“Oh, I’ll be submitting a list of all our expenses,” Anora said. “The principate may not agree to all of them, but at least I will have asked. In general, Prince Orchenis is very reasonable about paying incidental costs. Unlike his father. You had to fight for every zashan with Prince Orchena.” He gave me an assessing glance and said, “Thou lookst tired and sad. Come with me and have koshvolot.”

Koshvolot was a kind of dumpling soup, made only by the goblins of the Mervarnens, and Anora knew I had a weakness for it. “Thy argument is a compelling one,” I said. “Koshvolot it is.”

When I got home, there was a letter from Azhanharad in the post. I opened it warily and reluctantly, but it said only: We have some information that might be of interest to you about the murder of the foundling Tedoro. You will find us at the River-Cat tonight.

I was aware of a desire to curse him, aware also that this reaction was inappropriate and uncharacteristic. He was offering me a favor which he was in no wise obligated to offer, but it felt like he was hounding me.

I stared at the letter for a long time before I was able to admit why. Azhanharad had seen me in the aftermath of the revethavar, when I had been weakened and hurt. Azhanharad knew the whole story. Azhanharad knew, and I cringed away from the thought of facing him.

I didn’t have to face him, a sly and wheedling voice pointed out. I was no longer a Witness for the Dead. My business with Azhanharad was finished. But that was pure cowardice, and he was right. I was interested in information about Tedoro’s murder. I heaved a sigh and set out for the River-Cat.

I found Azhanharad in a back corner booth, frowning at a copy of the Arbiter. He transferred the frown to me as I came up to the table and stood up. “Othala Celehar.”

“Subpraeceptor.”

“This is a good place to meet, but a bad place to talk. Will you walk with us?”

“Of course,” I said.

We walked in silence for several blocks, until we came to one of the tiny cemeteries that dotted the Airmen’s Quarter. Here, surrounded by the silent dead, Azhanharad stopped. “We have had some very enlightening conversations with Horthena Renthalar.”

“The murderer.”

“Yes. His desire seems to be to get as many people in as much trouble as possible. If Osmin Temin weren’t already dead, she would be executed.”

“Yes.” That had been a given since the moment she told me she had ordered Tedoro’s murder.

“But what Horthena Renthalar has told us about the arrangement is very interesting. The photographer is his brother, Anvina Renthalar.”

That part made sense, but … “How did he become involved with the school?”

“He—the photographer—was Osmin Temin’s lover.”

“He was what?”