Kylee tilted her head toward the plant hanging from a low branch. “Well, walk up and touch it. After you cut yourself loose with that knife that you said was too big for anything useful, you can tell me what you’d rather call it.”

They made another detour when Kylee sniffed, stared cautiously around, and told Falise, “We’re going to veer wide. Take another path around to the right. Smells like a bem in there.”

“What’s a bem?”

“Short for ‘bastard evil monster.’ You probably can’t smell it from this distance, but there’s a taint of vinegar odor on the air. It’s a dead giveaway for a bem or a skewer. You ever smell vinegar? Stop. Back away. Look for anything, especially rocks or stumps, that might be a predator.”

“They look like rocks?”

“And sometimes piles of dirt.” Kylee leaped gracefully up onto a tightly interwoven cluster of thigh-thick roots. “They depend on camouflage to let their prey get close. Mostly they catch chamois, crest, and roos.”

“Why don’t those things back off when they smell vinegar?”

“Maybe because they can’t. Whole different olfaction here.” A pause as Kylee studied the route to the right. Pulling her knife, the girl eased down the slope, and with a blurred slash, severed a climbing vine with crimson tentacles. As she did, the sinuous stalk began whipping back and forth; the plant emitted an ear-piercing squeal while it shot fluid in a spray. The roots immediately reacted, sending thin filaments to suck up the largess.

“Don’t get near those whipping tentacles.” Kylee pointed with her knife. “Stay close to the trunk of this aquajade. That blood vine’s probably got its mind on dying right now, but you still don’t want it getting a hold of you.”

“Right.” Falise eased her way downhill, trying not to touch the trunk of the aquajade. Like a mantra, she mumbled, “A half metric ton of rhodium. A half metric ton of rhodium.”

Kylee with her keen hearing, chuckled as she almost skipped her way down the root-thick slope. “For a scary Taglioni assassin,” Kylee called over her shoulder “you don’t come off as particularly scary.”

“You wouldn’t say that if we were creeping down an alley in Shanghai. Or if you were selling stolen Taglioni property in Amsterdam.” She paused. “Or even if we were having a delightful meal at Three Spires, when all the while you would wonder if I’d slipped something into your food or drink that would wake you up from a sound sleep that night with a severe stomach cramp. One that would let you stagger to the toilet where you could watch in horror as you shit the bowl full of blood and bits of your intestines.” She paused. “Well, you could for the few minutes you had left before you lost consciousness.”