Iron Binds

.5. The Voice of Murat

She explores the bounds of the steel door for as long as her mind can bear it. The process is faster than with the manacles, though slower than with the arm, and she must be careful not to twitch the steel and alert any guards or passers-by to her endeavours.

She only hears the voice—if it can be called a voice—when she presses her awareness into the latches, and she is forced to conclude that it is contained within their protective runes. It does not so much scream her name as it communicates the concept of screaming and also the concept of her name; it is very like being sharp, only without sharp. She knows that it is a scream, and she knows that it is her name, even without quite hearing it.

Twice the servants come, slide food and water through a slat in the door, and move on. She measures time by their rhythms, assuming midday and evening by the presence of these simple meals. She is dying to speak with Antare.

She gets Corso Valiera.

He arrives unaccompanied, which Nezetta takes to mean that he has already extracted a key from some unsuspecting officer of the guard. She sits when she hears him approach, staring blankly at the wall in an approximation of steeling. He enters and slides the door entirely closed behind himself, tossing and catching the key with a performative nonchalance. That is when she knows that she is already discovered, in the moments before she speaks.

"I know that you are awake," says the Pathfinder.

And here, Nezetta recognizes that she has a choice to make. If she so chose, she could deceive him; he is highly suspicious but likely not quite certain of her wakefulness. Deceit would be the cautious path—the intelligent path, even. Yet here, again, curiosity rises: if Corso Valiera is wary enough to confront her directly, why is he here and not in the office of the Mentor? What does he need her for?

She allows her eyeline to slide across to his, and despite himself, he takes a sharp breath and rocks slightly onto his heels.

"Imorda Murata," he swears softly. "Antare is a fucking moron."

Nezetta squints and cocks her head. "You suspected," she said, "but you have not revealed me to the Regia, though we are in their shadow."

"I strongly considered it," he says, "and I may yet decide that it is the best course of action."

The word but hovers thick in the air between them, and vindication settles sweetly in Nezetta's gut. The Pathfinder continues to toss and catch the key, a block of obsidian inscribed with intricate runes, in a gesture that Nezetta recognizes as disguised anxiety.

"There are sharks in the waters of Brix," says the Pathfinder. "And they talk, and I have not enough ears to hear them."

"What do you think that I will hear, down here?" she asks.

"Not here," says the Pathfinder, his discomfort evident in every twitch. It is the most unsettled she has ever seen him, she thinks, until she remembers that he was among those who found her the night she killed Bonaiuto Piombo. She is fairly certain that he vomited, that night. "You are to be removed from this place at least twice in the next week: once for examination by the Grandfather's inner circle, and once to be displayed at the Fiadri estate, after the late King's memorial service."

"They will believe that I am steeled," Nezetta infers. "You think that they will speak freely in my presence."

"Certainly more freely than they would in mine," says the Pathfinder. "Let me be very clear: I hate this, and I do not trust you, and I do not trust Antare da Calloprea, but I am not so much a fool that I do not recognize an opportunity. Good information in exchange for my silence. That is the exchange I offer."