“How am I supposed to do that, ma’am?” I asked.
“The Hazas are known to possess a small fleet of scribe-hawks,” she said. “All you need to do is get to their rookery, boy, and look about for anything useful.”
I was familiar with scribe-hawks, of course, for the Iyalets used them to carry urgent communications across the whole of the Empire, flying with stunning speed between two fixed locations. The idea of someone privately owning a small fleet of them, however, was nothing short of astonishing to me.
“And…how am I supposed to get in their rookery, ma’am?” I asked.
“You’re there looking for contagion at a fucking murder scene!” she snapped. “That gets you access to all kinds of places! Make some dumb shit up, improvise, and figure it out, child!”
“Make some dumb shit up,” I said sourly. “Very clear orders there. What else, ma’am?”
“Investigate! Go, see, ask—and remain cold and aloof. Find evidence of how the killer did their work, speak little, and glower much. I mean, that’s your specialty, isn’t it? And remember, this is the second time the killer has struck at a Haza house. I suspect they used similar methods. Am I clear?”
“As mountain water, ma’am,” I grumbled.
“Good.” She grabbed my shoulder. “Eat nothing she gives you, Din. Do not drink any proffered drink. Be mindful of any smokes or fumes you perceive. Do not urinate or defecate on the property, and do your best to leave few hairs behind. Finally, keep your distance from Fayazi—and do not let her touch your face with her bare skin. Understood?”
I thought about it. “I suppose I can’t quit, can I?”
“Quit?”
“Yes. Not sure any dispensation could be worth this, ma’am.”
She grinned. “Maybe not. But the Hazas know your name, child. If you quit now, they will wonder why, and come asking, and they shall not be as fun to work with as I. Only way out is through. Now clean yourself up and get fucking going!”
CHAPTER 26
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WHEREAS THE LEGION’S CARRIAGE had been a rattling, rambling, tottering thing, the carriage of the Hazas was sleek, soft, and smooth. I felt not a bump and caught not a bruise as we hurtled along, my backside pressed into the powder-blue cushions.
But this did not mean the ride was comfortable. On either side of me sat two Haza guards, enormous men with wrists as thick as my neck, and nearly twice as broad as I. Their eyes did not leave my figure. Cold gazes, chilly and remote. Fell hands with a sword, surely.
Across from me sat Fayazi’s two Sublimes. The engraver looked upon me like a surgeon might a septic limb. The axiom remained totally unreadable, but her dark, needle-like eyes did not move from my person. I felt my skin crawling the more she stared.
Between them sat the woman herself: Fayazi Haza, draped over her cushions like a coat tossed over a chair. She watched me carefully yet inscrutably, her wide amethyst eyes alluring but unreadable. It felt like being watched by an enormous doll.
And yet I was still drawn to her. To the luminous paleness of her skin, to her delicate neck. I had not felt drawn to a woman like this before, and I knew enough to know it was unnatural. Yet I also felt damned silly to be seated before her in my muddy Iudex coat, and my straw cone hat askew upon my head.
“You,” Fayazi said finally, “are very tall.” She said it in tones of slight offense, like I had chosen an inappropriate piece of wardrobe for the occasion.
I waited for more. When nothing came, I bowed and said, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Is it natural?” she said.
“My height? It is.”
“And your face? Your features? Those are natural, too?”
“Ah. They are, ma’am.”
“Hum. How audacious.”
“Afraid I had little say in the matter, ma’am.”
She studied me with that enigmatic doll’s gaze. “You have things, Signum,” she said, “you wish to ask me.”
I looked at her. Then I looked to the right and left, at the guards on either side of me, and then the Sublimes on either side of her. All of them watched me silently. This was not how I’d expected to do the interview.
“I do, ma’am,” I said. “But I had thought I’d question you at your home.”
She waved a hand, bored. “Ask me now.”
I hazarded another glance at our audience. Then I slid open my engraver’s satchel, slid out a vial, sniffed it—this one aromatic of mint—and said, “Tell me about the day before your father died, please.”