“Get off of there,” said Lady Svnae, shoving him as she set Smith down. She took out the monocle once more and examined him closely through it. “Tell me, Child of the Sun, are you experiencing any unusual symptoms not related to the poison? Perhaps voices in your head?”
“No,” said Smith dully. He watched as she raised his left arm cautiously, palpitated along it as far as the hand. “It felt as though I was holding something cold. An iron bar.”
“You think he was being possessed?” Lord Ermenwyr asked his sister, looking speculative. “Because of proximity to the Key?”
“I think I need to study the Book of Fire again,” said Lady Svnae. “I think I might have missed something crucial.”
“Well, this is a fine time to figure it out,” said Lord Ermenwyr pettishly, groping for his smoking tube.
“Better now than thirty seconds later, when we all might have been blasted with balefire,” she retorted. “Child of the Sun—”
“Smith,” he said.
“Interesting choice of an alias. Well, Smith, have you had any strange dreams recently? Any kind of psychic or spiritual conversation with your ancestors?”
Smith was unwilling to talk about his dream, but she looked earnestly into his eyes. Her own were wide, dark and lovely. Unwilling, he found himself saying: “I might have. But it didn’t make any sense.”
“No, I don’t suppose it would,” she said, and patted his cheek. “That’s all right. You just lie down here and rest, now, Smith. And if you feel the least bit odd, especially in that hand, please tell us. Will you do that, Smith dear?”
“All right,” he said, too dizzy to be annoyed by her tone of voice. He sank back on the cot and closed his eyes.
He heard the rustle of her gown as she went somewhere else, and the faint thump and crackle as someone added wood to the fire. He heard Lord Ermenwyr settle down, muttering to himself, and a noise suggestive of a boot flask being uncorked and drunk from…
Sound went away, and he was flying over a plain, and he knew so many terrible things.
There below him was the city of Troon. Burning in the air above it was the formula for its destruction: a certain smut introduced into the barley, four ounces of a certain poison poured into its central well, one letter containing a certain phrase sent anonymously to its duke, one brick pried loose from the foundation of a certain house. These things accomplished, Troon would fall. And then…
Here was Konen Feyy-in-the-Trees. One water conduit casually vandalized and one firebrand tossed into a certain tree, hung with moss, would begin the sequence of events that would kill the city. And its survivors might flee, but not to Troon, and then…
Here was Mount Flame City, seething, pulsing, so overripe with clan war that all it would take would be one precisely worded insult painted on a certain wall, and all four of its ruling houses would lie in ashes. And so would the great central marketplace of Mount Flame, and so would all the little houses who depended on it.
Here was Karkateen: a brick thrown through a window. A suggestion made to a shopkeeper. A rumor spread. A sewer grating removed. These things accomplished, in a certain order and at a certain moment, and Karkateen would be gone, and with it its great library, and with the library all the answers to certain desperate questions that would soon be asked in Troon, in Konen Feyy, in Mount Flame. Deliantiba and Blackrock were already in the throes; they’d need only the slightest push to complete their own work. And Salesh…
But wasn’t it grand, to have secret knowledge of such terrible things?
His arm hurt.
But wasn’t it a finer destiny than he had ever supposed he was intended for, high and lonely though it might be? Being the Chosen Instrument of the Gods? His arm hurt but he was flying high, beside a sharp version of himself that was cool and clever as he had always wanted to be, an elegant stranger made of diamond and chrome, the Killer, sneering down from a great distance at the insects crawling below. Stupid bastards. Wasteful. Quarrelsome. Banal. Ignorant and proud of it. And every year more screaming brats born to swell their numbers, and every year more urban blight on the land to house them all. Better if the whole shithouse went up in flames. Everyone said so. His arm hurt.
“Heavens, what’ve you done to your arm?” Mrs. Smith