Caliph glanced back at Isca Castle. The high tower rose like an incredible needle from the midst of half a dozen lesser spires, all of which gleamed yellow on the west side, slowly melting out of the cool blue shadows in the east.
“Do you know anything about them?” Caliph asked.
Zane studied him as though gauging whether Caliph was really ignorant.
Caliph threw his hands up.
“Look, I didn’t expect to find a pack of women in the middle of the woods. I’m asking you what you know about them.”
The spymaster glanced out the window as they passed the brown dragons of Octul Box.
“Of course I know about them. But the details concerning Shrdnae Witches are always foggy. They hide behind layers of deception. If a witch hunter shows up in Miryhr with a valise full of gadgetry for detecting holojoules, folks direct him, as they’re supposed to, toward Eloth where they know he’ll find nothing but gruelocks and death.
“They despise Stonehold for reasons I’m sure you picked up in history class. But they’re more secretive than the Long Nine.”
“I see. But that’s it? I mean, what do you know about them?”
Vhortghast looked offended as he tapped his fingers on his cane.
“They’re loose fish. Soiled doves. They’re trained from prepubescence up to give better spread than the Rose Courtesans in Iycestoke. Is that graphic enough? A witch in the right position can tie a baron or barrister tighter with the laces of her stockings than with a length of rope.
“They’re a political entity. Once the governments of the north hunted them. Now, in Miryhr at least, the witches are the government. Really, your majesty. What is it that you want to know?”
Caliph supposed that pretty much covered it. There wasn’t much there that he hadn’t heard before. But the thought of Sena doing strange things, secret things for an underworld organization put a coldness under his skin.
He looked out the window at half a dozen strange towers in the direction of Temple Hill. Above the pitched rooftops and shanties that clung like barnacles to decrepit town houses and gray tenements, the towers rose like bones.
“That’s Gilnaroth,” Vhortghast waved at the looming stone shapes, “the citizens’ necropolis. Anyone who can afford it is buried in Marbolia, the upper crust’s cemetery located in Os Sacrum.”
Caliph nodded. “Yes that’s right, that’s not far from Candleshine—I used to live there.”
“I know.” Mr. Vhortghast regarded Caliph shrewdly.
Caliph frowned. “You seem to know an awful lot about me. I’m told you saved my life several times while I was at Desdae.”
“Only three. Three in eight years isn’t bad.”
“I’d like to hear the details.”
The spymaster smiled wanly.
“Well, twice it was Saergaeth—though that’s not common knowledge and we have no proof to substantiate it. But he gave up after the second attempt. We sent him a clear message that you were quite safe and would continue to be quite safe so long as you were at school. Those were two and three. The first occasion was actually some stray effort—we’re not sure whether it was funded by a government or an independent company.”
“I see. And how do you do it? How do you come by your information—?”
“Whispers, gurgles. It’s the usual network of filth. Like a sewer system, really.” Vhortghast drew a handkerchief from his vest and wiped his hands as though conscious of some asomatous stain.
“The bigger the city, the more advanced the network. Not many people like to work in the sewers and you could say the same about spy networks. There’s no trick. Just like a city engineer memorizes the various tunnels and cesspools, I remember the names and places and take note when things change . . . when people die.
“And now I’d like to hear how you gave my men the slip. How did you get out of Desdae without being seen?”
“I went out the attic and down a tree. Maybe your men need better training.”
Zane Vortghast smiled.
The sinister towers of Gilnaroth had already fallen behind a series of pubs and restaurants that fronted stores at ground level while upper windows revealed apartments and trendy domiciles of artists and musicians whose wrought-iron balconies dangled with plants and banners welcoming the new king.
WELCOME TO BARROW HILL, KING HOWL read one of the softly curling banners.
“How do they know I’ll see?”
“They don’t,” said Vhortghast. “Mostly it’s marketing. Everyone’s claiming you patronize their establishment these days. You’re the newest way to advertise anything. And artists more than most