Page 25 of Turncloak

“Sen doloran,” Saffron slung out, surprised by the malice coursing through the words. Her lip bled from the fist she’d taken to the face—the taste of salt and metal had clearly riled her up.

The torture curse buried itself in the belly of the drunk Whitewing. Thank the Saints he was so inebriated, so sloppy, or dodging his errant ammortens might not have been so straightforward.

His roars of pain filled the alley as he staggered backward, fell heavily to the ground. His pine wand clattered to the cobbles, and she tucked it in her belt before standing over his writhing body, wand trained over his heart. He bucked and brayed, but nobody from the street came to investigate.

“How long was Avar Martou in command, and how long—oof.”

He kicked out at her ankles like a bucking steed, and she stumbled. Her concentration lapsed, and the spell broke, and the second he was no longer in mortal agony, he found his sobriety. Sensing defeat, he did not try to disarm her, to win back his wand, but rather took off back to Velclaw Street with surprising speed.

Saffron considered pursuing, but she was winded, her struck ankle throbbing like a second heartbeat. She had the sense of a narrow escape, the instinct that she should fold the hand.

Then again, Levan did not seem to care overly whether she lived or died, and it was to him she now answered. She lifted her wand to her bleeding mouth, reestablished et vocos.

“Killoran?” She could’ve sworn there was a note of relief in the word, but this was perhaps wishful thinking. The do as you must command still echoed through her like a funeral song.

She climbed to her feet, stalked toward the mouth of the alley. “I lost him. I had his wand, but took a kick to the ankle while trying to wrangle more information out of him. My concentration lapsed, and the curse fell away, and he ran off drunk and wandless. Should I pursue?”

“Don’t push your woeful luck.” A heavy pause; she could picture him smoothing the front of his robes. “Good work, Killoran. But for now, stop following the Whitewings. Focus on Marriosan—whatever it takes.”

14

• • • •

Clean Hands

After being officially reassigned to the Whitewings, Auria was summoned to the office of Detective Ténebo Jebat.

Jebat was a Sinyi mage with dark brown skin, wiry black hair sprayed white at the temples, and a gold-and-ruby septum ring. The walls of his chambers were hung with framed paintings of racehorses—he loved the chariots—as well as letters from the families of victims to whom he’d brought justice.

Outside, storm-swollen clouds purpled the sky, and a low fog smothered the city’s infamous spires.

“Detective Marriosan.” Jebat gestured for her to take a seat. He was performing a deep squat, gripping the edge of the desk and grimacing slightly. “Excuse me—bad back. The captain has ordered me to get you up to speed on the Whitewing operation so far.”

“Wonderful,” Auria muttered, her vision rheumy, migraine-smeared. The sweet-spice of the cinnamon and tarmot perfume she’d chosen that morning, rather than filling her well with pleasure, was only making her nauseous. She perched gingerly on the edge of a maroon velvet-upholstered chair.

“You seem unhappy to be reassigned.” Jebat’s voice had the gentle lisp regional to Cape Fala. “But given everything—”

“Everything has given me even more reason to want the Bloodmoons eradicated.”

With an immense middle-aged crunching of bone and cartilage, Jebat rose and leaned back against the waist-high windowsill. “Your colleagues are working themselves ragged on that very thing.”

Not as hard as I would work.

“I know.”

“You’re too close—”

“—to the situation. So I’ve heard.”

Jebat hooked a booted toe beneath the handle of his desk drawer and inelegantly tugged it out. With a ring-clad hand—nails painted a rich cherry red—he withdrew a stack of rolling papers and a small tobacco tin. He rattled the tin, raising a brow at Auria. “Do you mind? Ever since my husband and I separated, I can’t kick the habit.”

“Go ahead,” Auria said, even though she minded greatly.

“The Whitewings aren’t the only reason I summoned you.” Jebat got to work rolling an achullah joint. “Aspar was mentoring you, before she passed?”

Auria fought hard to dispel the mental image of her captain’s bloody death. “Yes. First in wielding, then in a more general sense.”

“She spoke very fondly of you. Your brilliant mind. Your frankly demented work ethic.” A knowing smile, the corners of his mouth rippling with wrinkles. “I suppose you think nobody else will work quite as hard as you at purging the scarlet rot.”