As well, for the swordswoman is many things - but no tracker at all. That had been Thorn's work, a lifetime and years ago; Quincy's later. Having no talent for the art she'd ignored it. But this is sufficiently straightforward to suit even blunt-minded swordswomen: a glimpse of his general direction, a pattern of dampness upon stone not much trod in hours.
"Pizdoi nakryt'sja," hissed soft beneath the breath, but this is her only deference to the concept of stealth; the legs still aren't all they should be, and she's made no attempt to move quietly. "It said he was to die. It said he was a - "
No more than that. There are things which she cannot comfortably say, and the high possibility besides that in her haste and ignorance, she'd simply misread. But there's that question for Lentham regardless - who clearly follows - and a single divergence from her pursuit; it requires time enough to catch a passerby's elbow and interrupt her business with quick, quiet instructions regarding gates, two chambers, and the securing of Below.
Only feet away, a very drenched coat is doing terrible things to a side-table.
"There." A narrow antechamber, damp footprints at its threshold. What enters bears no weapon at all, but its entrance is announced by the subtle thss-click of arcane metals, and its flesh glitters beneath torchflame. Its very brief entrance, for she's managed two steps past that doorframe and nothing else at all; the grey eyes stare.