the other hand, Morgant needed Nasser now, if he was going to keep his word to Annarah.
Morgant lived by two rules. He never killed anyone who did not deserve it, and he kept his word. He had given his word to Annarah a century and a half ago, and he was going to keep it.
The woman who was Morgant’s best chance to keep his word sat cross-legged on a cushion, a cup of coffee in hand.
“I’m not sure what went wrong,” said Caina.
Morgant looked back and forth between Nasser and Caina, considering. Nasser’s old hideout had been at the Shahenshah’s Seat, a ramshackle tavern near the Bazaar of the Southern Road. Then an Umbarian magus had conjured an ifrit to kill Caina, and the Seat had burned down in the resultant battle. Now Nasser worked out of rented rooms over a sculpture works in the Old Quarter. Morgant was reasonably sure Nasser had chosen the location specifically to irritate him.
He looked at Caina. She still wore the disguise of a Cyrican merchant, her fake beard and her makeup flawless. Even her voice and accent changed, and almost anyone who met her would see a man. Her skills of disguise were excellent, but they had not fooled Morgant. They had, however, fooled Nasser and his associates, who still believed Caina to be a man.
Morgant looked forward to Nasser’s reaction when he finally figured it out.
Of course, Caina had not figured out who Nasser Glasshand really was yet. He suspected she would do so soon.
All the pieces were there, right in front of her. The leather glove that constantly covered Nasser’s left hand, and the inhuman feats he could perform with that hand. His ability to recover from apparently mortal wounds. His deep knowledge of Iramisian history…and the fact that he knew Morgant personally.
“Move your boots,” said a man’s voice, rough with a Nighmarian accent.
A man of middle years looked down at Morgant. He had the build and stance of a Legionary veteran, his receding hair close-cropped, his arms heavy with muscle. He held a tray of food in his hands, and his hard eyes did not blink as they looked at Morgant. It was the sort of gaze that promised death if Morgant made trouble for Nasser.
Well. Nasser had always inspired loyalty in his men.
“Of course, Laertes,” said Morgant, dropping his feet to the floor. “I am ever the soul of courtesy.” Laertes snorted and set down the tray, and Morgant helped himself to a date.
“Now that the obvious lies are out of the way,” said Nasser in his smooth, deep voice, “perhaps we can learn what went wrong.”
“Nerina saw her husband,” said Caina.
Morgant glanced at Nerina Strake. She stood in the corner of the sitting room, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Azaces stood behind her like a storm cloud. Laertes’s hard eyes might have promised violence to anyone who threatened his employer, but Azaces’s scowl guaranteed it.
Kylon of House Kardamnos stood near the door, arms crossed over his chest, his brown eyes looking at nothing in particular. He was a young man of average height, strong and quick, with brown hair and the tanned skin of a Kyracian who had spent quite a lot of time at sea. He was, in Morgant’s estimation, not particularly bright, but he was nonetheless one of the most formidable swordsmen that Morgant had ever met.
And that was even without Kylon’s powers of elemental sorcery.
“Your husband?” said Nasser, his eyebrows climbing.
“Yes,” said Nerina, staring at the floor.
“Please forgive my ignorance, Mistress Strake,” said Nasser, “but I was given to understand that your husband has been dead for some years.”
“Four years,” said Nerina. “It was four years ago. He was dead. Murdered by my father’s numerous enemies, shortly after my father himself was murdered. Or…it may have been the other way around.”
“Yet you saw him with the slaves in the Old Bazaar,” said Nasser.
“I did,” said Nerina, closing her eyes. “I was waiting on the roof, and occupying myself by calculating additional trajectories for my crossbow bolt should the wind change. I happened to look into the Bazaar, and I saw Malcolm. At first I thought I had experienced some sort of cognitive failure, but it was him. I am certain it was him.” She shivered a little. “Then I…I am afraid I lost my head.”
Morgant snorted. “An understatement.”
Caina glared at him and he fell silent, though he kept his smirk in place. Morgant was afraid that Nerina Strake had become a problem, and Morgant would