The Register of Absences

The ledger was short of three sacks of rye.

The warehouse was short of far more. Its smell gave a more honest account than the figures. Damp rose from beneath the floor, and from the northern chambers came the sweetish odour of wet grain beginning to heat inside the stacks. Somewhere behind the wall, a rat scratched at a board. It stopped whenever a handcart passed overhead, then began again, patiently and without fear.

The inspection room beneath the Crown Reserves warehouse had a low ceiling. Soot had blackened the beams, greasy dust settled on the stone walls, and two tallow candles gave off more smoke than light. In their glow, the figures in the ledger looked like a row of small wounds.

Istran Vell entered the value of the three sacks, checked the total and dried the ink with sand. With a fingernail, he aligned the edge of the ledger with the edge of the table, then straightened his back. His cropped dark brown hair was receding above a broad forehead and greying at the temples.

Only then did he look up. Heavy upper lids made even the concentration in his grey-brown eyes look like weariness.

The man standing across the table was not bound. They had taken neither his belt nor his knife. He was meant to believe he had come to give his report.

White dust from Saeron’s studio still clung to the shoulders of his dark doublet. The right sleeve was torn at the elbow, and blood had dried on his knuckles. Not much. The amount left after striking a door or someone’s teeth.

Two warehouse guards stood behind him. Neither was looking at him. One watched the candle flame, the other the door.

At a side desk, a clerk waited with his quill poised above the page.

Istran ran a finger down the last column of figures.

“What time did you go in?”

The man swallowed.

“Too late.”

“That is not a time.”

“A quarter of an hour after the watch changed.”

The clerk’s quill scratched.

“Which entrance?”

“The main one. The lock didn’t give at once.”

Istran looked at his bloodied knuckles.

“How much time did you lose?”

“Perhaps two minutes.”

“One minute or two?”

“Two.” The man instinctively hid his bloodied hand behind his back.

“What did you find inside?”

The man breathed through his nose. He was beginning to understand that an account of what he had done would not be enough. He also had to list everything he had failed to do.

“There were still embers in the hearth. Papers spread across the table. No one in the studio.”

“You do not know that.”

“We searched it.”

“Before or afterwards?”

“We checked the main room first.” The man adjusted his torn sleeve, as though he could use it to cover the course of the night. “Then the back rooms, the chests and the spaces behind the canvases.”

The man clenched his jaw.

“We found the loading hatch in the back wall unfastened. The bolt was drawn back. Dust wiped from the edge. One of the empty frames by the wall had been moved. There was no dust beneath it.”

Istran nodded to the clerk, who wrote down every word.

“How fresh was the mark?”

“Lighter than the rest. No dust inside it.”

“That is not an answer.”

The man glanced at the guards, as though he had only just noticed their indifference.

“Someone left that way shortly before we arrived.”

“How shortly?”

“A few minutes. Perhaps less.”

“Did you see him?”

Istran rested a fingertip on the edge of the ledger.

“No.”

“Before you went in?”

“We saw Eiran. He came with a girl. A woman selling things outside the studio called her Lira.”

The clerk’s quill paused for a moment at the girl’s name.

“Did you hear him leave?”

“No.”

“Did you follow him?”

The silence lasted a little too long.

“The order was to search the studio and secure anything that might concern Meran.”

Istran studied him without a word.

That had indeed been the order. The man had taken shelter behind a single verb like a soldier behind a shield too narrow for him. Search. Not pursue. Not detain. Not think.

Literal obedience was the favourite form of incompetence.

“What is missing?” Istran asked.

“We don’t know what was there before.”

“What is missing?”

“Two small paintings. Or painted panels. That’s what the marks suggest. There were two rectangular impressions in the dust on the table, beside papers that had just been pushed apart. Someone must have taken them recently.”

“Size?”

The man showed him with his hands. The first rectangle was scarcely larger than an account book, the second a little wider.

Istran looked at the clerk.

“Record them separately. Two objects, probably painted panels. Approximate dimensions.”

The clerk dipped his quill in the inkwell.

“What did you secure?”

The man slipped a hand beneath his doublet. One of the guards looked away from the candle. He did not reach for his weapon.

A sheet of paper, folded four times, appeared on the table. Its corners had softened with handling, but the creases remained stiff. The man unfolded it carefully.

The sketch showed the set of a pair of shoulders, part of a ceremonial garment and a slightly turned neck. The face had barely been begun. Istran recognised Meran by the high collar, the posture and the hand resting beside his belt.

A short line of red chalk ran beneath the left ear.

The red lay over charcoal. Saeron had pressed the chalk so hard that its dust had worked between the fibres of the paper. The line began beneath the earlobe, crossed the neck and disappeared into the shadow below the jaw.

Exactly where the blade had entered.

Istran did not touch the sheet.

“Where was it?”

“On the table. Among the loose studies.”

“Were there others?”

“Several showed Meran. In some, the line ran higher; in others, it stopped sooner.”

The man pointed to the sheet.

“Only this one was exact.”

“Did you take anything else?”

“No. When we found the back exit, we checked the yard. Then we heard the watch in the street.” The man straightened his bloodied fingers.

“So you ran.”

“We withdrew.”

Istran looked at the dust on his shoulders, the torn sleeve and the flecks of mortar in his hair.

“Of course.”

The clerk waited with his quill above the page.

Istran closed the ledger.

“Bring a blank register from the office upstairs. The one with the blue spine.”

The clerk hesitated just long enough to show that he had heard more than the words. He set down his quill, bowed and left. The door closed heavily behind him. For a moment, his footsteps were audible on the stairs; then there was only the rat and the dull scrape of barrels on the floor above.

Istran looked at the sketch again.

He had chosen the day.

He had chosen the winter garden, the side passage between the orangery and the gallery, and the hour when Meran was usually alone. He had given the order. Meran was not to leave the garden. He was not to have time to pass on what he had found in the accounts connected to the merchants of Jahrann.

Istran had specified the place, the time and the outcome.

He had not specified the method.

The man across the table had chosen the knife himself. He had approached from behind, pulled Meran’s head back and cut the skin beneath his left ear. Afterwards, he had explained that a man lost his strength that way before he could call out. Istran had not asked how he knew.

Before the body was found, no one but the two of them should have known the exact position of the wound.

The sketch might have been made afterwards. Dust was not a date; the folds in paper did not give testimony. Something else troubled him. Saeron had not stopped at one wound. He had moved it from study to study, adjusted its length and position, until he arrived at a decision Istran had never made.

The man shifted uneasily.

“Meran could have seen us too. There was no trouble with him.”

Istran looked up from the drawing.

“Meran did not know you were coming for him.”

“I did what had to be done.”

“Remind me.”

The man licked his cracked lips.

“I cut him and left him where you told us.”

One of the guards stirred. Not in surprise. More like a man who had felt a draught.

“With the same knife you are wearing now?” Istran asked.

The man’s hand moved instinctively towards the hilt, then stopped halfway.

“The blade was cleaned.”

“That was not my question.”

“Yes. The same one.”

Istran folded the sketch along its old creases. The red wound vanished first, then Meran’s neck, the ceremonial collar and the hand beside his belt.

“What else did you see?”

“Nothing.”

Istran waited.

The man lowered his eyes.

“Someone was standing across the yard.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. A man by the opposite wall. His cloak was fastened right up to his throat. He wasn’t moving.”

“A labourer?”

The man began to breathe faster.

“He didn’t look like one.”

“A guard?”

“He wore no colours.”

The guards were still looking elsewhere.

“How long had he been there?”

“He was already there when we came out. Watching the studio.”

“Did he see you?”

“He didn’t.”

Istran laid the folded sketch beside the closed ledger.

“He did not see you, or you do not know whether he did?”

The man pressed his lips together. As he clenched his fist, the wound across his knuckles opened. A fresh bead of blood appeared on his skin.

“I don’t know.”

For the first time that night, he had answered honestly.

Istran rested his hands on the table.

“Is there anything else I ought to learn from someone other than you?”

“I’ve told you everything.”

“Think.”

The man looked at one guard, then the other.

“I’ve worked for you for years.”

Istran said nothing.

“The night shipments. The canal inspections. Meran. I did everything without asking questions.”

“I remember.”

“My household is on the payment list. They received an advance. The rest was due tomorrow.”

“It will be settled.”

Relief passed across the man’s face too quickly. He wanted to believe he had just saved his family. Perhaps himself as well.

Istran opened the ledger at the last completed page and checked the total for the third time. Three missing sacks. The deduction. The storekeeper’s name. The date of inspection.

Everything balanced.

He closed the ledger.

“Finish it.”

The guard on the left seized the man’s elbows and jerked them backwards. The other drew a short length of packing cord from his belt.

For an instant, the condemned man did not struggle. He turned towards Istran, frowning as though he had misheard the order.

Then he saw the cord.

He lunged forwards so violently that the edge of the table drove into his hips. The inkwell overturned. Black ink spread between the ledgers and ran towards the folded sketch of Meran. Istran lifted the paper before the liquid reached its edge.

The man drove his heel into the guard’s shin. He tore one arm free and reached for his knife. He managed to draw a finger’s breadth of blade. The guard slammed his wrist against the edge of the table. The knife fell and rang against the stone.

The first guard forced the condemned man’s chest against the tabletop. The second looped the cord round his neck and pulled its ends.

The loop tightened beneath the jaw.

A short, strangled moan escaped the man’s throat. He forced his fingers between the cord and his skin. The hemp bit deeper. His forefinger’s nail bent back, exposing pink flesh. He did not feel it, or no longer cared.

His whole body jerked. The table slid across the stone with a long scrape. One of the candles swayed in its holder.

The guard holding his arms swore under his breath and drove a knee into the back of his thigh. The condemned man’s legs buckled, but the cord kept him from falling. He hung between the two men, his heels kicking against the floor.

He was looking at Istran.

He tried to say his name. His lips formed the first syllable, but only a wet, broken sound came from his throat. His tongue slipped between his teeth. His jaws closed on it. Saliva mixed with blood ran down his chin.

Istran did not look away.

Pleasure had no place in this. It would make a whim of the decision, a caprice of the calculation.

A fugitive, two missing panels, an unknown watcher and knowledge of Meran were enough to make the man’s continued usefulness irrelevant.

The man’s face darkened. The skin above the cord swelled. Red veins crossed the whites. His kicks grew erratic. A heel struck the table leg, then empty air. The heavy smell of urine spread through the room.

The first guard turned his face away as warmth seeped through the condemned man’s trousers and began to drip onto the stone.

The second loosened the cord a fraction.

Istran raised two fingers.

The guard pulled the hemp taut again.

The body shuddered. Calves tightened, feet pointed, and fingers opened and closed without purpose. The torn nail struck the tabletop.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Then the hand fell.

The guards held him a little longer. Above them, a handcart loaded with grain passed by. Its wheels rumbled over the boards, shaking fine dust from the beams. It settled on the dead man’s hair and on the shoulders of the men who had killed him.

Istran lowered his fingers.

The cord was loosened. The body fell face first onto the stone floor. The nose broke with a dry crack. Dark blood spread from beneath the cheek and mingled with urine and the ink dripping from the table.

One of the guards knelt, pressed two fingers to the neck, then to the wrist.

“He’s dead.”

Istran looked at him.

The guard checked again.

“He’s dead.”

Only then did Istran slip the sketch of Meran into the inner pocket of his doublet.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. The door opened, and the clerk entered with a blank register held against his chest.

He stopped at the sight of the body.

He did not ask what had happened. He looked at the cord, the puddle and the bloodied face. Then at Istran.

“Under what heading shall I enter him?”

“Desertion while on duty.”

The clerk put the register on the dry end of the table.

“With today’s date?”

“Yesterday’s. He disappeared before the night shift began. He took an operational advance and Crown property.”

“What property?”

“Fill that in from the list of items awaiting write-off.”

The clerk nodded. Every warehouse had objects that went missing only on paper, and men who, on paper, could steal them.

“The outstanding payment?”

“Seize it against the losses.”

“And his household?”

“They received the advance.”

The clerk looked at the body.

“Strike him off the list?”

“Do not strike him off. Add a debt.”

The quill hovered for a moment over the register’s first page, then touched the paper.

The guards took the knife, belt, purse and brass service badge from the body. One brought a used rye sack. Its fabric was damp and eaten through with mould in several places. They pushed the body inside, head and shoulders first, then the legs. The sack was too short. The feet protruded beyond its edge.

“Into the pit for the nameless before dawn,” Istran said. “No uniform. No insignia. No stone.”

The guard tied the sack with the same cord that had strangled the man.

As they dragged the body towards the door, its heels left two parallel tracks in the dust. One broke off every few paces. The leg was catching on the uneven floor.

The clerk looked up from the register.

“What about the other man from the studio?”

“Bring him in an hour. Alone.”

“Should he know the first man gave his statement?”

Istran looked at the sack disappearing through the doorway.

“He should know he told us everything.”

The door closed. Blood, urine, spilled ink and heel marks leading nowhere remained on the stones.

Istran drew the register towards him.

“Before dawn, I want a list of every gate, warehouse, landing and checkpoint through which two small painted panels might leave Ardelon. Merchants’ carts, river barges, official transports, temple caravans. List separately the traders who carry goods without a seal. Those who can be bought. Those who must be frightened.”

The clerk began to write.

“How far should the list extend?”

“To the border.”

“Which one?”

Istran took the sketch from his pocket and looked once more at the folded paper. Beneath his fingertip, he could feel the slight unevenness left by the red chalk.

“All of them.”

He turned the written page and entered a heading on the blank one.

REGISTER OF ABSENCES.

In the first column, he entered the two missing panels.

He made no entry for the man being carried out of the warehouse.

Istran returned to his private rooms before dawn.

He did not light all the lamps. He put one on the desk and left another beside the closed window. Wood was dying in the hearth, and the stone walls held the chill of the night. He took off his doublet and laid it over the back of a chair. The smell of wet grain, soot and warehouse dust rose from the weave.

The sketch of Meran was still in the inner pocket.

Istran took it out, spread it on the desk and weighted it with the corners of four books. In the steady lamplight, the red line beneath the ear looked more exact than it had in the inspection room. It was not a symbol. It resembled neither a sign nor an ornamental brushstroke. It ran at the right angle. It had the right length. It ended exactly where the blade must have lost the resistance of the skin and sunk deeper.

Istran poured water into a basin.

He washed the ink from his hands. Then the dust. Last of all, he noticed a dark speck beneath his thumbnail. He did not know whether it was dried blood or a flake of rust from the table. He picked it out with the tip of his knife and wiped the blade on a linen rag.

Someone knocked.

Three quick blows, a pause, one softer.

Istran slipped the sketch beneath a closed book.

“Come in.”

The door opened with the caution of someone unsure whether he had understood the permission correctly. A boy slipped inside, wearing a messenger’s cloak too large for him. He might have been fourteen. The sleeves covered half his hands, his ears were red with cold, and mud from the riverside streets clung to his boots.

He stopped two paces beyond the threshold.

“Master Istran Vell?”

“If you have entered my rooms, you ought to know the answer.”

The boy swallowed and drew a small folded sheet from beneath his cloak. It was not sealed. Only a thin black thread held it closed.

“I was told to put this into your hands.”

“By whom?”

“A man outside the carriers’ house. He said you would know.”

Istran did not hold out his hand.

“What did he look like?”

“Tall. Dark hair. His cloak was wet, but it wasn’t raining.”

“His accent?”

The boy frowned.

“A soft accent. Like people from the west.”

Only then did Istran take the message. The thread came undone with a single pull.

A single message was written on the paper.

‘I am in the city. If you still want to see me, light the second lamp.’

Istran folded the note.

“Were you paid?”

“Half a copper.”

He put a whole copper coin on the table. The boy looked at it but did not move without permission.

“Take it. Go back the same way. If the man is still there, tell him the message arrived. If he is not, do not look for him.”

The boy tucked the coin into his glove.

“Yes, sir.”

“And close the door.”

The messenger bowed awkwardly and left. Istran waited until his footsteps faded on the stairs. Only then did he move the lamp from the desk to the windowsill, light the second and set it beside the first.

For a moment, the two flames were reflected in the glass like a pair of motionless eyes.

Half an hour later, there was another knock.

Twice this time.

Istran opened the door himself.

Savel Orin stood in the corridor without a servant or any emblem of the merchant faction he represented in Port Jahrann. He was thirty-eight, compact and strongly built, and a little taller than Istran. His almost black hair, wet with mist, fell in waves to the nape of his neck. Broad cheekbones, warm brown eyes and a slightly uneven mouth made up a face Istran knew well enough to distrust every expression it assumed. Beneath his dark cloak, Savel wore a plain charcoal-grey doublet. It had cost more than the embroidered clothes of most courtiers, though only those who knew how to touch cloth would have recognised that.

Savel entered without bowing.

Istran closed the door and drew the bolt.

“Alone?” he asked.

“As you ordered.”

“I gave no order.”

Savel took off his gloves, finger by finger.

“That’s why I came.”

He hung his cloak on the chair that held Istran’s doublet. The damp wool covered the warehouse smell, though not entirely.

Savel turned his head.

“You’ve been at the Reserves.”

“I work at the Reserves.”

“You don’t smell of spoiled rye every night.”

Istran went to the table and poured him wine. Savel did not reach for the goblet. He was looking at the linen rag beside the basin. At the dark smear the water had not quite washed out.

“Who died?”

“You did not come to ask about my men.”

“No. I came to see whether I was still one of them.”

Istran looked up.

Savel did not take the words back. He never did. That was what set him apart from the men Istran paid, promoted or had carried out in sacks.

“You are not,” Istran said.

“Good.” Savel picked up the goblet, turned it in his hand and set it down without drinking. “Because my principals in Jahrann are growing nervous. Meran is dead, the Crown is going through his books, and you summon me before dawn after weeks of failing to answer a single message.”

“You sent the messenger.”

“You lit the second lamp.”

Istran felt the same chill beneath his ribs that he had felt when the sketch of Meran was unfolded before him. Not fear, but a question without an answer. A column that could not be added up.

Savel came closer.

“Show me your hands.”

“No.”

“Then don’t touch me with them.”

Istran seized him by the nape.

Savel immediately laid a hand against his chest. He did not push him away. He stopped him. A breath’s space remained between their mouths, two fingers wide.

“If you need obedience, go back to the guards,” he said quietly. “If you need me, ask.”

A muscle tightened beneath the skin of Istran’s jaw.

“Stay.”

“That’s an order.”

Istran ran his thumb along Savel’s jaw. Savel waited. Without mockery. Without relief. He waited as a man waits across a negotiating table after laying down his final offer.

“I want you,” Istran said.

Savel’s hand fell from his chest.

“Now you sound human.”

He kissed Istran first.

His mouth was cold from the night and bitter with clove wine. Istran tightened his fingers at the nape of his neck and pulled him closer. Savel allowed it for a single heartbeat. Then he caught the front of Istran’s shirt and turned him so that his back struck the door.

The bolt rattled above their heads.

Savel slipped his tongue between Istran’s lips. He kissed without haste, but not gently. He knew the way Istran tried to dictate even the rhythm of another man’s breathing. Each time, he broke it. He drew away when Istran wanted more, returned when the fingers at his nape began to loosen.

Istran bit his lower lip.

Savel hissed. Blood appeared on his mouth.

“Harder?” he asked.

“Yes.”

This time there was no doubt.

Savel pressed his hips against Istran’s. His hard cock pushed through the layers of clothing, distinct and hot. Istran felt his own body answer at once, with a simplicity he hated and needed. Without calculation. Without a reason that required recording.

He unfastened Savel’s doublet. One button would not pass through its tight loop, so he pulled harder. The thread snapped. The button struck the floor and rolled beneath the bed.

Savel laughed against his mouth.

“Send the bill to Jahrann.”

“Shut up.”

“Make it impossible for me to speak.”

Istran slipped a hand beneath his shirt. The skin of his stomach was warm, taut with his breathing. Istran moved his fingers lower, untied the laces of his trousers and closed his hand round his cock. Savel let out a breath through his teeth. His head fell onto Istran’s shoulder.

Istran began to move his hand. Slowly, from the base to the wet tip. With his thumb, he spread the drop that appeared at the slit. Savel shuddered and pressed his forehead to Istran’s temple.

“Not so slowly.”

“Now you are asking.”

Savel raised his head. His pupils were dilated, his lips reddened by the kisses.

“Faster.”

Istran granted the request for a few firm strokes, then abruptly let go.

Savel looked down at his own bare cock standing between them. Then back at him.

“You’re still trying to keep accounts.”

“You are still trying to speak.”

Istran pushed him towards the bed. Savel took two steps backwards, sat on its edge and spread his knees.

He caught Istran by the belt and drew him between his thighs.

He undid the buckle. Lowered Istran’s trousers enough to free his hard cock. For a moment, he only looked. Then he took it in his hand and licked along the underside, slowly, from base to tip.

Istran drew in a breath.

Savel took him into his mouth.

Warmth closed around him. A tongue moved along the underside of his cock, and the mouth descended. Istran laid a hand on Savel’s head. His hair was still damp with mist. Istran tightened his fingers in it and thrust his hips forwards.

Savel drew back at once.

For a second, Istran felt only cool air against wet skin.

“I said I wasn’t your man.”

Istran looked down at him. Savel still held his cock, but his hand did not move at all.

“Harder,” Istran said.

“That isn’t an answer.”

Istran loosened his fingers in Savel’s hair.

“You may.”

Only then did Savel open his mouth again.

This time, he set the pace himself. He took Istran deep, until the tip of his cock touched his throat, then drew back slowly, sucking harder around the head. His hand worked at the base. He slipped the other beneath Istran’s shirt and gripped his hip hard enough to leave marks the next day.

Istran tipped his head back.

The lamp cast a moving shadow across the ceiling. A thin dark line crossed a beam at much the same angle as the wound beneath Meran’s ear.

He closed his eyes.

The line remained.

Savel felt the change. He slowed, let the cock slip from his mouth and ran his tongue over the sensitive place just below the head.

“Where are you?”

“Here.”

“You’re a worse liar when you’re naked.”

Istran caught him beneath the chin.

“Do not speak of him.”

Savel went still.

“I didn’t name anyone.”

That was enough.

Istran pushed him onto the bed. Savel fell onto his back, but the smile left his face. He watched Istran take off his shirt, trousers and underclothes. Watched him set each item aside separately, though his breathing had quickened.

“Undress,” Istran said.

Savel raised an eyebrow.

“Please.”

This time, Istran said it without being made to.

Savel slipped off his open doublet and pulled his shirt over his head. He untied his trousers and pushed them down with his underclothes. He lay naked on the dark bedding, hard, his flushed cock resting against his stomach. Pale scars marked his chest and thighs. Istran knew every one of them, though not every story Savel attached to them.

He approached the bed.

Savel reached for him, but Istran caught his wrist and pressed his hand to the mattress.

“I want to stop thinking.”

“You don’t know how.”

“Then make it impossible.”

Savel looked at him for a long moment.

“Turn around.”

Istran released his wrist.

He did not obey at once. In the warehouse, a movement of his fingers had been enough for a man to die. In this chamber, the same gesture meant nothing if the other man refused it.

He turned.

He braced his hands on the edge of the bed. Savel knelt behind him. His hands moved down Istran’s back, then lower, cupping his buttocks and parting them without haste.

“Say it again.”

Istran felt his breath against his skin.

“I want you inside me.”

Savel kissed him just above the tailbone.

“Better.”

He took a small ceramic bottle from the drawer beside the bed. He knew where to find it. He pulled the cork with his teeth and poured oil over his fingers.

The first touch was cool. Istran tensed instinctively as Savel’s finger slid between his buttocks and traced a slow circle around his opening.

“Relax.”

“Do not give me orders.”

Savel pressed his fingertip harder.

“Then stay tense and suffer.”

Istran let out his breath.

The finger entered him slowly. His muscles closed against the unfamiliar pressure, then yielded. Savel moved his hand, sliding deeper and bending his finger. Istran felt a sudden wave of pleasure, sharp and concentrated. His hips jerked against his will.

Savel added a second finger.

He stretched him patiently, waiting each time for the tension to ease. Istran lowered his head. His cock hung hard between his thighs. A drop ran from the tip and fell onto the stone floor.

“More,” he said.

The fingers went deeper.

Savel found the place inside him that broke the rhythm of Istran’s breathing at once. He pressed again. Istran swore and clenched the coverlet in his hands.

“Right there?”

“You know it is.”

“I want to hear it.”

Istran looked over his shoulder.

“Yes. There.”

Savel withdrew his fingers.

Istran heard the soft sound of oil being poured. Then a warm, hard cock touched his opening. Savel put one arm round his waist and used his other hand to guide his own hips.

“If you want me to stop, say so.”

“Do not stop.”

Savel pressed forwards.

The head entered slowly, stretching him wider than the fingers had. Istran clenched his teeth. The pain was brief, clean, easier to bear than not knowing. Savel stopped, allowing his body to accept the first pressure.

“More?”

“All of you.”

Savel slid deeper.

Istran felt every inch. The fullness grew until Savel’s hips met his buttocks. For a moment, both men were still. His lover’s breath warmed Istran’s nape. The hand on his stomach trembled slightly, though the voice remained calm.

“Did Meran find out about us?”

Istran opened his eyes.

Savel drew his hips back and thrust again, deep, taking the answer from him.

The movement passed through Istran like a blow against a closed door. His fingers tightened on the coverlet.

Savel did not let him recover his rhythm. He moved again, more slowly, but with the same force.

“Did Meran find out about us?”

“No.”

“He didn’t know, or you don’t want to answer?”

Istran turned his head. He could see only part of Savel’s face, the damp hair clinging to his temple and the blood from his bitten lip.

“He found out about the books.”

Savel went still.

His hands still held Istran’s hips, but the pressure eased.

“Which books?”

“The ones he should not have opened. He found accounts that led to the merchants of Jahrann.”

“My name?”

“No.”

Savel tightened his grip on Istran’s hips but did not move.

“Are you certain?”

“If he had found it, he would have mentioned it before he died.”

Savel pulled out and moved away.

The sudden emptiness hurt Istran more than he should have allowed. He straightened but did not turn. He waited with his hands braced on the bed, naked and humiliated by his own desire.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

“I won’t be used to drown out your answers.”

Savel laid a hand on his nape. This time there was neither tenderness nor desire in the touch. It served only to make him turn.

Istran allowed it.

Savel sat on the edge of the bed. Naked. Still aroused.

“If Meran had found out about me, would you have killed him sooner?”

Istran answered without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Savel’s face hardened.

“Because the arrangement needs me?”

“No.”

The answer required no thought.

“Because I belong to you?”

“You do not.”

“Then why?”

Istran could name every kind of loss. A shortage of grain, money, men, time. Every loss had a value that could be entered in the proper column.

Savel fitted none of them.

“Because I would not have let him hurt you.”

“That still isn’t an answer.”

“It is the only one you will get.”

Savel stood.

He reached for the trousers on the floor.

Istran caught his wrist.

“Stay.”

“Why?”

Istran’s fingers tightened. Not to hold him by force. He knew that if he tried, Savel would leave and never return.

“Because I love you.”

The words sounded foreign. Too simple. They had no official form, no condition, no hidden threat.

Savel did not move.

Istran released his hand.

“Now you may leave.”

He expected mockery. A question. The victorious smile of a man who had just found a gap in his armour.

Savel put a hand behind his neck and kissed him.

Not carefully.

Their teeth struck, and Savel’s bitten lip began to bleed again. Istran tasted metal. The same taste that had hung over Meran’s wound and lingered in the warehouse after the death of the man carried out in a sack.

This time, he did not close his eyes.

Savel pushed him onto the bed and moved between his thighs. Istran pulled him close, gripping his buttocks hard. Their bodies came together completely.

“Say it again,” Savel demanded.

“No.”

Savel moved his hips, rubbing slowly against him.

Istran drew in a breath.

“Say it.”

“I love you.”

Savel kissed his neck.

He entered him again, without haste this time. Istran wrapped his legs around him and took the full weight of his body. He did not try to seize the rhythm. He let Savel move as he pleased, sometimes slower, sometimes harder, until the bed striking the wall began to drown out the crackle of the dying fire.

Istran tightened his fingers against Savel’s back.

“Harder.”

Savel granted the request.

Istran’s breath broke in his throat. His hips answered without an order. When Savel thrust deeper, Istran moaned and dug his nails into his skin.

He no longer tried to silence his own voice.

The tension rose sharply inside him. When it finally broke, Istran pulled Savel so close it was as though he wanted to hide inside his body. His lover’s name escaped his mouth. It did not sound like an order.

It sounded like a plea.

Savel moved a few more times. Then he shuddered and went still, breathing heavily against Istran’s neck.

For a while, neither spoke.

Savel did not move away at once. He rested his forehead against Istran’s chest and laid a hand over his heart.

“Love does not make you a better man,” he said.

“I know.”

“It does not make me safe, either.”

Istran ran his fingers through Savel’s wet hair.

“No.”

Savel lifted his head.

“At least you’re not trying to lie.”

“Not to you.”

“You were lying to me a moment ago.”

“I stopped.”

Savel moved away and sat up. He reached for the linen rag, but his gaze stopped on the book lying on the desk.

A corner of folded paper protruded from beneath its lower edge.

“What have you hidden there?”

Istran looked at the paper.

Only an hour earlier, he had killed a man for knowing too much. Now he was about to hand someone, willingly, evidence he did not understand himself.

He rose, went to the desk and slid the sketch from beneath the book.

He unfolded it on the bedding between them.

“This is why,” Istran said, “I did not want to be alone tonight.”

For a long time, Savel did not touch the sketch.

He leaned over it, bracing one hand on the bedding. His hair fell across his forehead. On the other side of the bed, Istran waited naked, nail marks on his hips and Savel’s blood drying on his lips.

“When was it drawn?”

“I do not know.”

Savel looked up.

“You always know.”

“The paper is not dated. The creases are old, but the red chalk was added later.”

“Before Meran died?”

Istran looked at the line across Meran’s neck.

“I cannot prove that.”

Savel moved a finger just above the paper. He did not touch the line.

“How exact is it?”

“Entirely.”

“Did you see the body?”

“I saw the physician’s report.”

Savel lowered his hand to the bedding without taking his eyes off the sketch.

“The report could have reached Saeron.”

“It did not give the angle of the cut or the point where the blade went deeper.”

Savel sat straighter.

“Who knew those details?”

Istran did not answer at once.

Beyond the window, the night was beginning to lose its colour. The glass was no longer black. It was turning grey, revealing the indistinct shapes of roofs and chimneys.

“The man who held the knife,” he said.

“And who else?”

“I did.”

Savel drew his hand away from the sketch.

He did not look surprised. Something in his face simply closed, like a door.

“Did you order Meran killed?”

“Yes.”

“Not detained. Not frightened. Killed.”

“He was not to leave the winter garden.”

Savel looked at him closely.

“And the man who chose the knife?”

“He is dead.”

“Was it his blood you were washing off your hands?”

“I did not touch him.”

“Of course.” Savel smiled without a trace of amusement. “You don’t have to touch people to kill them.”

Istran reached for his shirt.

Savel caught the cloth and threw it to the far end of the bed.

“Don’t cover yourself now.”

Istran leaned back on his hands.

“What do you expect of me?”

“The truth, before I decide what to do with it.”

“The truth will not change the fact that Meran is dead.”

“It will change whether I stay in this room.”

Istran looked towards the door.

The bolt was still drawn. It would take only a lift of the hand. Savel could dress, go downstairs and be on the other side of the city before first bell.

Istran had no order that could prevent it.

“Meran found discrepancies between the Crown’s accounts and the shipping lists of the merchants of Jahrann,” he said. “He did not know the whole arrangement. But he knew enough to begin asking the right questions.”

“Could he have traced it to me?”

“In time.”

“Is that why you killed him?”

“That is why I could not let him speak.”

Savel stood.

He went to the basin and dipped the rag in the cool water. He wrung it out, then began wiping the dried blood from his own lip.

“And the man in the warehouse?”

“He failed.”

“That is not a reason.”

Savel pressed the wet rag to his split lip. The water turned pink.

“He saw too much. Lost two paintings. Let someone escape. He could have been captured.”

“And he could have led the Crown to the arrangement.”

“Yes.”

Savel put down the rag.

“To me.”

Istran was silent.

“You also killed him so that he would not give my name.”

“Yes.”

Savel turned sharply.

“Do not lay his body between us like a gift.”

Istran picked up his shirt from the bedding.

“I do not need your gratitude.”

“You need me to stay.”

This time, he did not answer.

Savel looked at the unfolded sketch.

“You said he lost two paintings.”

“Judging by the marks, two small painted panels. Someone took them from the studio shortly before my men went in.”

“Saeron?”

“More likely his apprentice. Eiran.”

Savel’s hand stopped above the sketch.

“Do you know what they showed?”

“No.”

Savel returned to the bed. He knelt beside the sketch and studied the red line.

“If one of them shows anything like this, anyone who sees it will understand why your men entered the studio.”

“That is why I have to find them.”

“You?”

“My men.”

Istran fastened the first button of his shirt.

“The same men who lost them last time?”

“The next ones will be better.”

“Or more frightened.”

“There is usually no difference.”

Savel shook his head.

He did not object to the search itself, however. Neither of them knew what the panels depicted. It was enough that they could not rule out the possibility that the panels were as dangerous as the sketch.

“I can make enquiries among the carriers connected to Jahrann,” he said. “Discreetly. Without telling my principals what we’re looking for.”

Istran’s fingers stopped on the next button.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because if paintings like these really show things that have not yet happened, my faction will not let you keep control of them.”

“Your principals know nothing about them.”

“Yet.”

Savel went to the window. The two lamps were still burning side by side.

“I didn’t come only because I wanted to see you.”

“I know.”

“No. You suspected.”

Istran finished buttoning his shirt.

“Why were you sent?”

“To establish whether you were still useful.”

The chamber grew quiet.

The first cart passed in the street. The iron rim of a wheel struck a cracked stone, and the sound echoed between the buildings.

“And what did you establish?” Istran asked.

Savel looked at his face.

“That you are more dangerous than they think.”

Istran approached him.

“You will leave before noon.”

“No.”

“This is not a request.”

“That is precisely why I won’t go.”

Savel turned from the window and faced him.

“If your principals discover that you withheld information, you will cease to represent them.”

“If I leave immediately after meeting you in secret, they’ll send someone else. Someone with no reason to keep you alive.”

“I can keep myself alive.”

“I’ve seen that.” Savel nodded towards the sketch. “You kill anyone who comes too close.”

“Not everyone.”

“Not yet.”

Istran touched his cheek.

Savel did not draw away, but neither did he lean into the hand.

“What will you tell them?” Istran asked.

“That Meran had no time to pass any names on. That the Crown has no evidence against the merchants of Jahrann. That you are still in control.”

“And the sketch?”

“It does not exist.”

Savel looked towards the two lamps in the window.

“The panels?”

“They do not exist.”

Istran moved his thumb across Savel’s skin.

“Why?”

Savel closed his eyes for a moment.

“Don’t make me say those words now. Not while the man strangled on your orders has yet to grow cold.”

Istran lowered his hand.

He did not feel rejected.

“Very well,” he said.

Savel opened his eyes.

“Is that all?”

“You told me not to force you.”

Something difficult to name passed across Savel’s face. Sadness. Relief. Perhaps fear that Istran had actually listened.

He leaned in and kissed him briefly.

Then he began to dress.

“Have the approximate dimensions of the panels ready, and everything your men managed to establish,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’ll look into the western carriers and the barges leaving the city. If anyone tried to use the League’s routes, I’ll find out.”

“Without informing Jahrann.”

“We agreed on that.”

Savel put on his trousers and reached for the charcoal-grey doublet. The missing button left a small gap just below his collarbone.

Istran knelt beside the bed, found the button on the floor and slipped it into his doublet pocket.

“I will send a tailor.”

“Don’t send me your men.”

“The tailor is not one of my men.”

Savel looked at him.

“Everyone in this city is one of your men until he stops being useful.”

Istran turned his gaze to the sketch of Meran.

“Not everyone.”

Savel fastened his cloak at the throat.

Before opening the door, he went to the window and put out the second lamp. One flame remained in the glass.

“Find those panels,” he said. “Before one of them shows the death of someone you won’t be able to enter in your register.”

He lifted the bolt and left.

Istran was alone with the sketch, the torn-off button and a single burning lamp.

For the first time since the arrangement with the merchant faction from Jahrann had begun, he had deliberately chosen to conceal from its leaders something they might demand.

He had not done it for the Crown or for Ardelon. He had done it for the man who had just refused to say three simple words.

The cat found her before dawn.

At about the same moment, on the other side of the city, the second lamp was lit.

The first thing Lira heard was claws moving over boards. A brief rustle, then silence. She lay beneath a sheet of old canvas in the loft of a closed ropeworks, and for a moment she was certain the sound had come from a rat.

But rats did not sit on beams and look down at people.

The cat’s fur was the colour of ash, matted with rain along its back. One ear was notched, and its right forepaw was white as far as the wrist. It lowered its head and sniffed the air. Then it jumped onto a pile of empty sacks.

Lira did not move.

Since she had vanished from Eiran’s sight into the gap between the riverside buildings, she had changed hiding places three times. Only when his footsteps faded had she slipped out from between the walls and hidden beneath the steps of the carriers’ house. Later, she had entered an empty net shed, but someone had stopped outside the door and stayed too long. At last, she had squeezed through a broken window in the ropeworks and climbed into the loft, where it smelled of wet hemp fibres, tar and wood eaten through by damp.

No one had come in here for almost two hours.

The cat came closer.

“I haven’t got anything, cat,” she whispered.

It sat down. Wrapped its tail round its paws and began licking the white fur, as though her words meant nothing.

Lira lowered her head onto her folded arm. Her cheek hurt. The skin beneath her brow throbbed whenever she squeezed her eyes shut. If she could sleep for only a few minutes, she might be able to think faster afterwards.

The cat went still with its paw raised to its mouth.

Its ears turned towards the stairs.

Lira stopped breathing.

For a few seconds, she heard only rain running off the roof. Then the wood on the floor below groaned beneath someone’s weight.

One step.

A pause.

A second man entered more carefully. His boot missed the loose board that creaked whenever Lira stepped on it.

They knew where to look for her.

The cat lowered its paw onto the sack. It watched the stairs but did not run.

Lira looked round the loft. A wall stood behind her. To the left was a broken workbench; to the right, coils of mouldy rope. The only way out led down the stairs.

The first man was already halfway up.

The cat sprang up. It ran across the sacks, jumped onto the workbench and vanished behind a length of canvas hanging against the opposite wall.

The canvas stirred in a draught.

A narrow streak of grey light appeared behind it.

Lira moved.

She sprang from beneath her covering and ran across the loft. A curse sounded behind her. Someone ran up the last few steps.

She tore the hanging canvas. Behind it, two boards were missing from the wall. The cat was already standing on the wet roof of the next building.

She squeezed her head, a shoulder and a hip through. A broken board caught her doublet. She pulled harder. The fabric tore across her back.

A hand closed round her boot.

Lira kicked backwards. Her heel struck fingers. The man hissed and let go.

She tumbled onto the roof.

The tiles were slippery. She fell onto one knee, scraped the skin and nearly slid into the gutter. The cat ran along the ridge, light as a shadow moving over water.

“There!” someone shouted behind her.

Lira got up and ran after the cat.

Not because she trusted it. The cat simply knew the way, and she had no other.

It jumped onto a low wall between two buildings. Lira caught the edge of the roof, lowered her legs and dropped onto a wooden awning over the yard. The boards cracked but held.

Behind her, the first man emerged from the opening in the ropeworks.

The cat jumped onto a stack of crates. One shifted and struck an earthenware bowl. The bowl fell onto the stones and shattered with a sharp crack.

The man waiting at the gate turned towards the noise.

Lira slipped behind him.

He noticed her only when her shoulder struck him below the shoulder blade. He staggered and tried to catch her collar, but was left holding only a torn scrap of cloth.

Lira ran into the street.

For a few minutes, she was free.

She passed shuttered stalls, carts covered with tarpaulins and people carrying baskets before first bell. She did not call for help. Men who chased children seldom did it in a way that made a passer-by want to ask why.

She turned twice, jumped a ditch full of rainwater and ran between the warehouses by the river. She could hear footsteps, but they were growing fainter.

At the end of the alley, she looked back.

The cat sat on a stone wall, its wet tail hanging down the other side. It watched her for a moment, then turned its head and vanished between the chimneys.

Lira smiled despite the pain.

Then she entered a narrow passage and saw the man waiting at the far end.

He was not running. He did not even reach for a weapon.

He stood still because he knew the others were coming up behind her.

Lira turned back.

The first of her pursuers caught her arm. She bit his hand so hard that she tasted blood. He yelled. The second seized her from behind, but she drove her head into his chin and tore half a step free.

She almost reached the knife at his belt.

The third man kicked her below the knee.

She fell. Stone struck her injured cheek. White light flared before her eyes, though the sun had not yet risen.

Someone pinned her wrist to the ground.

“Let go. You’ll break her arm.”

“She bit me.”

“Vell won’t pay for a corpse.”

The name cut through the rushing in her head.

Vell.

Lira committed it to memory before they pulled a sack over her head.

They tied her hands in front of her and put her in a cart. She could not see the road, but she listened to the wheels. First they ran over small stones, then over the wooden beams of a bridge. The cart turned left, climbed a hill and descended so steeply that Lira’s shoulder struck its side.

She counted the turns.

After the ninth, she smelled baking bread. After the fifteenth, she smelled it again.

They were driving her in circles.

She stopped counting turns. Instead, she listened to the bells and remembered the slopes of the streets. At one point, the smell of wet grain, river mud and lamp oil reached her through a gap in the sack.

The smell did not leave until the cart stopped.

They carried her down three stone steps. The corridor was cold. Footsteps echoed from the walls as though the building were almost empty inside.

In a room, they took off the sack.

There was no window. One lamp stood on a shelf beside the door. Against the wall were a table, two chairs and a locked chest. A few grains of rye lay on the floor. Lira crushed one beneath her sole.

The man whose hand she had bitten sat opposite her. He wrapped the wound in a strip of cloth without taking his eyes off Lira.

“Try that again and I’ll knock your teeth out.”

Lira ran her tongue over her teeth.

“You’d have to hit me first.”

He rose so abruptly that his chair fell over behind him.

The door opened before he could reach her.

The man who entered did not look like someone coming to inspect a captured child. He wore a dark, unembroidered doublet, neatly fastened at the throat, and looked tidier than anyone else in the room. A small dark stain remained on his cuff, as though he had not quite washed out some ink.

He was tired. Lira recognised it not in his eyes but in the way he stopped beyond the threshold and, for a fraction of a moment, did nothing.

Then he was once again a man who knew exactly where everything belonged.

He looked at the overturned chair, the bloodied bandage and Lira’s bound hands.

“How many of you were there?” he asked.

“Four,” the man answered.

Lira counted them again in her mind.

“Three,” she said.

The man with the bandage clenched his jaw.

The newcomer looked at him.

“Untie her.”

“Master Vell, she…”

“I know what she did. I can see your hand.”

The cord slipped from Lira’s wrists. The skin beneath was red and swollen. She rubbed her fingers, watching Istran Vell.

He carried no weapon that she could see.

That did not mean he had none.

Istran righted the fallen chair and sat opposite her. He pointed the other man to a place by the door.

“What is your name?”

“I haven’t got one.”

“Lira.”

She did not flinch.

“If you know the answer, why ask?”

“I wanted to see whether you would begin with the truth.”

“And what did you find out?”

“That I should not begin with questions whose answers I already know.”

He pointed to the jug on the table.

“Have a drink.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“You are.”

Lira looked at the clay cup. Her throat burned from running and dust. Istran poured the water, took the first sip, then slid the cup across the table.

She took it. She did not take her eyes off him as she drank.

“Where is Eiran?” he asked.

The cup stopped at her lips.

“I don’t know any Eiran.”

“That was the second answer I already knew.”

Lira put the cup down.

“Then you’re bad at asking questions.”

A brief laugh came from the doorway. The man with the bandage silenced it with a look.

Istran did not react.

“What else did he take from Saeron’s studio?”

Lira felt a chill deeper than anything in the damp loft.

“I don’t know.”

“That answer I still have to check.”

“Then check it.”

“I am.”

For a moment, she heard only the hiss of oil in the lamp.

Istran laid his hands on the table. His nails were short. There was a shallow cut across the knuckle of his right thumb.

“My men found marks left by two small panels,” he said. “The painter’s apprentice did not carry them out through the main door. You knew another way.”

“Perhaps your men should watch the doors better.”

“One of them has already paid for it.”

He said it without anger. That was precisely why Lira believed him.

“And the others?”

“They still have a chance to prove useful.”

The fingers of the man by the door stirred uneasily.

Lira looked at Istran.

“You ordered them into the studio?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Istran turned the cup between his fingers, examining the uneven clay along its rim.

“Now you are asking questions whose answers you do not know.”

“I had to learn from someone.”

Nothing changed in his face. Only his right hand moved towards the edge of his doublet. For a moment, his thumb pressed the cloth over the pocket as though there were a small, hard object inside.

Then he lowered his hand.

“Eiran won’t come back for me,” Lira said.

“I did not ask whether he would.”

“But that’s why you took me.”

Istran studied her for a long time.

“I took you because you saw things you should not have seen. If Eiran makes the mistake of trying to find you, that will be an additional benefit.”

“He won’t come.”

“You want him not to come.”

Lira clenched her hands beneath the table.

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“Exactly.”

Istran leaned forwards a little.

“Tell me where he hid the panels. I will let you go before he has time to learn you were here.”

“You don’t know where they are.”

“If I knew, I would not be sitting here.”

For the first time, he gave her an answer without a veil.

Not because he trusted her. He wanted her to believe an agreement was possible.

“And if I tell you?” she asked.

“I will recover Crown property.”

“And kill Eiran.”

“If he is sensible, I will not have to.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

Lira pushed the cup away. Water spilled over the rim and left a thin dark line on the table.

“Did you learn that from him?”

“From you.”

This time, the man by the door did not laugh.

Istran leaned back in his chair.

“Why are you protecting him?”

Lira thought of Eiran’s hand closing round the silver key. Of the way he had lied to the patrol to get her released. Of his voice calling for her outside the studio when he should already have been running.

“Because you don’t betray your own.”

Istran went still.

It lasted no longer than a heartbeat. But Lira saw the change. For a moment, the man opposite her stopped looking at a child who might lead him to Eiran. He saw someone else.

Then his eyes grew cold again.

“Everyone betrays their own,” he said. “Only the price differs.”

“Then you haven’t found mine yet.”

The man with the bandage came closer.

“She’ll sit here till noon and say nothing. Give me an hour.”

Istran did not even look at him.

“No.”

“Master Vell…”

“A frightened child tells the truth less often than a calm one. A child in pain says whatever the person inflicting it expects.”

“The merchants of Jahrann have men who can…”

Istran raised his head.

The man broke off.

Istran turned his gaze to Lira. The promise of release vanished from his face before he spoke.

“My principals in Jahrann do not know we have her,” he said. “And they will not find out.”

The room grew quieter than before.

Lira knew the name Jahrann from the carriers’ shouts and the marks burned into crates. She did not know what its merchants wanted from Vell. But she understood that she had just heard something that should never have been said in front of her.

Istran stood.

“Move her to the old counting room. She is to have water, food, dry clothes and a blanket. No one is to strike her. No one is to speak to her without my permission. There will always be two men at the door.”

The man with the bandage looked at his hand.

“And if she tries to escape again?”

“Then you will see to it that four grown men are not beaten by one girl a second time.”

Lira counted them again in her mind.

There had been three.

Istran had included himself.

She did not know whether he had done it deliberately.

A thin official appeared in the doorway with a wax tablet. He must have been waiting in the corridor. He looked at Lira, then at Istran.

“What name should I enter her under?”

“None.”

The official hesitated, his stylus above the tablet.

“Every detainee must have an entry in the register.”

“She is not detained.”

“Then what is her status?”

Istran looked at the scattered grain beneath the table.

“She is not here.”

The official lowered his stylus.

Lira watched him use his thumb to erase a line that was still empty.

Istran stopped at the door.

“If Eiran looks for you, we will find him,” he said. “If he does not, you will remain the only person besides us who knows we abducted you. Consider which possibility ought to frighten you more.”

“There’s a third.”

He turned his head.

“What?”

“I’ll get out by myself.”

The man with the bandage snorted.

Istran did not.

“Then do not waste time,” he said, and left.

They took her to a room at the end of a second corridor. The old counting room no longer held books or tables. Only a wooden cot, a cracked basin and a narrow vent beneath the ceiling remained. The cold of the river seeped through the stone.

They set a jug beside the door. Later, bread, a blanket and a dry doublet were brought. Lira waited until they slid the bolt before touching any of it.

First, she checked the opening beneath the ceiling. It was too high. Then she examined the hinges. They were set on the other side of the door.

The cot had been nailed together long ago. One board moved beneath her hand.

Lira worked at it until a rusty nail came free of the wood.

She did not try the lock at once. Two men stood in the corridor, and she did not yet know where the stairs led. First she had to learn the rhythm of footsteps, the times food was brought and the sounds coming from the street.

She sat on the floor and thought of the cat.

She had not given it a name. Cats did not need names to know where they were going. People named streets, buildings and prisoners, then behaved as though naming something meant possessing it.

Istran Vell had chosen another method for her.

He had decided she would not even have a place in his book.

Lira slipped beneath the cot. With the sharp end of the nail, she began carving letters into the underside of a board.

L.

I.

R.

A.

Even if no one ever found them, they would still be there.

He had denied her a place in his register, so she wrote herself in.