to the gods.
The slumped curve of Cara’s back spoke of weariness, and her flashing smile was noticeably absent. A twinge of shame darkened my relief. Somebody had died, to fuel Ruslan’s spells. I’d find out who, and make an offering to Noshet’s spirit guardians, in their name—but that could wait. I ducked my head, preparing to fade back through the crowd.
Then froze, as a solution to my difficulties sprang full-blown into my head. All at once, I knew how to mark the mage’s departure, safely shadow their carriage, and take care of any opposition while I grabbed Kiran.
It wasn’t Jylla I needed. It was Cara. Cara, with her climbing skills, her deadly accuracy with a hunting bow, and her firsthand knowledge of Ruslan’s visit to the convoy that could draw Pello like a sandfly to a honeytrap.
Cara, who’d probably gut me as soon as look at me, after the way I’d left. To gain her help would take a miracle of Khalmet. Besides, I’d already put her in danger once—last thing I wanted was to drag her back into this mess. I tried to shove the idea straight out of my head.
It wouldn’t go. You’d be the one to bear all the risk, Jylla’s voice whispered in my head. She’d be fine. You want to win this fool’s game of a rescue? Or are you gonna weasel out because you’re too fucking gutless to face Cara again?
Gods all damn it. I’d go, then, and talk to her. Assuming she let me get a word in before she threw me out on my ass. I had nothing to lose but my pride. Cara was honest and trustworthy as they came. No matter how furious she was, she’d not run her mouth about me to anyone else. I just had to figure out how to make her listen.
***
Evening found me lying flat in the shadows on the roof of the Silver Strike’s stables. It hadn’t been hard to find where Cara was staying in Kost. She always took a room at either the Brown Bear or the Silver Strike, saying they were the only inns in Kost that served a decent dark beer. Like many from Ninavel, I much preferred wine or spirits, but Cara’s family had emigrated from somewhere up north where beer was practically a religion.
The stable roof offered a perfect vantage point across the inn’s muddy inner courtyard to the windows of the guest rooms in the main building. Cara’s room was the twelfth one along, on the top floor. The room was dark; knowing Cara, she’d stay until late in the inn’s common room, drinking and talking, and return with a bed partner. She claimed a tumble in bed was the best way to mark a convoy job’s end, good or bad. A good journey called for a celebration, she said, while a bad one called for a distraction. No doubt she’d be looking for one hell of a distraction this time.
She was too wary of theft to allow a city lover to spend the night. I meant to wait for her to have her fun, and talk to her once her lover of the evening had left. That way maybe she’d be too tired to kick me out straight off, and in as good a mood as I could hope for.
I had no fear she’d close the shutters to block my view of her room door. Cara had always said loud and long how much she hated to shut out the sky. Best of all, the windows didn’t have any wards and neither did the roof. Most riverside inns left magical protection up to their customers rather than pay for the maintenance of exterior wards.
The only tricky part was staying awake. The stable roof felt like a feather bed compared to that Shaikar-cursed drain hole. I had to fall back on all the tricks I’d learned in my Tainted days to stave off the weariness that dragged at my eyelids. A Tainter learns fast and early how to keep alert on a long night’s work, or face not only the anger of your minder, but the practical jokes of your denmates.
Just when I thought I’d have to resort to stabbing my palm with my belt knife, Cara’s door opened, shedding a warm glow over the room. Cara and a man with the dark skin and brightly colored clothing of a Sulanian trader tumbled in, their hands already busy with each other’s shirt laces. Cara pulled away long