“Why, Baru, you don’t want to taunt them a little?” Apparitor said. “Walk them through all your clever lies? I did promise to make you confront them. I mean to keep that promise.”

She wanted that less than anything in the world. “I’m going to go check the harbormaster’s records,” she said. “If anyone here sold supplies to the Oriati war fleet, I want their trail.”

*   *   *

ALL three of them had the same objective here: discover the origins and funding of the Syndicate Eyota attack fleet, and, perhaps, some clue to the Cancrioth.

Naturally, they all split up.

Apparitor would not come ashore. “I’m keeping Helbride offshore,” he insisted. “When Sulane finds us, I want to be ready to run.”

Xate Yawa and Iscend Comprine took a launch ashore without a word of good-bye. That left Baru, alone, to confront a strange harsh archipelago of stone needles, armed only with her wardrobe, her false identities, and an account cached at a local exchange bank.

A boat ashore. The crash of the waves inside the Llosydane pillars, like light through lenses, refracted and split and split again. Seabirds above: a sea eagle, shearwaters, a fat pelican. On the dockside Baru showed the legend of Payo Mu to the customs officer. She must have betrayed her reverence for the exquisitely falsified legend, which the officer misread: “Proud of your school marks, aren’t you?” she sniffed. “Means nothing here.”

But the legend passed inspection.

She climbed up the long stairs to the top of Samylle islet (all the Llosydane’s pillars had charming Belthyc names, Eddyn and Lynnedy and Jamascine and so on). She asked a passerby where the islanders got their freshwater. The passerby didn’t know.

She went about her work.

By sundown she owned a restaurant and a flophouse, the Fiat Bank branch by the docks was on fire, and two pirate captains were dueling for her hand as she sold prostitutes in lots of half a hundred.

13. Baru’s Dates

13

BARU’S DATES

IT began with two spies, and it ended with them, too.

Tain Hu had given her some advice on the detection of Masquerade agents. “Check the boots. The first thing they do with their wages is buy good boots.” Baru thought that was particularly good advice on an island that made no leather of its own.

She identified the lead by the shine of his heels, a man who crossed the windswept plaza ahead of her, stepping among the birds who squabbled over the girls who salaried their favorites with dates. And that woman in a sealskin coat was the tail. Both Sydani, with long oval faces and olive skin from the ancient Belthyc blood. They might be Morrow Ministry; just as likely they were Oriati Termites.

“All right, Hu,” Baru muttered. “Let’s practice our craft.”