The Steel Remains by Richard K. Morgan Page A

she looked quickly up from her work, seemed to smile at him, then looked away again almost as fast. For all the noise she made, she might as well have been a ghost.
    And in the doorway at the far end of the kitchen, someone else was waiting for him.
    “Oh well,
what
a surprise.”
    He sighed. “Good morning, Mother.”
    The day really was shaping up like his youth revisited. Ishil stood in the raised threshold at the far end of the kitchen, two steps up from the level of the flagged floor and as if poised on a dais. Her face was fully made up and she wore robes that she'd not normally choose to go about the house in, but aside from this she was a perfect copy of the mother he'd had to face all those crawling- in- from- the- night- before mornings so long ago.
    He dragged out a stool, sat on it. “Been to a party?”
    Ishil descended regally into the kitchen. Her skirts scraped on the flagstones. “I'd have thought that was my line. You're the one who's been out all night.”
    Ringil gestured. “You're hardly dressed for staying in yourself.”
    “Your father has had guests from the Chancellery. Matters of state to consider. They are still here, waiting.”
    “Well, it's good to know I'm not the only one who's been up working late.”
    “Is that what you've been doing?” Now she stood on the other side of the table from him. “Working?”
    “After a fashion, yes.”
    Ishil gave him an icy smile. “And there was I thinking you'd just been out rutting with your former acquaintances.”
    “There are various ways to extract information, Mother. If you wanted a more traditional approach, you should have stuck with Father and his thugs.”
    “Tell me then,” she said sweetly. “What have your unorthodox methods brought to light about Sherin's whereabouts?”
    “Nothing very much. The Salt Warren's sewn up tighter than a priest's sphincter. It'll take me time to work around that.” He grinned. “Lubricate entry, so to speak.”
    She switched away from him, haughty as an offended cat.
“Augh.
Do you
have
to be so coarse, Ringil?”
    “Not in front of the servants, eh?”
    “What's that supposed to mean?”
    Ringil gestured over his shoulder at the girl by the cauldron, but when he turned to look, he saw she'd slid noiselessly out and left him alone with Ishil. Couldn't really blame her, he supposed. His mother's temper was legendary.
    “Never mind,” he said tiredly “Let's just say I'm making slow progress, and leave it at that.”
    “Well, he wants to see you, anyway.”
    “Who does?”
    “Your father, of course.” Ishil's tone sharpened. “Haven't you listened to a word I've been saying? He's up there now with his guest. Waiting for you.”
    Ringil let his elbows rest on the table. He set one hand diagonally against the other, closed his fingers around, and looked at the clasp they made. He made his voice carefully toneless.
    “Is he now?”
    “Yes, he is, Gil. And he's not in the best of tempers. So come
on.
“
    Prolonged rasp of her skirts along the floor. Abruptly, it set his teeth on edge. She made the length of the table before she realized he hadn't gotten up to follow her. She turned, fixed him with a hard stare that he knew of old and didn't bother to meet.
    “Are you coming or not?”
    “Take a wild guess.”
    “Gil, this isn't
helpful.
You promised—”
    “If Gingren wants to talk to me, he can come down here and do it.” Ringil gestured at the empty space between them. “It's private enough.”
    “You want him to bring guests into the
kitchens?”
Ishil seemed genuinely aghast.
    “No.” Now he looked at her. “I want him to leave me the fuck alone. But since that doesn't seem to be an option, let's see how badly he really wants to talk, shall we?”
    She stood there for a couple of moments more, then, when he didn't drop his gaze or move more than a stone, she stalked up the steps and out without a word. He watched her go, shifted his position a little, hunched his shoulders,