Shadowborn by Alison Sinclair Page A

tooth-marked leather. He snagged a towel from the stack at her elbow and wiped his face and soaked hairline.
    Balthasar cleared his throat, attracting their attention. “Hearne,” said di Studier, hoarsely, before he could speak. “What did Lord Vladimer say first when he came to?”
    “Ordered us not to move, or he would shoot to kill.” That he would not forget, for his heart had nearly stopped as Telmaine had moved and Vladimer had shot into the floor just beside her head. He had not thought Vladimer would bluff.
    Ishmael’s shoulders did not relax. Deliberately, he held out his sound hand. “Touch me,” he said. “Above th’glove. I’ve sound reason for asking,” he added.
    Balthasar hesitated, but could not persuade himself a Shadowborn would have willingly let Laurel inflict such pain on it as Laurel had just done on Ishmael. He pushed down the cuff of Ishmael’s glove, fingers seeking his pulse and finding it, fast with pain and the aftermath of exertion, but full and regular.
    The pulse jumped; Ishmael hissed out a breath. “Sorry,” murmured Laurel.
    Balthasar released Ishmael’s wrist and stepped back. “Ask me,” Ishmael said.
    “I’d not have touched you if I had any doubts,” Balthasar said, as the mage must know. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
    “First thing is, I just went skin t’skin with one of those Shadowborn.” Laurel’s head jerked before she caught herself; Ishmael, his head turned toward Balthasar, didn’t notice. “Wasn’t meant, believe me. The thing was dying, toppled against me.” He stopped; Balthasar realized he was fighting nausea. “Foul with Shadowborn magic—”
    Laurel paused in her cleaning to pass him a small towel that smelled strongly of mint, even at Balthasar’s distance. Ishmael wiped his face, inhaling deeply of the scent. “ Cursed unpleasant,” he said with feeling.
    “But informative,” Balthasar said.
    “You have that way . . . of cutting to th’essence.” He paused as Laurel propped up his hand and began to bandage his arm. Her head was cocked, listening. “It was a formed mind that touched mine. Not a sane man’s, but no beast’s, either. Th’thing had once been Darkborn—I’m sure of it.”
    “Ishmael,” said Laurel in horror. “You . . . could sense that?”
    “Aye, m’lady. I shouldn’t be speaking of this in front of you—”
    She shook her head crisply. “Father’s prohibition might have made sense in the past, but it makes none now. We need to know what we’re fighting.” She split the bandage with a stroke of the scalpel and knotted the ties neatly around his wrist. “So, they’re . . . transforming Darkborn into Shadowborn.” Her head came up; she sonned him. “Lavender knows?”
    Thinking of her twin’s lost love? Or her twin exposed on the rooftop?
    “She knows. Can’t be sure on that,” Ishmael said. “Just that they’ve minds closer t’men than beasts. Though th’implications are ugly, for th’ones lost.” He rolled his head on the back of the chair. “Second thing, Hearne, is I don’t suppose y’were up on the third floor a little while ago?”
    “No,” said Balthasar, uneasily.
    “Thought you mightn’t have been. Trouble is, I sonned someone much like you trying t’open the door to the rooftop dance floor. He bolted just before th’servants’ door opened and a whole scourge of Shadowborn tried t’pile through. I got reinforcements just as I shot myself dry.”
    “They’ve infiltrated us,” Laurel said for him. “Come in with the refugees.”
    “You . . . didn’t sense anything?” Balthasar said, cautiously.
    Ishmael grimaced, scar jumping. “I sensed plenty,” he said. “Was ready t’heave the whole time I was on the roof and fighting them in the hall. It wasn’t false heroism kept me in place,” he said to Laurel. “But no, I didn’t sense anything from any particular one—but if they’d any sense, they’d have been keeping clear of