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it away and swallowed a curse. He drew a single bolt from the low-capacity quiver on his thigh and dipped the tip into the bottle. Then he laid the poisoned bolt in its groove in the crossbow and placed the crossbow on the ground. He retied the bottle and placed it back in his belt pouch. Couldn’t be too careful with bloodleaf.
    Ready, he nodded at a shadowy corner between the tent and stall, held his hands before him, palms out, and threw a pray to the Lord of Stealth.
    “Fly true,” he whispered, then, to ensure the assassination went right. “And don’t queer the click, yeah?”
    His eyes fell on the holy sigil on the back of his hand: five blades sticking out at different angles from a central circle that looked like a coin. He grinned, thinking how the Committee’s tats would shift after today, the ink, once changed, showing a new hierarchy.
    He pulled up the hood of his cloak, hiding his features, picked up the crossbow, and crept into the tent.
    —
    The man who sat across from Rusilla wore a loose green cloak over fitted leathers. The thin blade of a gentleman hung from a snakeskin scabbard at his belt. He wore a silver chain from which hung a tarnished silver charm—a stiletto with a coin balanced on its tip, the symbol of Aster, god of merchants and thieves. Gray whiskers dotted the man’s sharp-featured face and his small dark eyes seemed to miss little. He immediately struck Rusilla as coiled, tense.
    “Word is you’re a genuine faytor, not a zany like these others in the Bazaar.”
    The man’s manner of speech took her aback. He didn’t speak at all like a gentleman, despite his attire.
    “You mean ‘seer’?” she asked.
    “Ain’t that what I said?” He smiled. One of his front teeth was chipped. “So or not?”
    “Yes,” Rusilla lied, and reminded herself to be careful with this hard-speaking man with a wealthy man’s weapons. He was not what he appeared.
    The man leaned forward and put his gloved hands on the table and interlaced his fingers, a gesture Rusilla found vaguely threatening.
    “ ’Cause I’ll pay for the genuine thing. Fact is, I’ll give you a lot of work if what you say happens, right? We can always use a true seer.”
    “We?” she asked.
    He ignored the question, reached into an inner pocket of his cloak, removed a gold crown, and laid it on the table next to the gong. Rusilla was born to a noble family—albeit a cursed one—and had seen more than a fair share of gold coins, so the reveal of a crown perhaps didn’t have the effect the man had hoped. He leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed.
    “You see this is gold, yeah? It ain’t ’feit. Bite it, if you need.”
    “That’s very generous, but a silver tern is all that’s required. Or two if you find the reading particularly useful.”
    He looked baffled at her response.
    “Ain’t I in the Low Bazaar? You a queen slummin’ with your subjects?”
    She smiled tightly. “Shall we begin?”
    “Right, then,” he said. “Right.”
    Rusilla rang the small gong once, waved incense smoke into her face and then into his. She reached across the table and took his gloved hands in hers while she extended her mental fingers and gently sifted the surface thoughts of the man.
    He was worried.
    “You are concerned about someone close to you.”
    His expression remained neutral, his eyes fixed on her, studying her.
    She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow, part of the routine she used to impress patrons. She reached deeper into his thoughts.
    “You question the loyalty of those close to you.”
    He tried to hide it, but she felt him tense.
    “You fear they plot against you.” She opened her eyes. “You’re right to fear. They do.”
    He stared into her face and she stared back. Finally he gave a forced smile.
    “You’re good, yeah? But maybe I get to ask a question now? Ain’t that how it works?”
    She nodded, kept her delicate hold on his thoughts. If she were to reach deeper into his mind, she’d need