Page 17 of Dark Bringer (Lord of Everfell #1)

Gavriel

T he scribblers had found a new angle to their tedious narrative, one that struck uncomfortably close to home. Gavriel read the latest edition of the Daily Mumble with mounting irritation.

Morningstar’s Justice Reserved for the Rich and Powerful Only?

Even as Kirith’s archangel dedicates his prodigious energies to solving the high-profile murder of Barsal Casolaba, the recent death of a young speculator fails to merit similar scrutiny.

When asked at the Assembly whether he planned to open a second inquiry, Lord Morningstar blithely replied that it was beyond the scope of his commission.

Perhaps he should tell that to the grieving mother, who languishes in the gritty mining town of Pota Pras with no answers regarding her young son’s demise . . .

It was absurd.

And precisely the sort of accusation that would gain traction among the public. Gavriel folded the offending broadsheet and placed it atop the pile he’d already scanned. All touted variations on the same theme.

“It’s an obvious angle for the opposition to exploit,” Yarl remarked, “especially since they are demanding a new election. The consul’s death commands your full attention, while a poor boy from the mining country lies forgotten. It plays well to their base.”

“It’s inaccurate!” Gavriel exclaimed. “I do not have an open-ended invitation to look into every suspicious death in Satu Jos! This is a matter for the witches.”

“They’ve been implicated in the boy’s death,” Yarl replied dryly. “No one will believe their investigation is unbiased. I agree that the timing is unfortunate, but you cannot simply ignore this new development, Lord Morningstar.”

It made Gavriel even more vexed that he was right. “What do you suggest?”

“Perhaps it would be prudent to have one of the cyphers from Kirith look into the matter? Only to determine if there’s any truth to the claims that lithomancy was involved. If so, you can go on the record recommending a special tribunal. Let Luzia Bras lead it.”

Gavriel considered the various angles but could find no flaw.

Yarl’s solution was masterful. “Yes, that will work. My cyphers aren’t local and thus will be deemed impartial.

Make it appear like a discreet inquiry, but ensure that the scribblers are aware.

Then we kick it back to the Assembly.” He regarded his secretary with great fondness.

“We must ensure you live another fifty years as I could not go on without you.”

Yarl looked both pleased and weary at this prospect. “Which one shall we send, sir?”

Gavriel was tempted to rid himself of Rowan for a day or two.

She had a way of watching him with silent intensity that he found distracting.

But of the pair, Rowan was the loose cannon.

She had a habit of saying whatever was on her mind.

If the gossip-mongers cornered her, she might blurt out anything.

That would be a disaster. He needed to carefully manage every aspect of the investigation from here on. If his reputation were tarnished, Gavriel feared that the last glue holding the empire together would dissolve.

“Mercy Blackthorn will do,” he said.

“Very good. I have another lead for you, sir,” Yarl added, “regarding the payments for that flat on Rua Alva. Apparently, Casolaba had a mistress. Her name is Gia Andrade. Shall I summon her here?”

Gavriel hesitated. That was his usual practice. But the scribblers had been lying in wait outside the Red House to ambush him that morning and the gods only knew what might leak if they got hold of her.

“No, I shall go myself. Excellent work, Edvin.”

Yarl nodded and fetched the cyphers, which took but an instant since they were standing outside the door.

“Cypher Blackthorn,” Gavriel said, “I would like you to visit the morgue and examine the boy’s body. Determine if there is any evidence of lithomancy and gather whatever details you can. His name, where he came from, et cetera.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her bluff features. Clearly, she had assumed he didn’t care.

“I can do that, Lord Morningstar,” Blackthorn said.

She headed for the door with Yarl, who had prepared documents with Gavriel’s seal that would give her access to the morgue. The man was nothing if not efficient.

“Cypher Rowan, you will accompany me to an address on Rua Alva. We shall leave immediately.” He removed his magistrate’s robe and hung it on a coatrack. Underneath, he wore his usual starched shirt, waistcoat and trousers. It was late autumn, but the days were still balmy. “Is there a problem?”

She was staring at him with a mutinous look in her eye. “With all due respect, Lord Morningstar, you’re all over the broadsheets. Appearing in public would cause a tumult.”

He gave her a thin smile. “Would it?”

“Yes, it would. I can’t go alone, since that would leave you unattended. So you should either summon her to the Red House or send Yarl.”

“Summon her ? I have not mentioned the purpose of the visit, so I can only assume you were listening at the door.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again.

“Yarl has other duties,” Gavriel said, unused to explaining himself. “And the mistress is more likely to talk if we catch her unawares, before she has time to concoct a story. Isn’t that how you would conduct an investigation, Rowan?”

She faltered. “Well, yes, But you’re a special case.” She studied him like he was some zoo specimen, biting her lower lip. “I’d cast an illusion around you, but I don’t know how.”

This surprised him, though he knew little about cyphers. “Why not?”

“We’re blunt-edged weapons,” she said, a wry twist to her mouth. “We are not taught the subtle arts. So you must see that it would be madness to proceed with this plan.”

“Then it was not a cypher who attacked me on the rooftop,” he murmured. “I can rule them out entirely.”

“Yes, but that’s hardly my point!” She continued to protest as Gavriel opened the hidden panel and they took a dusty, dark staircase down to the side exit.

“Just trust me,” he said gently.

She fell silent but regarded him with skepticism. Gavriel focused on the raw power in his blood, directing it to the lightwaves bending around his form.

“Your wings,” Rowan exclaimed. “They’ve disappeared! But I thought angels couldn’t work the ley.”

“I cannot,” he admitted, “not like witches do. But I can use it to make a glamour. My brother Michael calls it laying scales upon their eyes . It is one of the powers granted to archangels. I can conceal my true form when necessary. Shall we proceed?”

She scanned the street and seemed satisfied. The scribblers were all camped out by the main entrance. “I assume you know the way?”

He nodded and they fell into step together. He’d been alone with her once in the library, but that was different. He’d been working, with a large desk between them.

Gavriel cleared his throat. “Have you been to Satu Jos before?”

Rowan shook her head. “It’s my first time.”

“How do you find it?”

“Fine.”

“The kopi is good,” he remarked, a bit desperately.

“Hmmm.”

She was a veritable font of conversation.

“Did you know,” he said, “that there are no buildings older than a hundred and thirty years? That was the time of the Great Fire, when the Sinn came from the Zamir Hills and burned Kota Gelangi to the ground. The old city had wooden structures that turned to ash in an instant, so afterwards they rebuilt with brick . . .” Gavriel trailed off.

Rowan was ignoring him, her gaze flicking between the rooftops and the shadowed rookeries between buildings.

“You don’t like to speak of the Sinn,” he observed.

“What? I don’t care. Talk about whatever you like.”

Gavriel realized that while no one gave him a second glance, Rowan drew wary looks and a few warding gestures. He wondered how it might feel to inspire fear simply by existing.

“Never mind,” he said. “Er, what happened to your hand?”

“A witch broke it,” she replied absently.

Rowan didn’t elaborate and he gave up. They left the downtown behind and walked along the Corniche, a riverfront promenade with cheap hostels crowding the side streets.

“Is it true that you turned down the aid of the White Foxes?” Rowan asked.

He glanced at her. “Who told you that?”

“Felicity Birch.”

“Yes, it’s true. I much prefer cyphers.”

“Why?”

The frankness of her gaze made him decide to answer honestly. “I don’t care for their tactics. Nor their history.”

When the Sinn had first appeared in Sion, no one knew where they came from.

Eventually, it was discovered that the monsters were the result of mingling witch-angel bloodlines for two generations.

The Morag at the time, a grim woman named Amfreide Karadas, created an order to find infant cyphers and kill them before they could breed.

These hunters become known as the White Foxes because their coats blended with the snow in the northern provinces where the order was founded.

It was a long time ago, but Cathrynne Rowan seemed well aware of all this. Her mobile face went very still. Gavriel silently chided himself for mentioning it.

“Minerva finally made them stop,” Rowan said quietly. “If it weren’t for her, I’d be dead. I haven’t forgotten that.”

“Nor should you,” Gavriel agreed. “It was an abominable practice. Had I been alive at the time, I would have put a stop to it myself.”

Rowan smiled at him. It lit up her entire face. Gods, but she was lovely. He felt a strange wistfulness and crushed it ruthlessly.

They walked in easy silence for a while, the river a glittering serpent on the right. At the sixth pedestrian bridge, Gavriel guided her across to the residential neighborhood of Nove Octaver. It was named after the date of another infamous Sinn attack, but he decided not to tell her that.