“He called himself a bard,” Izza said, remembering the coat proudly worn and the pedigree proudly proclaimed. “What’s that mean?”

“Could mean a lot of things.” Cat bent her legs, set the balls of her feet on the floor, and stood, swooping her arms up and back like wings. She grabbed a jug of water and drank half in three long swigs. “‘Bard’s’ one of those words, like ‘cop,’ that shift depending on who says it. Iskari have this old bardic tradition, dates back to the Devirajic Age, you know, courtly love and all that. Truth and honor and beauty and ladies’ handkerchiefs. Then there are Camlaan bards. Tale-twisting, curse-spreading, cheats at cards and politics and marriage. Back in Alt Coulumb most of the bards have some kind of relationship with the Crier’s Guild, spreading the day’s news, so they end up kind of like spies, or reporters I guess. They hear news, pass it along. You know where this guy’s from?”

“Iskar.”

Cat set down the jug. Water sloshed inside. She sat still. When she spoke again, she sounded more serious. “Do you know his name?”

“Margot, he said. Edmond Margot.”

“An Iskari poet named Edmond Margot.” Her face and voice had closed like doors.

“You know him?”

“I’ve read his work.” She crossed her arms over her knees and frowned. “And he knows about this Blue Lady of yours?”

“He claimed to.”

“Would anyone have told him?”

Izza shook her head. “Nobody I know. The Blue Lady was our story. Secret.”

“Mind if I ask you a question? It’s a little personal.”

“Go ahead.”

“Tell me about the Blue Lady.”

“You heard the stories I told Ivy and the others,” Izza said.

“Stories, yes. I’m more interested in a description.”

Izza wandered around the warehouse, looking for something to kick. She found a suitable rock and with one sweep of her sandal sent it skittering off among broken crates to shock a fat scuttling beetle from its den. “A description.”

“A few details, that’s all. What she’s like.”

“What she was like.”

Cat blinked. “That’s right. You mentioned that she was gone.”

“She died. Happens to gods a lot around here.”

For some reason that seemed to set Cat at ease. “She wasn’t the first.”

“No. But she was nice. And I told her stories, so she was more mine than the rest.”

“Keep going.”