Chapter 12
Damiskos woke in the dark, jerked awake by a flurry of noise: the crash of the door hitting the bed on the opposite side of the room as it swung open; running feet outside. He pushed himself up, blinking blearily around the room. He’d been sleeping in an awkward position, face-down on top of the rumpled coverlet, with his tunic on and still belted.
Moonlight from the open door showed the other bed in the room still made—halfheartedly—and empty. He caught a whiff of smoke as if a lamp had recently been extinguished. He rolled out of bed and went to the door.
Varazda was coming up the stairs to the gallery, barefoot and pyjama-clad, with Damiskos’s short sword in his hand.
“Didn’t catch him,” he whispered when he reached the top of the stairs. “Not that I know what I’d have do
