assassins after her.
Had Caina brought this disaster upon Damla’s head?
She whispered a curse, reached into her coat for a throwing knife, and climbed over the broken door.
Chapter 5 - Writ of Servitude
Caina swept her eyes over the devastated coffeehouse.
Utter silence reigned within. She heard the noise of the Bazaar coming through the windows, but no sound came from inside the House of Agabyzus.
Her eyes examined the wreckage, taking in details.
Scratches upon the polished floor, the mark of armored boots. Not the Teskilati, then – from what Caina knew of the Padishah’s secret police, they preferred to make their victims disappear mysteriously. Armed attacks were not their style. Immortals wore armored boots, as did the Padishah’s foot soldiers. So did mercenaries, for that matter.
She took another step, examining the debris.
No trace of blood. No signs of any fighting. Damla and her sons had not put up a fight. The destruction was deliberate, methodical. Someone had taken the time to turn over the tables, to smash the cups, to slash the cushions and scatter their stuffing. In fact, they had done rather a poor job of it in places – many of the cushions bore only shallow cuts, and some of the cups and plates had struck the floor without shattering.
The attackers had been in a hurry. Or they had simply been lazy. A moneylender’s hired thugs, perhaps? No, that did not make sense. An unscrupulous moneylender would make an example of his victims, but this much destruction would draw attention. The noise would have summoned the city watch.
Unless the city watch had been bribed, of course.
Caina shook her head, her mind racing. Despite her headache, the throwing knife remained rock-steady in her right hand. Perhaps danger was the best cure for a hangover. And she needed more information before she could decide upon a course of action.
If she had brought this danger upon Damla’s family, she would do her best to undo it.
She moved through the main floor, past the poet’s dais, and into the kitchen. The House of Agabyzus had a large kitchen, though not so large as the one in the House of Kularus in Malarae. Again Caina saw the signs of wanton, senseless destruction. The steel doors had been ripped from all four of the ovens, brick dust lying across the floor. Pots and pans had been yanked from their hooks and dented into shapeless piles, and even the sacks of coffee beans had been slashed.
Yet for all the damage, Caina saw no sign that anyone had been killed, or that anything had been stolen. There was no blood, and some of the damaged pots would have fetched a good price from a pawnbroker. She suspected that someone had attacked the House of Agabyzus, carried off Damla, her sons, and her slaves, and lingered long enough to smash things.
But why? Had the Collectors grown bold enough to attack prosperous shops and carry off their owners as slaves? Kidnapping foreigners from the docks was one thing, but attacking citizens of Istarinmul was quite…
The ceiling creaked.
Someone was moving around above her. One of the attackers, perhaps? Or had Damla or her sons or one of the slaves hidden upstairs?
One way or another, Caina needed more information.
She picked her way across the main floor, her boots making no sound against the boards. She reached the staircase and ascended, moving one slow, cautious step at a time. Again Caina heard a creak from the second floor. If she guessed right, someone was moving around in Damla’s rooms.
One of the attackers, perhaps? Or an opportunistic thief?
Caina moved down a narrow hallway, silent as death, and looked through the opened door at the end.
Beyond she saw Damla’s bedroom, furnished with a large, comfortable bed, colorful Anshani carpets, a wardrobe against one wall, and a wooden chest against the foot of the bed. The chest was open, and someone had dumped its contents across the bed. Damla sorted through a bundle of papers with
Had Caina brought this disaster upon Damla’s head?
She whispered a curse, reached into her coat for a throwing knife, and climbed over the broken door.
Chapter 5 - Writ of Servitude
Caina swept her eyes over the devastated coffeehouse.
Utter silence reigned within. She heard the noise of the Bazaar coming through the windows, but no sound came from inside the House of Agabyzus.
Her eyes examined the wreckage, taking in details.
Scratches upon the polished floor, the mark of armored boots. Not the Teskilati, then – from what Caina knew of the Padishah’s secret police, they preferred to make their victims disappear mysteriously. Armed attacks were not their style. Immortals wore armored boots, as did the Padishah’s foot soldiers. So did mercenaries, for that matter.
She took another step, examining the debris.
No trace of blood. No signs of any fighting. Damla and her sons had not put up a fight. The destruction was deliberate, methodical. Someone had taken the time to turn over the tables, to smash the cups, to slash the cushions and scatter their stuffing. In fact, they had done rather a poor job of it in places – many of the cushions bore only shallow cuts, and some of the cups and plates had struck the floor without shattering.
The attackers had been in a hurry. Or they had simply been lazy. A moneylender’s hired thugs, perhaps? No, that did not make sense. An unscrupulous moneylender would make an example of his victims, but this much destruction would draw attention. The noise would have summoned the city watch.
Unless the city watch had been bribed, of course.
Caina shook her head, her mind racing. Despite her headache, the throwing knife remained rock-steady in her right hand. Perhaps danger was the best cure for a hangover. And she needed more information before she could decide upon a course of action.
If she had brought this danger upon Damla’s family, she would do her best to undo it.
She moved through the main floor, past the poet’s dais, and into the kitchen. The House of Agabyzus had a large kitchen, though not so large as the one in the House of Kularus in Malarae. Again Caina saw the signs of wanton, senseless destruction. The steel doors had been ripped from all four of the ovens, brick dust lying across the floor. Pots and pans had been yanked from their hooks and dented into shapeless piles, and even the sacks of coffee beans had been slashed.
Yet for all the damage, Caina saw no sign that anyone had been killed, or that anything had been stolen. There was no blood, and some of the damaged pots would have fetched a good price from a pawnbroker. She suspected that someone had attacked the House of Agabyzus, carried off Damla, her sons, and her slaves, and lingered long enough to smash things.
But why? Had the Collectors grown bold enough to attack prosperous shops and carry off their owners as slaves? Kidnapping foreigners from the docks was one thing, but attacking citizens of Istarinmul was quite…
The ceiling creaked.
Someone was moving around above her. One of the attackers, perhaps? Or had Damla or her sons or one of the slaves hidden upstairs?
One way or another, Caina needed more information.
She picked her way across the main floor, her boots making no sound against the boards. She reached the staircase and ascended, moving one slow, cautious step at a time. Again Caina heard a creak from the second floor. If she guessed right, someone was moving around in Damla’s rooms.
One of the attackers, perhaps? Or an opportunistic thief?
Caina moved down a narrow hallway, silent as death, and looked through the opened door at the end.
Beyond she saw Damla’s bedroom, furnished with a large, comfortable bed, colorful Anshani carpets, a wardrobe against one wall, and a wooden chest against the foot of the bed. The chest was open, and someone had dumped its contents across the bed. Damla sorted through a bundle of papers with
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