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He then walked to the bathroom and opened that door.

The vanity and floor were littered with paper towels dripping in mud collected by TC McGuire.

Everyone in the room watched the sextet of bees strafing the bed and the TV and heads of those present.

Until one by one they zipped into the bathroom, where they hovered over, or landed to suck at, the paper towels.

“Itwasa bomb,” Tolifson whispered.

Colter said briskly, “Call the FBI and Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. You have their numbers?”

Tolifson looked to Officer Starr. He said, “Do you?”

“Never needed them. But I’ll bet the Justice Department is just like any cable company or hotel chain. They’d always rather you contact them online. But I’ll bet there’s a phone number on the last page of their website. In nice and tiny print. No worries. I’ll track somebody down.”

22.

Prologue

Arana Braveblade thought of herself as a “Somewhat Person.”

This was a phrase she had learned from one of the Elders of the Near Realm to describe certain people, and it was this rare quality that was, she prayed to Marthan, going to save her.

A Somewhat Person. What this meant was that she was partly who she seemed to be. And yet, decidedly, partly not. An outer her and an inner her.

It was the latter of these that she kept to herself, hidden deep. And it would be the key to her survival.

So now, when she strode to the gate to the Everscent Garden, on the mountain ledge two thousand feet above the village, one version of her nodded pleasantly to the guards, while the other her prepared in secret for what was coming next.

“Siress Braveblade,” said Ebertton Garr, the head jailor of this wing. “This is not a garden day.”

Braveblade hated that she was referred to as “siress,” the feminine version of “sire.” Certainly it might seem neutral on the surface, but in fact it nonetheless carried the whiff of inferior station. At least the Court recognized hersurname, which she had chosen on her Womaning Day. “Braveblade” was her mother’s maiden name, and the preference was for those of her sex to adopt their father’s (to promote the appearance of which of the genders was to be in charge), but so far the naming convention had not yet made its way into the Scroll of Rules.

Tugging tighter about her the gray cape that matched the required floor-length skirt, Braveblade summoned a horrified expression upon her heart-shaped face. “My, you are right! Fuddled me! I’ve done it again. And now I am in dires. What shall I do?”

She looked from Garr to the other guard, Plank the Younger, a silly name for a silly man, too small for the sword that hung from his hip.

Garr asked, “What is the difficulty?” He had a drift for the ladies and the words were offered in a way that seemed sympathetic but was truly a clumsy flirt.

“I told Siress Stodge that I would prepare a Spell-Bind for her, and I must deliver it to her no later than Segment Fourteen today.” Her voice cracked as she added, “Two segments hence. Oh, she will not be pleased.”

Now both men stirred.

No one wished to have Siress Stodge—whose backname was Siress Strident, though she was occasionally called far worse!—angry with you. It could mean you would spend the rest of your days carting refuse to the Noffin Pit.

She bowed her head and wondered if her outer Somewhat Person could conjure tears. Braveblade was a fine spell-caster but damp eyes eluded her. So she touched the tip of her fingers, dipped in Farood powder, to the corners of her eyes.

The resulting waterworks—and genuine gasp of pain—were impressive.

Garr said, “Siress, is there…perhaps something I can do?”Hisbackname was LeerMaster.

“Oh, Sire. You would be my savior! I would be forever grateful! If you could go into the garden and collect me drandons of bandiweb, cholaefa and stillgale. Of the first, I need only the yellow leaves. As you know, the green are useless. And they must be a certain shade, the shade of bee pollen. As for the stillgale, be wary of the black seeds. They can—”

“Perhaps, Siress, I think it would be better if you gathered what you need yourself. If you’re quick about it.”

“Could I? Oh, you are beyond kind!” The outer her beamed toward the man, who smelled of boreroot. Disgusting.

She endured what she knew would be his firm embrace and hand straying down her back—missing, thank Marthan—the contour of what she wore beneath the cape. The Scrolls required women to wear only cambric shirts above the waist. Any other garments were forbidden—especially what she had donned this morning: a warrior’s thick leather vest.