Page 53 of Mistress of Bones
She did. One of the blue tabards standing by the tents, outwardly uninterested in the revelry happening around her like a stone in the middle of a stream. A bored guard, anyone else might surmise, but the strangeness of her presence sent a note of alarm into Azul’s gut. And another, some woman ambling through the crowd like a lost fish.
“None so far.”
Lies had never tasted better on her mouth. Let Virel Enjul think he held all the power, that she was meek and willing to obey.
The pressure of his hand against her torso increased, bringing an unexpected thrill. “Are you certain?”
She kept her attention on the nobles standing outside the building, on the whites and yellows and greens and blues of their clothing. On breathing in and breathing out. His nearness invaded her senses. The warmth of his hand, of his body, his scent of queen’s blooms and fresh soil, the force of his vitality. “I am.”
“On your honor?” he asked, even closer and full of mockery.
“Why ask when you doubt its existence so much?”
“I must make sure you don’t lie to me. And you wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”
The pressure from his hand disappeared, but she had no wishes to move beyond turning to him. His eyes were as beautiful and hard as jewels up close. “What would be the point, since you know everything?”
“Flattery, while appreciated, is wasted on someone like me.”
“What do you wish for instead,” she asked, “a room full of corpses—a playroom for your god?”
He leaned down until his nose all but touched hers. And the hand was back, too, blocking her escape. “Be careful with your tone, Azul del Arroyo, for when you speak to me, you are speaking to the Lord Death. When you make an oath to me, you are promising your worth to a higher being, to him, who began it all and would have no problem ending you, in this life or after you attempt to claim a spot for your soul in his bones.
“Now use your eyes or your ears or whatever it is that allows you to sense the walking corpses. Have you forgotten the reason you are here and not in chains on your way back to Valanje? I haven’t, and you should make sure you don’t.”
How did one respond to such a speech?
Azul didn’t know. Words escaped her, blood fled from her face and her chest and anywhere that was close to him. Nobody was here to rescue her, and truly she had never thought herself as someone who needed to be rescued. But someone must’ve been looking out for her—another god, perhaps, jealous of the emissary’s words—because the crowd broke into shouts and claps, and the sudden jostling jarred them apart.
Inhaling sharply, Azul avoided looking at the emissary. She would act like nothing had happened. Like her heart wasn’t inhabiting her throat and her stomach all at once.
“Do you know those people?” she asked Enjul, pointing toward the steps on the opposite side of the plaza. And if her voice had shaken a little, she hoped it had escaped his notice.
“Why, yes. I sure do!” answered the Faceless Witch.
XIXTHE FACELESS WITCH
The young woman’s face was a map, and the Faceless Witch took immense pleasure in studying it. Shock and awareness edged with just enough reserve to make anyone curious about what it hid. Well, not all. Many could not see beyond the surface, but the Witch could, and did.
“What a morsel of curiosity you are,” murmured the Faceless Witch through the young man carrying her. Still the same man. Still her favorite. Sío de Guzmán, with his raven locks and handsome features enhanced by a simple dark green mask. “What a pity you wear no mask.”
The little plaything looked lost. “Excuse me?”
The Witch offered a guileless smile. “Masks are so alluring, don’t you think?”
“Who are you?” the woman asked, bluntly as only someone unaccustomed to Cienpuentes’s coquetry would.
Hmm-hmm. Delicious, indeed. “An interested citizen.”
“And what is your name?”
“One of great charm and beauty.”
A spurt of laughter escaped the woman. The Witch congratulated herself—she had been right to approach this one instead of restraining her curiosity and subjecting herself to the torture of waiting.
“Very well, masked stranger,” she said. “Will you—?” She stopped, looked around, as if she had suddenly realized what she was missing.
The Witch stepped closer. “Don’t worry about your zealous companion, countryface. He was called elsewhere.” And then, in a conspiratorial whisper, “I don’t think he’ll be gone long, little songbird, so we must do the best we can with what time we have.”
