Page 87 of The Tainted Cup

I stared at her, speechless. I looked at Miljin, who stared grimly back.

“I am not sure,” I said, “that I heard that correctly, ma’am.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be the first,” Ana said drily. “You are young and male—and boys are always a lot sillier about these things. And she has several thousand talints of beauty at her disposal, not to mention her pheromonic grafts. Regardless, it is well known that the Hazas use amorous relations, and blackmail, to get what they want. Fayazi likely means to get you under her thumb, Din.” She thought about it. “Or under some other part of her person. Or perhaps under a member of her household…”

“This metaphor,” I snapped, “wears rather thin.”

“Yes, yes. But! She might be in for a surprise. For you are not only a curiously focused person, boy, but you’re also one of the most emotionally repressed human beings I’ve ever met. If there is anyone who could resist the allures of the Hazas, it’s you. Or, well, I hope it’s you.”

“Besides fending off unwanted advances,” I said, frustrated, “what am I supposed to be doing there?”

Ana thought for a moment. Then she said, “Correspondence!”

“Beg pardon?” I said.

“Correspondence! Communications. Letters.Thatis precisely what we need. News of Blas’s murder surely reached her father the second we started investigating in Daretana. So who did he talk to after Blas died? Who did he send messages to? And what did those messagessay? That’s what you must find.”

“How am I supposed to do that, ma’am?” I asked.

“The Hazas are known to possess a small fleet of scribe-hawks,” she said. “All you need to do is get to their rookery, boy, and look about for anything useful.”

I was familiar with scribe-hawks, of course, for the Iyalets used them to carry urgent communications across the whole of the Empire, flying with stunning speed between two fixed locations. The idea of someone privately owning a small fleet of them, however, was nothing short of astonishing tome.

“And…how am I supposed to get in their rookery, ma’am?” I asked.

“You’re there looking for contagion at a fucking murder scene!” she snapped. “That gets you access to all kinds of places! Make some dumb shit up, improvise, and figure it out, child!”

“Make some dumb shit up,” I said sourly. “Very clear orders there. What else, ma’am?”

“Investigate! Go, see, ask—and remain cold and aloof. Find evidence of how the killer did their work, speak little, and glower much. I mean, that’s your specialty, isn’t it? And remember, this is thesecondtime the killer has struck at a Haza house. I suspect they used similar methods. Am I clear?”

“As mountain water, ma’am,” I grumbled.

“Good.” She grabbed my shoulder. “Eat nothing she gives you, Din. Do not drink any proffered drink. Be mindful of any smokes or fumes you perceive. Do not urinate or defecate on the property, and do your best to leave few hairs behind. Finally, keep your distance from Fayazi—and do not let her touch your face with her bare skin. Understood?”

I thought about it. “I suppose I can’t quit, canI?”

“Quit?”

“Yes. Not sure any dispensation could be worth this, ma’am.”

She grinned. “Maybe not. But the Hazas know your name, child. If you quit now, they will wonder why, and come asking, and they shall not be as fun to work with as I. Only way out is through. Now clean yourself up and get fucking going!”

CHAPTER 26

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WHEREAS THE LEGION’S CARRIAGEhad been a rattling, rambling, tottering thing, the carriage of the Hazas was sleek, soft, and smooth. I felt not a bump and caught not a bruise as we hurtled along, my backside pressed into the powder-blue cushions.

But this did not mean the ride was comfortable. On either side of me sat two Haza guards, enormous men with wrists as thick as my neck, and nearly twice as broad as I. Their eyes did not leave my figure. Cold gazes, chilly and remote. Fell hands with a sword, surely.

Across from me sat Fayazi’s two Sublimes. The engraver looked upon me like a surgeon might a septic limb. The axiom remained totally unreadable, but her dark, needle-like eyes did not move from my person. I felt my skin crawling the more she stared.

Between them sat the woman herself: Fayazi Haza, draped over her cushions like a coat tossed over a chair. She watched me carefully yet inscrutably, her wide amethyst eyes alluring but unreadable. It felt like being watched by an enormous doll.

And yet I was still drawn to her. To the luminous paleness of her skin, to her delicate neck. I had not felt drawn to a woman like this before, and I knew enough to know it was unnatural. Yet I also felt damned silly to be seated before her in my muddy Iudex coat, and my straw cone hat askew upon my head.

“You,” Fayazi said finally, “are very tall.” She said it in tones of slight offense, like I had chosen an inappropriate piece of wardrobefor the occasion.