* * *
“We do have guards,” Zelen pointed out. “The city and the house. They’re trained for this.”
“They’re trained to subdue drunks and disrupt fights, and they have a good deal of that to contend with already. They also know much less about Madam Alanive—or whatever her name truly is—than you do.” Gedomir paused, which told Zelen nothing good was going to follow. “What they do know is that she’s likely a murderess. Their duties are much simpler than ours. It’s not likely that they’ll try to get to the bottom of the incident. Were I the gambling sort, I’d wager that they’d stick her full of crossbow bolts, dump the corpse at the burning grounds, and congratulate themselves on a job well done.”
The image painted itself across Zelen’s mind with scorching clarity.
Next he thought of the knights, but didn’t even try to bring that option up with Gedomir. Tinival’s servants would be very thorough, but they too had other duties, and little or no experience of political intrigue. Branwyn was dangerous, particularly armed, and they knew that.
If her actions were due to insanity or magical control—or, he forced himself to speculate, if she had genuinely murdered the Rognozis out of her own free will—she was very likely to fight. She would probably kill a few of her opponents, and at that point if no other, they would certainly and justifiably turn to lethal force.
Carefully, so he didn’t disturb the tray whose presence was still an alien weight in his lap, Zelen sat back against the pillows. Gedomir observed with his arms crossed over his chest, impassive and tolerant. “I can’t make any promises,” Zelen said to him.
“We would expect none. You failed to probe deeply enough past her facade to predict this, after all—the house is aware that your knowledge is far from complete.”
Zelen wanted to have a bitter, flippant riposte, or at least not to flush like a lectured schoolboy. He failed at both.
He did manage to keep meeting Gedomir’s gaze, which grew regretful. “That, however, was at least partly our fault,” said Gedomir. “We asked too much of you, particularly considering the situation in question. You have my apologies, and I’m confident that I can extend Father’s as well.”
“There was no sign of any of this,” Zelen managed, “and what could I have asked? If it was a geas—”
“No, no,” said Gedomir, “I quite understand. And if you don’t succeed at this, then I don’t doubt there will be very good reasons for it. Only do your best, for the family’s sake and the city’s. And the woman’s, too, of course.”
“Of course.”
“If you require assistance, send a message to the estate. You have the full support of Verengir in this.” Gedomir bowed. “I wish you luck, Brother.”
“Thank you,” Zelen said, and even kept from gritting his teeth.
Chapter 21
The world and necessity both broke down in Branwyn’s state, becoming a series of very small observations and steps that weren’t much larger. It was part instinct, part training; it let her push aside panic and manage events. Questions of Yathana’s whereabouts, of her memory, of her potential actions all faded, becoming the stones her more urgent thoughts walked on, there but unnoticed.
First step: Assess the damage. Pain had done a large portion of that job for her, but Branwyn went back over the situation with more attention to detail as well as the future. She wasn’t dying. She didn’t need help to avoid dying. That situation wouldn’t change if she tried to move.
Second step: Assess the circumstances.
Branwyn slowly surveyed the alley. She’d never been in a pleasant or a scenic alley, and this one was no exception. It smelled—even through her probably broken nose—like garbage, heaps of which lay against the walls behind her. A pool of what she would have liked to believe was water, but probably wasn’t, lay a few inches from her face. Beyond that, the remains of barrels and a spectacularly broken table had probably shielded her from discovery.
It wasn’t a bad temporary hiding spot, but it wasn’t exactly good for recovery, and it wouldn’t last forever.
The temples, the guards, and the council itself were all out. If—Branwyn braced herself and met the worst possibility head-on—if she’d actually committed some manner of unspeakable crime, she’d throw herself on Tinival’s mercy and then likely on the Order’s, which didn’t really exist. But if she was innocent, she had no way to prove that. Without memory, whatever she said to Tinival’s knights would only be an opinion, with no weight toward truth or lies.
A person with wealth and, likely, power had sent the assassins. If that person was responsible for her current state, turning herself over to the authorities might be the worst path Branwyn could take—not just for herself, but for the city and possibly the world.
“Tinival’s balls, you look bad,” said a high voice. “You need a healer?”
It was a measure of Branwyn’s injuries that she hadn’t heard footsteps, though the new arrival didn’t have much weight to make noise regardless. A child, one arm in a sling and a cast, eyed her from a gap between the barrels.
“No,” Branwyn rasped, which gave her more information: attempted strangling had been part of her evening. She tried to clear her throat, winced, failed, and went on. “Thank you.”
The child didn’t leave. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ah.” The child looked to be in the ambiguous stage that came after toddlerhood and before apprenticeship. They showed no trace of shock or more than idle curiosity. “Drinking, huh?”
“Not precisely.” The pressure on Branwyn’s side was becoming too much. She pushed herself cautiously upward.
