undetected if he moved with enough speed.
He would almost certainly have the valikon with him, and Kalgri was not stupid enough to fight him while he carried that damnable sword. For a moment she considered killing Bayram and Bahad to send a message to Kylon but discarded the idea as idiotic. If she killed the two boys, Kylon would realize that her hand had been behind their deaths, and he would start hunting for her. With his ability to sense the presence of nagataaru, she would have to wear her shadow-cloak to conceal her presence from him, which would inhibit her ability to sense his presence.
He was dangerous to her. More dangerous than Caina.
Kalgri eased back up the stairs, returning the dagger to its sheath.
She would not strike now. If she did, she would reveal her presence before she was ready, and in his rage, Kylon would find her and confront her. Rhataban might have been an idiot, but Kalgri was willing to admit that he had been a capable combatant, and if Kylon had killed him he could just as easily kill Kalgri.
She would watch, and wait, and when she was ready, she would strike.
A fresh smile spread on her face.
Perhaps, this time, she would get to watch Kylon as Caina died in front of him. Or Caina as Kylon died in front of her.
Either one would please Kalgri.
Chapter 12: Weapons of Alchemy
Kylon walked down the street of the metalworkers in the Cyrican Quarter, Agabyzus, Tomazain, and Damla following him. Usually, the Cyrican Quarter was one of the safest quarters in Istarinmul, well-patrolled by the watchmen, but even here Kylon spotted groups of thieves, ready to take advantage of the chaos to enrich themselves. Had Damla been alone, Kylon had no doubt they would have attacked, but one look at Kylon and Tomazain dissuaded them.
The Saddaic mercenary seemed competent enough. He reminded Kylon a little of Laertes and Arcion of Caer Marist and the other Legionary veterans he had met. It took a hard man to survive a sixteen year term of service in the Emperor’s Legions.
Of course, Kylon had killed a lot of men like Tomazain in Marsis, a memory that filled him with regret. That war had been a waste, engineered by his sister in pursuit of power that had destroyed her. Kylon did not feel the same regret about the soldiers he had killed in the Grand Wazir’s army.
If Grand Master Callatas was not stopped, far more people than the soldiers would die.
“This locksmith,” said Tomazain in a low voice.
“What about her?” said Damla.
“You think she can help us?” said Tomazain.
“Yes,” said Damla.
“She once calculated a catapult shot of such precision that it landed on a shed of Hellfire from half a mile away,” said Kylon. “She will be useful. She is simply…”
“Somewhat insane,” said Agabyzus.
Tomazain grunted. “We’re planning to seize the gatehouse and let in an army of rebels. I suppose insanity is not a weakness in such a venture.”
Damla laughed, amusement flickering through her aura. “I suppose not.”
Kylon stopped before a three-story house of whitewashed adobe. He had been here several times with Caina, but the house had changed since his last visit. Nerina Strake and her husband Malcolm had purchased the building next to theirs, and Malcolm had renovated it into an armorer’s shop. He had been making money hand-over-fist by producing chain mail and selling it to the Grand Wazir’s army. Kylon supposed that he had killed men wearing Malcolm’s armor during the battle.
He climbed the steps up to the door and knocked. Most of the goldsmiths’ and silversmiths’ shops along the street had reinforced doors to deter thieves, but this door was a massive slab of solid steel, mounted to the frame with hinges as thick as Kylon’s arm. With the sorcery of water, he could kick down most doors, but even his full power would fail to dent massive door.
After a moment he heard a steely rasp, and a small plate slid aside at eye level.
“Azaces,” said Kylon. “Are Nerina and Malcolm there? We need to speak with them.”
The plate slid shut. Kylon heard several bolts and locks clanging, and the door swung open in silence. A huge Sarbian man, nearly seven feet tall, stood behind the door, his face scarred beneath his graying black beard, the hilt of a two-handed scimitar rising over his shoulder. His black eyes moved back and forth, taking in the people on his employers’ doorstep, and Kylon felt the question in his emotional sense.
“The