Page 74 of Silvercloak

“Murdered?” croaked the ancient crone with the wart-nose.

“The tracing charm upon him dropped two nights ago. He was somewhere in the mansion, and then suddenly he was not. One of you murdered him. I intend to find out who.”

“Or he used theportarigate,” suggested a tall, elegant mage with a twirly moustache and a monocle. His dark skin had the distinctive purplish undertone of the Nomareans. He leaned his weight on a gilded cane, a black marble macaw perched atop the handle. “Often tracing charms drop off during transportation.”

The Bloodmoons had a workingportarigate?

Saffron mentally filed this revelation away. She was almost positive Aspar didn’t know about it.

Lyrian shook his head fiercely. “No. I have a trusted set of eyes”—his gaze went to the bowl of roulette balls on his desk—“on the gate at all times. Vogolan never left this building. He must be dead.Killed.”

“You think one of us could do this?” Segal all but grunted. He looked pale, with something resembling grief on his blotchy face. “Despite the brands?”

“It took place inside the wards, thus only a Bloodmoon could have done it. As for how it could have escaped the brand’s wrath … well. The full picture will emerge in due course. You will each come to me in turn to drink truth elixir. There’s enough left in Vogolan’s stash to go around.”

His tone was threaded with emotion, but rather than humanizing him, it only made him seem more dangerous, more prone to sudden and devastating action. He gestured to the row of pale tincture vials lined up on his desk, and then his gaze found Saffron. Her guts were clenched by an invisible fist.

“Perhaps our resident rat would like to go first,” Lyrian said, the calm words undercut by a low, dark hatred. He thought it was her, but he didn’tknow.And he was not about to find out.

As Saffron stepped toward the desk, she could’ve sworn Levan’s stance tensed, as though bracing for impact. Did he believe she was guilty? Or did he still trust wholeheartedly in the brand?

Feeling the sear of a hundred eyes burning into her back, Saffron tried not to hear the sharp intake of collective breath as she lifted the vial to her lips. She gave Lyrian a confident, unworried look and then drank.

The elixir tasted sickly sweet and vaguely acrid, like burnt sugar.

“Did you murder Porrol Vogolan?” Lyrian asked, eyes gleaming with the need for revenge. His irises were the color of desert sand—his mother had been Eqoran, Saff remembered from his case file.

“I did not,” said Saffron evenly, wondering why she had ever resented her magical immunity. She was beginning to seewhyher father had always insisted it was such a gift.

There was a scattered muttering around the room.

Lyrian looked entirely wrong-footed. “I see. And do you know anything about the murder of Porrol Vogolan?”

“I do not.”

The kingpin stared at her, confused and perhaps, she thought, a little afraid. Because if the new recruit had not betrayed him, it meant that someone far closer had. Not a pleasant proposition, for someone who considered themselves all-seeing, all-knowing.

Satisfaction glittered between Saffron’s ribs. She was contributing to the rocking of Lyrian Celadon’s worldview, cracking the once solid ground beneath his feet. And she was enjoying it.

“Are you certain?” he asked, and it was such an innocuous question, to the outside ear, but Saffron relished in his newfound uncertainty. He was doubting the elixir. He was doubting everything.

She tilted her chin high and nodded. “I’m certain.”

A long, pregnant pause, in which she met his gaze without blinking.

Then, finally, “Very well. Segal.”

Saffron stepped back from the desk as Segal stepped obligingly forward, stuffing his wand into his cloak pocket and picking up a vial of truth elixir. He swallowed it in one.

Next to Saffron, Levan’s posture eased, the relief palpable in the negative space between them. It seemed he had not wanted Saffron to have been responsible for Vogolan’s murder—likely because he didn’twant to lose such a fruitful resource. She was his best chance of finding Zares, after all. Whatever that meant to him.

Lyrian leaned over his desk toward Segal, resting on his knuckles like an ape. “Did you murder Porrol Vogolan?”

“I did not,” said Segal clearly.

“Do you know anything about the murder of Porrol Vogolan?”

The fire crackled and spat. “I do not.”

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