Page 22 of Heir

“Mmm,” Sirsha grumbled unintelligibly. The Martial didn’t need toknow that she wasn’t one to paw at the ground looking for boot prints. Sirsha’s skill lay in reading the language of the natural elements: The way the sand shifted and the wind whispered and the rain fell, the way the land warped to give her a picture of the past. Of what had passed through and when.

The earth, wind, and water were always speaking. Sirsha was one of the rare few who knew how to listen.

Her people called it Inashi.Scenting.But she didn’t use that word. It made her think of hounds, bound to the will of their masters. No, she called it tracking, and it allowed her to hunt down her quarry faster than those relying on traditional methods. Which meant with any luck, this job would be done before the end of the week, her vow fulfilled, and she’d be on a ship heading far away from the Empire with a fat sack of gold.

Ifthe land deigned to tell her its secrets, anyway. All magic—no matter who wielded it—required two things: an emotion and an element. Sirsha had emotion aplenty. Desire, curiosity, anger, annoyance, greed—with enough focus, any of them would work.

The elements, however, were wide-ranging and capricious. Like toddlers or goats, they didn’t always cooperate. Reading the earth was simple. It projected a map of nearby terrain in her mind, and told her where her quarry was. But wind and water were a different matter.

Speak to me, she called to the elements.Who walked here? What violence did they carry with them?

“It rains a great deal in the west, yes?” Her client’s question pulled her from her work, and she frowned in irritation.

“I wouldn’t know.” Sirsha refused to confirm anything he might have heard about her origins. She didn’t like to think about it, and in any case, it was none of his damned business. Besides, shedidn’tknow. Eight years had passed since she’d seen the Cloud Forest near her home. Maybe the rains had stopped.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said, “I’m working. A bit of space would be appreciated. And silence.”

She turned away before he could respond, and pondered the details of the killings that he had been willing to share. The number of dead. How they’d died. When she was sure the Martial was well ahead and couldn’t see or hear her, she began to whisper what she’d learned. The earth was always listening.

Around her, shadows emerged from the landscape. Shadows she knew the man couldn’t see. Slowly, a figure took shape. She expected it to be marred by violence, trailing the dead. But it appeared alone. It was strangely skittish and she strained to see it better, but it sat at the edge of her vision. When she tried to look at it directly with her mind’s eye, it disappeared.

Unusual. Her power was reliable, for the most part. Sirsha told the elements what she wanted. One or all of them provided a trail. She used common sense and poisoned blades to keep troublemakers in line. In a pinch, she could usually wheedle aid from the earth or wind. Most contracts took no more than a week.

Sirsha slowed her horse and peered around, waiting for a trail to emerge, for the earth to show her something else.

“We can head west, to Serra,” the man said from ahead of her, and Sirsha realized she had no idea how long he’d been talking. “The last few victims were there, so the killer might be as well. He might even—”

She. Not he.

To Sirsha’s surprise, it was the wind who spoke. The wind was taciturn, and despite witnessing practically everything that went on, it preferred to observe, not aid.

Which way should I go?Sirsha asked it, unsurprised when no answer came. She supposed it didn’t really matter. She hadn’t gotten quite what she needed, but she’d learned enough to realize she shouldn’t head west.

“—he’s ruthless in his attacks. He—”

“First of all”—Sirsha gave her mount a nudge so she could catch up to the man—“the killer’s not ahe.”

At the man’s surprise, she scoffed. “You don’t think women can be so brutal. Or that it might not be a he or a she?”

“I know very well that women can be brutal.” The man’s shoulders tightened. “Hewas a general term. The former ambassador of Ankana is a friend. They are a dona’i and their people have multiple classifications for gender—”

“No need to get huffy,” Sirsha said. “Your killer isn’t male or dona’i. She’s a woman. Second, she didn’t go west. She went south. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll go my way, and you go yours. I know how to find you.”

The man brought his mount around and considered her from beneath his hood. She stared boldly back, but was again struck by a sudden familiarity. She knew she’d never seen him before. He was a big man, with a face and form not easily forgotten. And yet…

She eyed him, looking for a telltale warp in the air that would indicate the presence of magic. Nothing. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have it. Occasionally, the strong-minded could bury their magic deep enough that not even a rivulet leaked out.

“If you know an ambassador, you have friends in high places,” Sirsha said. “Why not ask them for help?”

“There’s only so much they can do. And this is personal.”

Sirsha pulled her mount to a stop, though the rain was closing in and she knew she’d regret a delay.

“How personal?” she said.

“South, you said.” He stared out at the desert. “I must bear west, to Serra, so I’ll be on my way.”

“Not yet.” Sirsha nudged her mount in front of his. “Why are you keeping so many secrets?”

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