of the smells of medicine and piss and the labored sound of the old man’s breathing. “I don’t think the world will find it much of a loss.”
Downstairs, Vertus sat at the kitchen table. “How is he?” he said.
“Dying.”
Vertus didn’t say anything. Nate washed the bowl and spoon in the basin, conscious of the servingman’s eyes following him and hoping he wouldn’t notice the careful way Nate used his right hand, to keep the springknife dry. The room was filled with the kind of silence where every breath and movement felt magnified, momentous. He felt like he was onstage. It was always that way before trouble, in a field or a tavern or a kitchen off Limley Square. Caterina said it was a gift passed down from generations long dead, from ancestors who’d survived nights full of teeth.
He dried the bowl and put it back on the shelf. Not to let himself be knocked down: that was important. He put his back to the counter, bracing himself against it. He waited.
Finally, Vertus said, “How long?”
“A day or two. Maybe more. It’s hard to know.”
“Easier some times than others, I’d guess.”
“Well, yes,” Nate said dryly. Considering what Vertus might know. “I could predict his time of death with amazing accuracy if he had a knife in his throat.”
Vertus smiled. “Doesn’t he?”
“Not last time I saw him, no.”
Vertus stared at Nate, and Nate pretended not to be unnerved. “I just think it’s strange,” Vertus said. “He’s old as rocks, but he’s always been healthy, as long as I’ve known him. Until you show up. Then suddenly, he’s dying.”
“Old men die.”
“Guess so. Guess nobody’s safe. Not even the most successful magus in the city, with a manor in Porterfield and the trust of the Seneschal himself. Not even Elban’s House Magus, huh?”
“You die in the skin you wear when you’re born,” Nate said, shrugging.
Vertus nodded. “Must be tough, being a young magus just in from the provinces. Hard to make a name for yourself. You might have to treat street people, in secret, just to get your name out. And getting in with the courtiers—that’d be damn near impossible.” The teeth were showing, now. Vertus leaned forward, his huge bulk shifting toward Nate. “Guess that’s why you apprentice yourself out. Find an old man with a solid name. Let him introduce you to the courtiers, get you inside the Wall. Then—” he spread out his hands, either of which could cover Nate’s entire face with room left over “—who knows? Maybe he’ll get sick. Maybe he’ll die. Maybe you can step into his place. The courtiers, the Seneschal, the nice manor.”
Too late, Nate tried to remember when he’d last oiled the catch on his springknife. There’d been that blizzard in Butantown; they’d been trapped in the tavern for a week with nothing to do but go over and over their plan, over and over their supplies. Charles had oiled his knife then. Nate couldn’t remember if he’d done the same, or just watched.
Vertus stood up. “Think I’ll go check on him,” he said, and began to climb the stairs.
Nate flexed his wrist. The steel blade popped out smoothly, with a faint click. He slid it back into place and followed after Vertus.
Upstairs, in the sickroom, Arkady was as Nate had left him: motionless, breathing loudly. When the two men entered the room, he barely moved. In a thin, creaky voice, he said, “What?”
Vertus stood by the bed. Nate tried to read his face but there was nothing there. “You’re dying.”
Arkady’s lip curled. He said something obscene.
“I don’t believe in ghosts and such,” Vertus said. “I think dead’s dead. But you never know, do you?” He jerked his head toward Nate. “This one’s poisoning you. I fed some of your tea to a stray dog and, well, there you go.”
Arkady’s eyes went wide. He began struggling, futilely, to sit up.
Vertus picked up a pillow. “Never liked poison much myself. Cowardly. But I thought you should know, just in case dead’s not dead. He’s the murderer, not me. I’m the one doing you a kindness.” Then he pressed the pillow down over Arkady’s face.
Arkady kicked desperately at the bed, fighting for leverage. The old hands clawed at his wrist; the thin body bucked. But even healthy, Arkady could not have fought back against a man Vertus’s size. Vertus, holding him down, wasn’t even breathing hard. The air in Nate’s own lungs was suddenly as useless as if it were his face the pillow covered. Fists