And none of them smelled of rosemary.
Women were rare enough down here that some of the prisoners watched her avidly, crowding against the bars, evenas nondescript a little thing as she was. She tried hard to be nondescript; it was one of her great assets. Short, drab, brown hair, brown skin, eyes of no particular color set in a face of no particular beauty—these were tools as useful in their way as grappling hooks and forger’s pens.
Still, even a nondescript woman was more than they usually saw in the dungeons. There were one or two catcalls and much grabbing of crotches, but no scent of rosemary.
The warder made as if to stop the men’s behavior, but something—probably Slate’s total indifference—dissuaded him. “Ma’am?”
“No,” she said. “None of these will do, I don’t think.” She sighed, glanced over the big one—I suppose if there’s no one else, he’ll have to do—then grimaced again. “I suppose we’d better look at the murderers, god help us all.”
“Are you sure? One of ‘em’s in for arson too, and he’s a bad one.”
She touched the courier pouch slung at her waist, with its papers. “I’m given my pick of the prisons, by the Dowager’s orders.”
And it’s only by her grace—and this mad notion of hers—that I’m not in a cell myself. I don’t think you know that. I don’t think youneedto know that.
“I know, but…”
The warder, Slate suspected, was a decent man, and would obey orders without question, but his sensibilities were deeply offended by the notion of a woman coming in and possibly releasing a murderer. Slate wasn’t exactly keen on the idea herself. She didn’t mind traveling with murderers—she’d slit a throat or two in her time, and Brenner’s entire career was founded on other people’s corpses—but arsonists were something else again,and did not make for comfortable traveling companions.
Then again, the gods knew, she and Brenner couldn’t undertake this mad venture entirely on their own.
She patted the warder absently on the shoulder. “I don’t much like it either, but orders are orders. Let’s see them.”
The warder sighed and went to go roust the murderers.
It wasn’t impossible that there was something in the keep itself that was setting off Slate’s rosemary sense. People said that the Dowager’s keep was built on the ruins of an older building. People said that there were rooms no one had opened in a thousand years, filled with old wonders from civilizations dead and gone.
People said a lot of stupid things.
Slate had, in her line of work, fenced several objects supposedly from that distant past. At least two had been fakes, but an artificer she trusted had sworn that one was real. None of them had smelled of rosemary and none of them had done anything particularly magical. She’d forged the certificates of authenticity and sent it on its way and that was that.
The warder opened the door and beckoned her down to the line of murderers.
Perhaps fortunately, none of them smelt of rosemary either. Two were vague, silent creatures, and the third was a ratty young man whose eyes moved over her body like insect feet. She met his gaze and he looked away immediately, then back at her, then at the warder. No question which one was in here for starting lethal fires.
Definitely not.This one was a mad dog—he wouldn’t fear her, and fear of Brenner’s knives wouldn’t hold him for long. They’d have to kill him within hours, and what good would that do anybody?
I don’t mind if he kills me, but I’d as soon skip the preliminaries…
“No.” Slate left the cell block and went back out into the main room. The rosemary had to be coming from somewhere. One of the wardens?God, how will I explain that?
The rosemary flooded her nostrils again.
Slate glanced at the door. The warder was still inside, settling the prisoners, and couldn’t see her doing anything…odd.
She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and sniffed.
By turning her head and taking several blind steps, she got a brief sense of direction from the smell. Assuming she wasn’t deluding herself, it seemed stronger from one side of the room. She navigated that way with eyes closed, took a step, then another—definitely getting stronger—took a third step and banged her thigh on the warden’s corner desk.
“Bugger!” She glanced around, rubbing her leg, didn’t see the warden, and went back to sniffing. Ah—almost—no—there!
“Ma’am?” said the warden, behind her.
The elusive rosemary fled. Slate opened her eyes, and found her nose inches from another door.
“Who’s behind here?”
“Oh,” said the warden. “Oh—ma’am, you don’t want that one. He’s bad. I mean, they’re all bad, but he’s—youreallydon’t want that one.”
