Bone Palace, The - Amanda Downum Page 0,90
Dahlia’s eyes over her cup, waiting for a flinch. It never came.
“What first, then?”
“First we track rumors. I can’t imagine Forsythia was the first person they’ve killed. Even if no one’s whispering about blood magic yet, there will still be people missing, or found with slit throats. Between Ciaran and my friend Khelséa, we ought to find anything worth hearing.”
“You’re friends with a marigold?” For someone so young, Dahlia could fit a remarkable amount of skepticism in raised eyebrows.
“I am. And with Arcanostoi and guttersnipes and even a demon or two. Does that bother you?”
Dahlia shrugged. “Not as long as you’re paying me.”
Isyllt snorted, but pushed herself up and shuffled to the bedroom and her coffer. Coins clinked as she counted them. “These are for your time,” she said, handing over two silver griffins, “a decad of it. And these”—she counted out another griffin and a half in owls and obols and copper pennies—“are to get yourself something to wear. If you’re going to tell people you work for me, I’d rather you were wearing decent shoes.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes. The money vanished into several different pockets; nothing jingled when she was done.
The ward on the staircase shivered softly in Isyllt’s head and she straightened, locking the moneybox again with a touch. Her magic didn’t know the person on the stair, nor was the light knock that followed familiar.
A cloaked woman stood in the hallway, her face hidden by backlighting and the shadow of her cowl. Isyllt shifted and light fell past her, and she couldn’t stop a blink of surprise. Savedra Severos was not someone she expected to turn up unannounced on her doorstep. Or at all.
“Lady Severos.” Her title as royal concubine was more properly Pallakis, but Isyllt supposed she might get tired of being defined that way.
“Good evening, Lady Iskaldur.” Her voice was always arresting—not masculine, but rich and husky; according to Ciaran, more contralto roles had been written into operas and musicals since she’d taken up residence in the Gallery of Pearls. Tonight it was rough with fatigue or emotion. “Am I disturbing you?”
“Of course not.” Which of course one would always say to someone with the prince’s ear, but the curiosity of the visit more than made up for the late hour. “Come in.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to come so late unannounced.” Blue silk flashed as she drew back her hood. Her heavy hair was held up in a lattice of pins and ribbons, but stray curls slipped free at her temples. She looked as tired as she sounded; the violet on her eyelids wasn’t paint, and her skin was too pale under the flush of cold. She moved jerkily as she crossed the threshold, as if nervous or pained, and Isyllt caught her backward glance.
Isyllt held out a hand for Savedra’s cloak even as she sent a questing tendril of magic down the stairs; if anyone had followed her, they lurked farther away than she could sense. “We keep odd hours in Archlight. It’s no trouble.” Cloth settled heavy over her arm; the velvet was damp from the night, but the silk lining was warm and smelled of perfume—sandalwood and vetiver and bitter orange. The scent lingered as Isyllt hung up the cloak.
Savedra was dressed plainly for the palace, but even so she would stand out on any street in Archlight. Her gown was blue figured silk, a duskier shade than her cloak, slim-lined and high-collared. The pearls at her throat were black, their iridescent darkness broken by the indigo sparkle of iolites. The thought of those pearls scattered on the cobbles made Isyllt’s jaw tighten.
“Do you have a coach waiting, Lady?”
“I sent the driver away. I didn’t want to attract attention.”
“You’ll attract another sort if you walk here at night. It’s hardly Oldtown,” she said to Savedra’s quirked brow, “but students have bills and bare cupboards too, not to mention drunken stupidity. I’ll see you safely away when you leave.”
“Of course.” She shook her head. “I’m eight shades of fool lately, it seems. Thank you.”
“You needed to speak to me?”
“Yes, if you have the time.” Hazel eyes flickered toward Dahlia, who was doing a poor job of not staring.
“Of course. My assistant was just leaving.” She steered Dahlia aside.
“You’re getting rid of me.” A statement, not an accusation.
“I am, and I’ll do it again before this is over. But I do need you to find Ciaran and ask after any rumors that might help us. And make sure no one was following our