge in the dimness; it would have to do. Silently, he pointed to their right and they began padding quickly along the corridor.

All the pa.s.sages will lead off to the left. Count two, and take the third. That's what Sergei had told him; now he watched carefully as they hurried. One opening, down which they could hear the sound of someone screaming: a long, thin, and plaintive mewling that didn't sound human-Karl felt Varina shudder alongside him. Two: a brightly-lit pa.s.sageway, and the sound of distant, rough voices laughing at some private joke and calling out.

Three. Down a short corridor, worn stone steps spiraled upward, and they could hear low voices and the sounds of inhabitation. The tower . . .

Varina's hand grasped his arm; she leaned close to him, her warmth welcome against his side. "We should wait. Mika . . ."