Karis said, “When I go mad.”

“A little beforethat, I hope.” Mabin picked up the file and rubbed its rough surface lightly with her fingertips. She said, “Karis, it’s not your fault: they could have cut through the padlock with any file.”

Karis turned to her. She said in some astonishment, “Are you trying to be kind to me?”

Cadmar seemed to think he was making a speech. “Over twenty years have passed since our people in a decisive victory became the rulers of Shaftal. At great risk we destroyed every last one of these so‑called witches–fire bloods, dirt bloods, and all the rest of them. There’s been not a hint, not a whisper, of magic as long as I can remember!” Clement watched him pace and gesture. No doubt he was imagining the shouts of praise and bursts of applause that would greet his resonant words. Willis was dead, and Cadmar was not particularly clever, but she could think of no other important difference between the two leaders.

Gilly sat on his stool, gray‑faced with pain. His hooded gaze was hard, bitter, and even contemptuous. He had been a desperate street beggar once, and Cadmar had ridden past on a fine horse, and noticed him, and given him a ride, a meal, a place to shelter from the cold. For such minimal kindness, a crippled child might sell his soul and not be blamed for it. Clement could not so easily excuse herself.

She said abruptly, “General, I’ve neither slept nor eaten since yesterday.”

Cadmar glanced at her, then at Gilly who had not yet been able to take his morning tincture, then at Ellid, whose breakfast was probably congealing in her quarters as her lieutenants wondered what had become of her. “Come back in half an hour, all of you,” said Cadmar. “And I want to hear what you imagine might be done to avert this supposed threat.”

Dismissed, Clement started for the stairs. She heard Gilly’s door close quietly, and then the distant slam of the outer door behind Ellid. But Clement remained at the foot of the stairs. She could not take the first step up that long climb to her quarters, where the hysterical girl watched over the dying infant. She simply could not do it.

She finally walked back down the hall to the outdoor door. The soldier on duty opened it with a smart salute, and politely advised her that since it was bitter cold she had better button her coat.

She did so, standing at the top of the steps, squinting in the pallid light. The rising sun could be spotted between rooftops. The road was empty, the construction work halted by cold, everyone not on guard duty huddled indoors. She went down onto the ice, which made secret, crunching sounds under her boots.

After a few steps, she could not continue. She could not see. She stood in the blank, cold light of day where anyone could have observed her, with tears scalding her cheeks.

Something black flapped across her vision. Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she said harshly, “Tell the G’deon I’m a weakling. I don’t care.”

The raven gazed at her through one eye, and then the other. The bird’s lack of expression and attentive energy seemed to invite her to further explain herself. Clement said, “My son is five weeks old. He doesn’t even have a name. And he is dying.”

The raven maintained its illusion of interest.

Clement tried to imagine what the bird might want from her. And then, she reached very cautiously into her pocket for the storyteller’s knife, found a bit of string in another pocket, and used it to bind the leather around the blade. She lay it on the snow, and stepped back.

The raven walked to the slim packet, hooked a claw into the loop of the string, and lifted off. In a long, gradual climb, the bird swam through bitter air to the rooftops, over the rooftops, over the garrison wall, and out of sight above the city, with the storyteller’s blade dangling from his claw.

Gods of my mother, thought Clement. The G’deon is already here.

Karis raised her head sharply from where it rested in the support of her palm.

Garland lifted his head from his arms. He had, though it seemed impossible, been dozing.

Karis said fiercely, “I need some milk!”

“If you’ll eat one of those dumplings, I’ll go get some,” said Garland.

Karis picked up a dumpling and took a bite. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Chew,” he said. “Swallow. All right, I am going.”

Clement was the last to re‑enter Cadmar’s room. She had a hot roll in her hand and a half dozen more crammed into her pockets. She gave one to Gilly, who had washed and shaved, but did not seem much improved. His gaze asked her a question she could not interpret. She offered one to Ellid, who appeared only more worried, now that she had taken some time to think.

Cadmar said sarcastically, “Well, Clement, what do you think we should do? Shall we send out our soldiers? To where? To attack what?‘

Clement said, “We don’t have to go out looking for the Lost G’deon. She’ll come in person to rescue the storyteller, as she did before when the storyteller was Mabin’s prisoner. And she’s going to do it soon, for she’s already in Watfield.”

Gilly gave her a startled look. “If the G’deon–the supposed G’deon–is in the city … and she wants to be sure of the storyteller’s safety–and you’ve made it impossible for that bird to keep an eye on her–”

“She’ll be at the gate at any moment,” Clement finished for him.

Ellid grunted with dismay, but Cadmar’s face lit up.

Clement said, “What will we trade the storyteller for?”

Cadmar said, “If a woman claiming to be the G’deon shows up at our gate, do you really think I’ll bargainwith her?”

Clement sat in a chair, tore open a roll, and made herself take a bite. Even fresh from the oven, the bread was dry and tasteless.

Cadmar said, “You thought it would be so complicated. But all we have to do is kill her.”

Frowning worriedly, Ellid looked at Clement. Although Ellid was an inadvertent ally, unused to this alliance, she already seemed to have learned that it was Clement’s job to contradict Cadmar.

But what could Clement say to him? Her son was dying, Kelin was dead, those children in the garrison would never see their homes again. Why was her heart still torn like this? Why not kill the G’deon? Why did she want to make an argument she herself did not believe?

She said nothing. In silence, she ate her roll.

When Garland returned, the room was cold with a recent draft, and Karis was forcing shut the window sash. The plate of dumplings was empty. Garland said accusingly, “You fed your meal to the ravens?”

Karis held up a glittering blade.

“The knife? How did the raven get it?”

Her smile was tight, and her eyes were a bit strange: focused, but also intensely preoccupied. Garland gave her the small bottle of milk he had purchased. She put it into the inside pocket of her long woolen doublet, lay the glittering little blade in her toolbox on the floor, and picked up Emil’s watch. She crossed the room, opened a door, and tossed in the watch. There was a startled exclamation. Emil came out with the watch in his hand, having apparently managed to catch it before it met its demise. He said, “Are we out of time? Or merely out of patience?”

“I’m going to the garrison now,” Karis said.

He blinked at her, rubbed his eyes, and blinked at her again.

Wild‑eyed and gaunt with weariness, Medric came out of the room. Glancing in, Garland saw the glyph cards arranged carefully on the floor. Karis said to Medric, “Tell me how you read the storyteller’s glyph pattern.”

“So our torture is finally to end? Well, what shall we decide this pattern means, Emil?”

Emil looked very unhappy. “If we could have some semblance of certainty!”

“Pretend that you’re certain,” said Karis.

“We believe we need to kill someone, and we are only guessing who. Wouldn’t you rather we could be positive?”