Darkborn Part 15

And if you don't . . .

Ishmael The first attempt on Ishmael's life came just after the sunset bell. The night s.h.i.+ft came barging along the cell block, hammering on bars and jabbing rec.u.mbent feet or heads with their batons, bellowing to the prisoners to stand for inspection. The manner of their address to the other prisoners warned him what to expect. Face impa.s.sive, hands slack at his sides, shoulders held in a prisoner's stoop, he endured their stripping sonn and foulmouthed commentary on his mother's morals, his father's ident.i.ty, and the perversions of lords and mages. He heard with a sour appreciation the suggestion that his mother had copulated with a Shadowborn. If they had ever been within the glamour of a glazen, they'd have learned that men could abjectly desire Shadowborn. Brave men, strong-willed men, righteous, moral, and upstanding men, men who spit when they spoke of Shadowborn-no man was immune to the glazen's allure. Women, however, were, a trait to which he never forgot he owed his life.

Rather to his surprise, they confined their bile to words and, when they had had their sport, moved on to the next imprisoned wretch. Experienced in prison rituals, he did not sink back onto his bunk, and sure enough they were back, swift as adders, ripe to abuse those who had lain down again.

When they moved on, Ish considered the little he had learned so far about the layout of the prison. If he'd had any foresight, he should have had himself arrested for public drunkenness last month to allow for scouting of the exits. And he should have thought to move his lock picks from his shoes, which were always ripe for confiscation. By the direction of the guards' movement, the exit seemed to be to his right, and the guard post and most of the remaining cells to his left. It might be a touch early to abandon hope in the process of law, particularly with Preston di Brennan as his advocate. But experience had taught him it was never too early to start planning escape.

The returning guards shouted at the prisoners to put their water flasks out for replacement, or go thirsty. With much clanging of metal bottles, it was done. Ish pitied those who had come in drunk and were now suffering sunrise-head. Noting how the guard who set down his bottle selected and checked it, he fully expected to receive urine or something equally noxious instead of water-it was amazing how many buffoons thought that their original original trick-but the liquid in the flask lacked that distinctive odor. Accustomed to drinking from dubious sources, he took a very small sip. trick-but the liquid in the flask lacked that distinctive odor. Accustomed to drinking from dubious sources, he took a very small sip.

It stung his tongue. Two heartbeats later, tongue and lips were numb. He spit, sucked saliva into his mouth, and spit again. Did not not swallow. He recognized the poison: scavvern. He went down on one knee to set aside the flask with utmost care, since the poison could also be absorbed through skin, though less efficiently. He had the two remaining spicule-lozenges tucked under the rumpled collar of his s.h.i.+rt. Rising, he pulled the first out and pushed it into a mouth that could no longer feel it; he caught it between his teeth, afraid it would spill from his enervated lips. He reached the bunk as the tinnitus and vertigo began, and rolled into it, cursing himself for the wasted movement, for being too d.a.m.ned effete to stretch his length on the filthy floor. Civilization would be the death of him. Belly-down on the bunk to avoid choking on the lozenge, he pulled vitality from it and poured it into his numb mouth and ringing ears, while at the same time he concentrated on neutralizing the poison, thanking his Drunken G.o.d it was scavvern, and something he'd met before. He was aware of distant shouts, of jolts and jarring, but numbness and ringing ears were fine protection against distraction-until someone lifted him up from the bunk, dangled him briefly like a shot weasel, and then let him slam down. The lozenge hopped from his mouth and skittered across the floor. swallow. He recognized the poison: scavvern. He went down on one knee to set aside the flask with utmost care, since the poison could also be absorbed through skin, though less efficiently. He had the two remaining spicule-lozenges tucked under the rumpled collar of his s.h.i.+rt. Rising, he pulled the first out and pushed it into a mouth that could no longer feel it; he caught it between his teeth, afraid it would spill from his enervated lips. He reached the bunk as the tinnitus and vertigo began, and rolled into it, cursing himself for the wasted movement, for being too d.a.m.ned effete to stretch his length on the filthy floor. Civilization would be the death of him. Belly-down on the bunk to avoid choking on the lozenge, he pulled vitality from it and poured it into his numb mouth and ringing ears, while at the same time he concentrated on neutralizing the poison, thanking his Drunken G.o.d it was scavvern, and something he'd met before. He was aware of distant shouts, of jolts and jarring, but numbness and ringing ears were fine protection against distraction-until someone lifted him up from the bunk, dangled him briefly like a shot weasel, and then let him slam down. The lozenge hopped from his mouth and skittered across the floor.

"The coward's poisoned himself !" Someone clouted him, hard, on the side of the head. He'd laugh later, he promised himself.

"Give him water," someone else ordered crisply.

Sweet Imogene, no. The same hand as before dragged him up, but this time an arm went around him. His head lolled so he could not sonn the flask, but he got a hand up, somehow, in what felt like the right direction. He nudged something hard to his gloved touch, braced, and thrust it away with all his remaining strength. Someone yelled a warning; there was a violent jostling and a clatter near him. Ish's wavering sonn picked out the outlines of the men around him. Two of them pressed up against the others in an almost comic impression of panicked retreat. The man holding him said in sudden alarm, "My arm's tingling." The same hand as before dragged him up, but this time an arm went around him. His head lolled so he could not sonn the flask, but he got a hand up, somehow, in what felt like the right direction. He nudged something hard to his gloved touch, braced, and thrust it away with all his remaining strength. Someone yelled a warning; there was a violent jostling and a clatter near him. Ish's wavering sonn picked out the outlines of the men around him. Two of them pressed up against the others in an almost comic impression of panicked retreat. The man holding him said in sudden alarm, "My arm's tingling."

"Get away from him," said one of them, and pulled the other away, leaving Ish to flop sideways, half on and half off the bed. He had lost all sensation in his face and all control of his sonn, which pulsed in erratic, unfocused bursts. He sonned his own hand, bent upon its wrist beside a puddle on the floor, protected only by its thick leather glove; he sonned milling footsteps; heard, through the clamor in his ears, the shouting. If they chose, through anger or spite, to pitch him onto the floor, he would be dead as soon as the spill soaked through his s.h.i.+rt. And there surely would be retribution on his fellow mages, if any of their own sickened or died of this "suicide attempt."

Nothing he could do about any of that. He turned his attention inward once more. Vaguely he heard the door to his cell slam, the nearby voices recede into the general bedlam of a prison roused, as the prisoners added their barracking and heckling to the guards' panic. He regained enough control to retrieve the last lozenge from his s.h.i.+rt and fumble it into his mouth, nearly losing it when his cheek brushed a sodden spot on the pillow-drool, he realized a moment later, not poison. He hoped, for the sake of the man who'd been about to give him the water-in all innocence-that the prison apothecary had his wits about him and knew how to support breathing. Scavvern poison was short-lasting; there was that to be said about it. And then a surge of utter fury drove the worst of the numbness away. He hauled himself upright, using wall, bed, and rage as crutches, and reeled against the bars. Gripping the bars with one gloved hand, he spit the spicule into the other and yelled-or tried to yell, with his voice a wheezing growl and his tongue flapping like a lone sock on a laundry line-"Was'n the water water, curse you. 'M no sorcerer and no suicide." He slung an arm through the bars, dangling by his armpit, and pointed at one of the men who had so conspicuously scrambled away from the water. "Ask'm why he knew knew h'couldn't let th'water touch'm." h'couldn't let th'water touch'm."

Madness, he knew: The guards would never accept the logic of his accusation. Even if they tore him apart, and in the process landed two or three more in that deadly spill, he would still be blamed. The man he'd accused was overset enough to be babbling denials that would surely have been suspicious to anyone whose reason was engaged, but were going unheard. Half a dozen guards started toward Ish, enraged. He pushed himself back from the bars, lest they start by using the bars as leverage to dismember him, and lurched back against the wall.

Bracing himself, he heard a man's voice say, "What is going on here?"

The voice was that of the superintendent who had arrested him, the middle-aged man with the distinctive nose and a reputation for principle above all. With him, he recognized di Brennan, his lawyer. His knees caved in beneath him-he told himself that it was not relief, merely the wearing off of that wildman's rage-and he slid down the wall to sit curled up against it and simply wait out the shouting.

Ishmael Guards took him from his cell, fearfully and none too gently, and dragged him to an interview room at the far end of the hall, beside the guard station. He had by then more or less regained the use of his limbs, and was striving not to shake too openly with reaction. Di Brennan and his student were allowed to join him, but only in the presence of a guard. He supposed each was meant to neutralize the biases of the other. Save for an inquiry into his recovery, he and his lawyer did not speak. The student he recognized immediately: He had heard one of the ducal sons of the Scallon Isles had turned to law, as an alternative strategy for defending their sovereignty. Try though the young man might, he could not entirely contain his curiosity when he sonned Ish, or his distaste when he sonned their surroundings.

Malachi Plantageter returned somewhat later. He dismissed the guard, turned the chair and sat on it, sonned Ish with a deft, civil touch. He wasted no time on pleasantries.

"When we went back to your cell, there were three rats lying dead in that puddle on the floor. Come out to drink, I suppose, after the commotion was gone. Your lozenge was gone, carried away by a rat, I would presume. That, at least, was not death to the touch." He offered no interpretation of the facts so suggestively juxtaposed. "I've ordered it cleaned up. Carefully."

"And the guard-the one it spilled on?" Ish said.

Malachi turned on him an expression of surprise that he should ask, and then irritation, at himself, Ish thought, that he was surprised. "Doing well enough. Our prison apothecary's a cut above the usual incompetent sot."

"Tell him that the poison was scavvern, and wears off rapidly with no aftereffects."

Di Brennan stirred. "Baron Strumh.e.l.ler," he said, "have I not previously advised you against spontaneous contributions when you are in legal jeopardy?"

Ish was still gripped by that mood that counted self-protection secondary. "What else d'you know? Did you question th'man I marked?"

Di Brennan turned a severe expression on him, one reminiscent of long-ago tutors of the baron's unruly son.

Plantageter sonned them both. "I questioned him, yes," he said judiciously. "He claimed he feared that a sorcerer's affliction would be catching. I do note, however, that he was in the party that arrested you, and showed no fear even when you collapsed."

"He was also th'one who ordered them to give me th'water when I was stricken. I marked th'voice."

"I questioned the others; they gave me a clear account of everyone's response to your extremity, and to their reaction to the spilling of the water."

"And your thinking?"

"I am a.s.signing two members of my own force to guard you-by lot, so there can be no fixing-at all times. It is, I am afraid, the best I can do. I will also ensure that the prison physician attends you."

"No need," Ish rumbled. "Mightn't have studied at any Physicians' College, but I know healing. Th'poison's almost out of my system."

He had a.s.serted himself once too often, it seemed: After all, Plantageter was an official. "Nevertheless," the superintendent said, "your lawyer has requested it. I will also arrange a new cell." He rose, and with a, "Good day, sir," to di Brennan, left, taking the guard with him.

Ish suppressed his inclination to say, "I need no doctor," since the apothecary was clearly already in Olivede Hearne's pay, if not di Brennan's. "Well, di Brennan. What can you do for this pretty fix of mine?"

The lawyer turned his tutorly expression on him. "I can do more if I understand better. You might start by briefly telling me your version of the events that have led to your imprisonment."

"I wish," Ish said ruefully, "I knew." Di Brennan s.h.i.+fted in his chair, preparatory to making what was no doubt a cautioning remark. Ish raised a hand. "People have wanted me dead before, but usually have the decency t'issue the odd threat first. My troubles started with Balthasar Hearne. And Hearne's troubles started with Tercelle Amberley. Whom I most definitely did not murder. Th'body was warm, though, as I was no doubt meant to find it."

Di Brennan considered that. "Her fiance is due to return to the city tonight. Doubtless that will inflame the pa.s.sions surrounding this case."

Ish could well imagine that the story would jostle with the Rivermarch fire and the di Masterson divorce case for the front page on the broadsheets. Notorious Mage Baron Arrested for Murder of Heiress Bride! Shadowhunter Accused of Murder!! Notorious Mage Baron Arrested for Murder of Heiress Bride! Shadowhunter Accused of Murder!! And so forth, with sense degenerating as exclamation marks acc.u.mulated. And so forth, with sense degenerating as exclamation marks acc.u.mulated.

"There will be pressure to settle the case quickly, before the scandal spreads," di Brennan noted.

"And before inconvenient truths are revealed," Ingmar Myerling added. "Like who got Ferdenzil Mycene's fiancee with child."

"Seems you know some of 't already," Ish noted.

Di Brennan sonned his junior and said, "Take notes, please, Ingmar." And listen And listen, was implied in his tone. Myerling opened up the case he had been carrying and produced one of the miniature key-punches that had become the fas.h.i.+on in efficient offices.

"Well, that was none of my doing," Ish said, to the accompaniment of a soft staccato of pock-pock-pock pock-pock-pock as the pins struck the paper. "Nine months ago I was as conspicuous about the Borders as she was in Minhorne society. I never met th'woman before this." as the pins struck the paper. "Nine months ago I was as conspicuous about the Borders as she was in Minhorne society. I never met th'woman before this."

"There is a witness who claims that he heard you arguing with her about the whereabouts of a missing child, before she shrieked and fell silent. When they burst into the room, they found her newly strangled."

He sighed; it was all very nice and tight, the exact story that would have been used to account for his bloodied and bullet-ridden corpse. "Th'first time I called on her, it was plain t'me that Tercelle Amberley knew nothing of th'child-Florilinde Hearne. Y'should know that Mrs. Telmaine Hearne was with me th'first time-Lady Telmaine Stott, that was-she was the one who knew where we would find Tercelle Amberley, since she knew Lysander Hearne had given her the house. But it was searching for her child she was and nothing else."

"Lysander Hearne?" Hearne?"

"Aye, brother of Balthasar Hearne. A bad lot, and not heard of in the city for the last seventeen years." Lysander Hearne would have been little older at that time than Ish was at the start of his own exile. Given Ish's narrow survival, Hearne likely never would return. He would be long dead by accident or his own folly, and scattered by the wind.

It occurred to Ish to wonder how a youth of perhaps twenty, and not from a wealthy family, came by a house to make a gift of to his paramour.

"I doubt we will be able to summon Lady Telmaine to the stand to testify."

"I'm glad of that," he said honestly. "She has troubles enough."

Di Brennan made a noncommittal sound that Ish had no difficulty deciphering. His lawyer claimed little sentimentality about womanhood after decades before the bar, and the rearing of five spirited and spoiled daughters. "I'd have to get past that brother-in-law and that dragon of a sister of hers."

Ish decided to change the subject. "How is Lord Vladimer?"

"He breathes, and will swallow liquid, but other than that, he is unresponsive. The archduke's physicians are in attendance."

Unhappy Vladimer. Expensive physicians tended to want to prove themselves worth their fees, if not by curing the patient, at least by persuading him he had been treated.

"Who brought th'charge on me?"

"That was Master Blondell. He harbors no love for you, I am afraid, my lord."

"If I'd false charges laid by every man who has no love for me, I'd be the whole of your practice, Barrister. There's a sour note here. Blondell detests magic. It's the peasant in him," said the border baron.

"Then he would be readier than most to attribute an unexpected, unwelcome event to unnatural causes," di Brennan said, his voice a warning. "The charge is only suspicion, but by old laws still in our statutes, suspicion alone is sufficient for arrest, pending investigation."

"And who'd be doing th'investigating, since they'd sooner have magic not exist?"

"In law it still exists," di Brennan cautioned. "However, it will be to our advantage as we deny the charge. It has been suggested to me that a man, for complex, psychological reasons, may be persuaded that he is able to affect events around him. By magic, if you will."

For a moment Ish did not understand. Then, "So it's mad I am? Seduced into a delusion of my own magical powers?" He laughed at the sheer irony of it. "So I am t'enter the broadsheets as th'Notorious Mad Baron, rather than th'Notorious Mage Baron."

"It is the court we must persuade," di Brennan said dryly, "not the press."

"And you think you can." There was a ghastly fascination to the notion, he had to admit. He'd never have thought of it himself. His magic, meager as it was, was fundamental to his sense of himself.

"If need be, yes. We will require, as part of our preparation, to review all circ.u.mstances in which others might interpret your actions as magical. Please organize your thoughts and recollections in preparation. Now, I'd appreciate a narrative of recent events, from your perspective. Why were you in the city?"

"Lord Vladimer had asked me t'come for a meeting."

"Excellent. Let us begin, then, with that meeting."

"Some details touch on the work I do for Lord Vladimer, so I might needs be vague." Di Brennan alone he might have trusted, but the dukeling was largely unknown, and inevitably a partisan unknown. "You should know, Lord Vladimer wanted me on a mission that I'd likely not survive. This may be taken as motive for murder."

"Let me worry about what may be construed," di Brennan chided. "Please continue."

Ish did, in an account that was becoming increasingly polished in the repet.i.tion. He'd have to watch that, because overpolished reports tended to lose details, particularly details that were not self-consistent, and in a situation that made as little apparent sense as this one, inconsistencies could be revelatory. The dukeling hammered keys with enthusiasm; the islands had a storytelling tradition rich in fantasy and wild adventure. Di Brennan was more phlegmatic. "Well," he remarked at the end of it, "if I didn't know you, I might have doubts about your sanity. I wonder what young Gil di Maurier's investigation has discovered."

Ish said slowly, "Take care in asking him. The last mage convicted of malignant sorcery was the one that allowed Gil's and his sisters' kidnapping. I don't know how he'll greet this."

Di Brennan said to Ingmar Myerling, "Archduke's prosecutor versus Peregrine di Maurier, Givaun di Chamberlin, Marilla di Chamberlin, and Dianna Scarlatti, all for child abduction and murder, and the last for sorcery. Pull and review it, if you would."

"Do we know how long it will be before I come to trial?" Ish said.

"Weeks, maybe. I'll be setting a dedicated guard on you. I'm not easy at all in my mind that someone has already tried to poison you. You take care."

"Trust me, I will."

Telmaine "I believe," decreed Merivan at breakfast, "you are in need of distraction."

She ladled honeyed mint jelly on a large slice of toast with a liberal hand. Mornings were her best time of day, and in her loose morning dress dense with lace, she appeared dignified and energetic, very much the mistress of the breakfast table.

Telmaine for her part felt as though she had been dragged along the railway tracks without a train. She had made an effort to put her appearance in order, but the time she'd have used for her toilette had been needed to settle Amerdale for the children's breakfast in the nursery, since the child objected to being separated from her mother. Merivan, sonning her sister, had compressed her lips, but in charity to the distraught mother had refrained from comment.

"Do you not think so, Theophile?" Merivan said to her husband, who was reading the newspaper, his fingers moving even more swiftly along the punched rows than Bal's when he read, his face wearing the slightly stupefied expression of deep concentration that had fooled advocates and criminals alike. He roused himself. "Pardon, my dear."

"I was saying," Merivan said, "that I believe Telmaine needs distraction."

Distraction, Telmaine thought savagely. Rides in the park, visits to the dressmaker, country outings, dances, parties, salons and concerts, novels to read, letters to write, gossip to exchange . . . society's anodynes for the worry for an absent parent, the grief for a dead sibling, the anxieties of an impending confinement, the shame of a husband's infidelity, a family's money worries, an in-law's scandal, the fears of a husband's illness or a kidnapped daughter. Adding to the burdens of life the burden of social pretense.

"Mm," Theophile said, his sonn brus.h.i.+ng her obliquely. "Wouldn't have said that myself. Would have said she'd be wanting to get on with finding her daughter. I've asked three of the inquiry agents I'm accustomed to using to come 'round after breakfast."

Telmaine melted with grat.i.tude, remembering why the formidable judge was her favorite in-law. He noticed noticed things. things.

"Must she distress herself?" Merivan said, bridling with protectiveness. "Surely those inquiries should be made of her husband, whose foolishness brought this about."

"I'd like to do that," Telmaine spoke up for herself. "Thank you."

"Well, it will not take very long." Merivan regrouped. "And then I think you should go and visit-"

This was unbearable. "There is no one I wish to visit except my husband," Telmaine snapped.

There was a pause, and Merivan said in a hurt tone, "I received a card from Sylvide di Reuther this morning, asking if she might call on us." No doubt she interpreted the twinge of guilt on Telmaine's face as due herself, rather than Sylvide, for Merivan continued inexorably, "I think it would be more appropriate were you to call on her."

Of course, Telmaine thought: While Lady Telmaine Stott might have social precedence over Lady Sylvide di Reuther, Mrs. Telmaine Hearne did not.

"Can't understand the difference myself," Theophile murmured to his newspaper. He did, Telmaine knew, perfectly well. It was his subtle reproach to his wife.

Merivan opened her mouth, closed it. "You will do as you will," she said to Telmaine, in a tone of concession. "You always do."

Telmaine, her mouth full of ash-dry toast, knew of no reason to answer. She wished she dared ask Theophile what the papers were saying about Ishmael's-Baron Strumh.e.l.ler's-arrest. She must school herself to think of him with more detachment. But she dared not ask in front of Merivan, and she dared not take the paper. She finished her toast, ate another small slice, and finished the lemon tea she'd had an inexplicable craving for, and then excused herself to host and hostess. After she had spoken to the inquiry agents, she would take Amerdale to visit Balthasar, with as little prior discussion as possible. And she must write a note to poor forgotten Sylvide, asking her to meet them at the ducal palace. Sylvide would surely be as desperate to escape her mother-in-law's domain as Telmaine was to escape her sister's. She would ask her to bring the newspapers. Maybe after she had visited Bal she would know what to do, aside from seethe and bate like a mewed falcon.

Go to Vladimer. You must help him.

She chewed the inside of her lip and pushed the intrusive thought away. Helping Vladimer was not her part part, particularly when she was afraid she knew what kind of help Ishmael-it surely was Ishmael-intended. She was a wife, a mother-a respectable woman. She would tend to her family, as she should.

Ishmael The second murder attempt came as Ishmael was being escorted from the interview cell to his new cell, adjacent to the guard station, where they kept all the troublemakers. Farther from the exit, to his regret. He could hear the profane heckling, and the shouts for silence, even before they turned the corridor, and both redoubled as soon as the first sonn caught their approach. Vicious as the hara.s.sment was, there was a peculiar forced quality to it, which he attributed to the fundamental hollowness of men who were compelled to fight all comers to prove they existed, had consequence, were were men. men.

They were level with the cells when a prisoner reached through the bars and grabbed at the nearer guard's belt. The guard was young, or slow-witted, or . . . for whatever reason, he reacted too late, for his backward lunge against the grip coincided with the prisoner's push. He stumbled into Ish, thrusting Ish against the second guard; the guard twisted, seizing Ish, and shoved him hard against the bars of the opposite cell. The prisoner's arm snapped up like a bar across Ish's throat; a knife-he did not need to sonn it to know-was driven with killing force through his s.h.i.+rt and against the rings of his armored vest. His a.s.sailant swore. The guards shouted and tore him away before his a.s.sailant could deliver a second stab to his unprotected armpit or throat.

A seemingly random cast of sonn told Ish there was no hope of a dash for the exit. He let himself pitch forward into their arms, impersonating the stab victim he was meant to be. They lugged him into his appointed cell; there were shouts for the apothecary, amongst the greater cacophony of a triumphant prison kill. None of them attempted to open his s.h.i.+rt or examine his wound, clearly averse to touching the mage more than they had to. He lay inert, considering the ch.o.r.eography of the a.s.sault. The more he thought about it, the less accidental it appeared. Two prisoners, surely, the guard maybe, and whoever had contributed that knife.

All prisons were bad for a man's health. This one promised to be exceptionally bad for his. He breathed steadily, knowing calmness was his best ally now.

The prison apothecary arrived, demanded in his thinly veneered accent that they leave one guard with him, one competent competent guard, please, and give him room to work. He'd let them know if he needed help to move his patient. Ish let the apothecary discover for himself the dry s.h.i.+rt around the knife tear and the hard carapace of the ring-st.i.tched vest. He snorted and announced, "This one's no more dead than I am." He lifted Ish's s.h.i.+rt, revealing the vest to those he'd banished outside the bars. "Don't you even guard, please, and give him room to work. He'd let them know if he needed help to move his patient. Ish let the apothecary discover for himself the dry s.h.i.+rt around the knife tear and the hard carapace of the ring-st.i.tched vest. He snorted and announced, "This one's no more dead than I am." He lifted Ish's s.h.i.+rt, revealing the vest to those he'd banished outside the bars. "Don't you even search search your prisoners these days that one's got a knife and another's got armor? You're lucky the one met the other. Come, your lords.h.i.+p, sit up. Enough malingering." your prisoners these days that one's got a knife and another's got armor? You're lucky the one met the other. Come, your lords.h.i.+p, sit up. Enough malingering."

Ish sat up as bidden, taking the opportunity to inspect the man he'd sonned only obliquely the night before. He was above average height, wiry, and slightly stooped, even at his young age, with the hollow chest left by a childhood of deprivation and its maladies. He would have been handsome were he not so thin. He wore a different coat than last night, another of the dandy's castoffs. That accent said Rivermarch, the dress said Rivermarch, and with those origins he'd have come by his education through the indulgence of a rich protector, whether his mother's or his own. Ish was long past judging men for what they did to survive, only for what they made of their lives beyond survival. The apothecary had had the nerve and gumption to save the poisoned guard, and he'd helped Ish last night.