She pulled out of the cop’s grip, walked up to the Iskari, and held out her hand, firm, level with his stomach. He looked from the hand, to her, and she hoped he could read the determined set of her mouth. Get the message. Strong body language. Set lips. Don’t act as if you think I can talk.

He accepted her hand, and shook it. “I thought I’d lost you.” His palms and his face were damp. Velvet wasn’t good for Kavekana’s heat, or the other way around. Deep green eyes bulged in deeper sockets. His lips twitched when he wasn’t talking. “You’re late, Marthe.”

She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb.

“You’re late, and this man says you’re a criminal.”

Another shrug. She patted her chest, and mimed throwing her heart onto the grimy tiles.

He looked from her to the cop. “What do I owe?”

“Her name’s not Marthe.”

“Surely she did not write her true name on the form you gave her. Thinking no doubt that if she could protect her name, she might be able to resolve this trouble without my discovery. Apologies. She is energetic. As befits her calling.”

“Most masters would let a runaway apprentice stew ’til morning.”

“I am not most masters.” He pinched his faded lapels, and rose up on tiptoe. “I am Edmond Margot, master bard and scion of the Cepheid Margots. And while a few evenings’ jail is good poetic experience, my apprentice’s time is precious at this juncture. An interruption in her exercises could lead to the loss of her improvisational seed, and with it months of work.”

“Lot of mute poets out there?”

“She is not mute,” Margot said. “She is merely bound to silence for the period of a year. It is a deeply held belief of my fellowship that only those who cannot speak place the proper value on words. Now.” He reached inside his coat. “What security do you require for her freedom?”

The cop rapped his knuckles against the watch desk.

“A hundred thaums,” the duty officer said without looking up from her ledger.

Margot paid it, though his hands trembled as he placed the coins on the desk. Izza could feel the soulstuff wound inside them: more than they asked. “Is that sufficient?”

Again, Izza risked a glance at the cop’s face, and saw a war there end in defeat. She wondered if he would have felt the same whatever he chose.

“Sure. Leave your address and name with us, so we can find you when the victim decides to press charges. And if.”

“Already done.” He bowed. “A pleasure, as is my every encounter with the local constabulary.”

“Take care of her, Margot. This town can be a dangerous place.”

Was that a hint of threat in the officer’s voice? A protective display? Whichever, Izza grabbed the poet’s hand and pulled him after her, onto the street.