“Why?” Kettle glanced around at the trees that pressed on all sides, as if expecting more novices to emerge.
“Because you are following Nona.”
“How do you—” Kettle abandoned the question in favour of “Why do you want to find Nona?”
“We planned to visit the ice together.” Zole almost shrugged, turned away as if embarrassed. “She is the Shield. I am not supposed to lose her.”
“I didn’t think you believed in all that Chosen One stuff?” Kettle crossed to the first two attackers and stooped to recover her throwing stars with the aid of a knife.
“I do not.”
“Why then?” The second star came loose with a wet noise.
Somewhere behind Kettle Zole spoke in a voice almost too quiet to hear. “She is my friend.”
28
NONA CLUNG TO Kettle’s thoughts, refusing to let them slip. The surge of tension that had dragged her along their thread-bond now seeped away but a dark cell waited, and sickness, and boredom, and fear. She wanted to be with Kettle, out in the world, hunting down those who had captured her. Also, there was Zole.
Between them Kettle and Zole had dragged the supposed woodsman from the trail and off into the woods, taking him in the opposite direction to where the bodies lay.
The union between Kettle and Nona was weakening. Nona could no longer hear Kettle’s thoughts or touch her memories, but she could watch through her eyes, feel through her hands, and listen with her ears. It was enough.
Night had fallen and Kettle had made no fire but both she and Zole wove shadows well enough to see in any natural darkness. Kettle secured the man to a tree using cord from her pack. She sat him with his back to it, hands tied behind the trunk. His head flopped on his chest. The throwing star had been coated with a resin based on the boneless brew that rendered its victims limp and unable to move. She removed the star from his biceps and bound the wound.
“You punched through that man’s head.” Images of the act flooded Kettle’s vision. In a distant cell Nona winced.
“I walked the Path,” Zole said, standing behind Kettle as she attended the captive.
“You could have just stabbed him. Or punched him more . . . gently.” Kettle stood up and turned around.
“I did not know how many I would have to deal with. And I have not got a knife.”
Kettle presented Zole with one of the daggers from her belt, a hefty piece of iron, nine inches long and honed to lethality. “Now you do.” She smiled. “And thank you. I think he had me.”
Zole said nothing, just scowled and flexed her fingers.
“You’ve not killed someone before.” Not a question.
“No.”
“You’re right to feel it. It’s not something to be taken lightly.” Kettle put her hand to Zole’s shoulder. The girl flinched but made no move to push Kettle away.
In the distant cell a frown creased Nona’s brow. She tried to remember her first. One of Sherzal’s soldiers that night in the Rellam Forest. She had been eight, perhaps. She had worn the blood of those soldiers into Giljohn’s cage but any trace of guilt had washed off long before.
“Well.” Kettle gave Zole’s shoulder a squeeze then removed her hand. “We should find out who our friend here is and what he knows.”
Kettle crouched and studied the man. The others had been similarly dressed in grey jerkins, dark trousers. Nona had little doubt they were the same order that held her captive. They had the same short hair, the same quiet dedication.
“I don’t really have to ask what he is,” Kettle said. “He’s one of the Lightless. He’s shadow-threaded, like me. I can sense it now I have a moment to concentrate. You can see it in him.”
Now Kettle said it Nona could see it too and wondered how she hadn’t before. The darkness moved around the man, a subtle thing, as mist would move around any other person.
“Lightless?” Zole asked.
“The Lightless are servants of the Noi-Guin,” Kettle said. “Most of them candidates who survived the training up to some point but failed to prove themselves. They outnumber the Noi-Guin considerably. You don’t often find them out and about though: it indicates that Nona has been captured by a Noi-Guin. Also that either this Noi-Guin took Lightless with him and left them to guard his trail—which seems unlikely. Or that they guard this trail habitually. Which would indicate that we are near the Tetragode.”
Zole had no more questions.
Nona had plenty but none of her efforts to get Kettle’s attention met with any success. Nobody knew where the Tetragode was sited, though it was rumoured to relocate every two to four years in any case. But wherever it was the place would be impregnable. The Noi-Guin had survived many enemies over the centuries, a good number of them emperors. Remaining hidden might be their primary defence but it was far from being their only defence.
“I’ll give him the antidote and we can see what he has to say for himself.” Kettle reached into her pocket.
“Is there any point?” Zole kicked at the ground. “He will be sworn to silence. I do not know what tortures they teach a Sister of Discretion but will it be enough to break him, and quickly?”
“I know how to hurt someone.” Kettle’s voice was grim. She took out her boning knife and used it to cut a rectangle from the bottom of the man’s trouser leg, enough to cover two splayed hands. Next she showed a pill between thumb and forefinger. “Antidote first.” Lifting the man’s head she put the pill into his open mouth, closed it, and raised his chin. She turned the man’s head so she could stare into his eyes. “In a short while you’ll gain control over your muscles again and be able to speak.” She picked up the rectangle of cloth and waited.
Control came to the man’s eyes
