Chapter one

If you eat a live toad first thing in the morning, nothing worse will happen all day long.

In a respectable inn in the market quarter of the city of Ravisa, in a well-appointed upstairs room, lay a man. Slightly short, well-built though not truly muscular, with a short, curly black beard that matched his hair; some might call him handsome. Except at the moment, he was asleep and drooling slightly, fully-clothed and smelling unmistakably of liquor.

The pounding on the door woke Jack abruptly. Three hard bangs were echoed by the hangover headache pounding in his skull. Oh, Great Mother, make them go away! Fearing the results, he decided not to move. Even the light filtering in from the shutters seemed too bright, so he kept his eyes closed as well. A small moan escaped him. The pounding resumed.

“Open up, Jack. I’ve got to talk to you. Official business.” Raef of the city guard. Usually a pleasant enough fellow, today he seemed like the Pox Spreader himself. Every sound he made at the door throbbed painfully in Jack’s head.

“Go ‘way,” Jack yelled weakly. And in desperation, he wrapped his head with the pillow, to deaden any reply. Never again! he thought. Let me live through this, and I’ll never touch a drop again! His mind offered up the fact that he had said those words before. Another moan escaped from beneath the pillow. Then a key turned in the lock. Jack felt horribly betrayed. What’s the world coming to when a man can’t even die in peace in his own home? And that thought brought with it the vague realization that he wasn’t at home. This is not my bed, he thought.

The door opened — mercifully quiet — to reveal two men in the hallway beyond. The first was a tall man, dark blond hair, powerfully built, dressed in the dark red tunic of the city guard. He wore a thick mustache, and frowned. The other man was shorter, stouter, with straight dark hair starting to recede, holding a key ring in his hand. He wore a soiled apron and a worried expression.

“Just as I left him,” said the innkeeper. “Four walls to the wind. There’s a bucket by the side of the bed,” he called. “Use it or the room fee triples, milord.” As if mystically triggered, Jack’s stomach started a slow roll. Another moan sounded from beneath the pillow. “Can’t imagine it was him, in that state. But you know your business.”

The guardsman grinned, and stepped into the room. “Up and at ‘em, Jack. People to see, places to go, profits to be made.” Jack mumbled something about where to stuff the profits. Raef became serious again. “C’mon Jack. One of your drinking buddies was killed last night. We need to take down your story, see what happened.” This information provoked a vague hope that it was the skinny bastard with the inside straight. Never seen such luck. And then another: Holy crap. Am I in trouble?

Raef waited for an answer. When none was forthcoming, he clapped his hands loudly together. A twitch ran through the man under the pillow. “Okay Jack. You asked for it,” he said. “Fry me up a few strips of greasy bacon,” he told the innkeeper. “Add some of that nasty Lucan cheese, if you have any.”

Oh god! Jack’s stomach bubbled, signaling imminent eruption. He located the bucket with a quick glance as he threw off the pillow, and heaved several times. After a few moments, Jack summoned just enough strength to mutter “Bastard.” Raef grinned again.

“Come to think of it, maybe just a pot of coffee would be better in his state,” the guardsman said. The innkeeper nodded.

“Got just the thing. Been boiling a pot of Mama’s own remedy almost an hour now. Should be just about done. Give me a few minutes to cool it down. Extra ten marks,” the man said aside to Jack, and then ambled away down the hall.

Jack was reduced to dry heaves, and slowly fell back onto the bed. Raef poured him a cup of water from the pitcher nearby, and Jack sat up to wash his mouth out and spit into the bucket again.

“You of all people should be kinder to the dead. I happen to know just how much of your pay goes to drink. Should make a man more sympathetic,” Jack said.

“Ah, you don’t know the half of it. Why, I score more than that just from greasing,” Raef boasted.

“Bah! A thinly disguised bribe collected from poor merchants without patrons,” Jack retorted. “You stand revealed as a base extortionist.” When in the wrong, change the subject. When in doubt, attack. Dad’s debate tactics rise to any occasion, Jack thought.

“It’s a time-honored system,” Raef defended. “Not everyone has the backing of a merchant house like you. And some of us,” he came back to the point, “can hold our liquor. Keep this up, and you’ll find yourself sleeping it off in the lockup.”

“By the gods, I swear I’ll never touch a drop of the stuff again!” Jack fell back onto the bed and slowly ran his hands over his face. The headache, momentarily forgotten, was back with a vengeance. Repeat an oath three times and the gods will hold you to it, his mother’s voice said to him. Nothing like a pounding skull to sharpen a man’s memory, Jack thought. Must be trying to make up for the blank that was last night.

“Okay, Jack. For the record, did you kill anybody? You’ve got a ready-made excuse,” Raef noted. “Drunken brawl might even get you off with just a hefty fine.” Surreptitiously noting that there was no blood evident on his hands, Jack offered his innocence.

“I didn’t kill anyone!” he protested. “There was a whole inn full of people there! Who took the dive, anyway?”

“Some caravaneer from Praetia. No real local ties, just passing though. ‘Kay, when you feel up to it, come on down to the ‘post and make a statement. We might have a few questions for you. And don’t leave town. We’ve put a lien on your Guild account to see you stay here.” Raef was serious about it. That wouldn’t stop him from pulling funds from the House account, but any noticeable withdrawal would bring the guard down on him like crap through a goose. Not that he had the strength to even walk home, right now.

“I’ll be right here,” Jack replied sullenly. “And could you close those shutters, man? A pox on the Lightbringer!” he cursed.

“Would you rather have Rainmaker whip up a thunderstorm? Boom!” Raef said loudly, as he darkened the room. Jack answered with a grimace. “Get your head straight, and see the sergeant later,” the guardsman said. “I’ll leave you to wallow in your misery.” And kindly, he departed.

“Oooooh....,” Jack moaned. Just what I needed. A hangover, an inquest, and a funny guard. Shortly afterwards, the Innkeep called from the hall.

“Better hold your nose, milord. Takes a devil’s brew to cure one.” He opened the door and shuffled in with a fancy lidded stein. “Drink it down as fast as you can. It’s hot.” Jack sat up, pinching his nose. “Yep, best cure known to man. Bring you down soft,” the man said. “Steeped with Red Jasper.” A traditional poison cure. Jack took the plunge, gulping as much down as he could before taking a breath. As expected, it was nothing anybody would willingly drink when sober. Orange juice, hot peppers, raw eggs, a bit of honey, more than one kind of herb – the aftertaste was bitter. The effects started immediately, as his eyes seemed about to pop out and shoot across the room from the force behind his sinuses. His skull seemed two sizes too small, and even his teeth ached for a moment. Then, the drain plug was suddenly pulled, and the pressure eased.

The Innkeeper waited a few moments. “Gonna stay down? Good. Drink some water, get the taste out of your mouth. Then just go back to sleep for awhile. I’ll check in on you later.” Jack mumbled thanks as the man left with the bucket. Of course he’s right. Best get the poor sod over it as quickly as possible. If I swear off the stuff, he’ll lose a customer. Just like a House manager, Jack thought, as he gingerly rolled over.

His second awakening that day was much less painful. It was only after using the chamberpot that he noticed the headache, down to a dull throb. A quick visit to the Temples should fix that, he thought. Can’t be distracted while I’m talking my way out of a jail cell. Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. There were a whole bunch of people here last night. No reason to think I’m being singled out in particular. Raef sounded like he’d talked to other guys earlier. Just looking for witnesses, that’s it. It’s not like I have a reputation for such things. I mean, I’ve killed men before. Last year, at the Temple, for example. But always in a fight. I’ve never murdered anybody. My conscience is clear.

As he was still dressed from last night, Jack simply brushed himself off a bit and ran his fingers through his hair before going to pay the bill. He found the innkeeper directing a handful of young teenagers in cleaning the common room. No blood was visible, Jack noted. Waving at the kids to continue, the man walked over to Jack in the hallway.

“Good to see you up and around again! It’s past seven bells already. We’ve still got some soup left, if you’re interested.” Jack consulted his stomach, and concluded that he’d better not take the chance.

“Not right now, if you please. But before I settle up and get going, can you tell me what happened here last night? I don’t remember anything requiring the Guard.” Jack practiced a wry smile, which acknowledged that his memory was a bit hazy, yet strived to reassure his innocence. It’ll look more convincing without the headache, Jack thought.

“Ah. Getting your story straight?” his eyes twinkled a bit. “Not much to tell, really. Typical weekend, lots of customers, some for the food, some for the games. Lots of drinking. Only had to call the Guard twice. Hour past final bell a customer notices that one of the guests in the common room has leaked blood all over the floor. Turns out he’d been stabbed. Looked like it was in bed, ‘cause there was no blood anywhere else. Must have been passed out already, for no one heard anything.” Just as I thought, could have been anybody. Jack felt relieved.

“A Guardsman was already there, off duty of course, and he told us to shut the doors and send for his sergeant. They spent an hour getting all the names and statements a man could want. Then carted off the body. Raef vouched for you, milord, said he’d see you in the morning. You were already dead to the world.” Unfortunate choice of words there, Jack saw, as the man’s face rapidly changed expression. “Of course, this has never happened here before. But we got you into a safely locked room as soon as possible.”

“You mean, I was there?” Jack was a bit stunned.

“Next bunk over,” the innkeeper confirmed abashedly. “Usual procedure for drunks here is to toss ‘em in the common room and let ‘em sleep it off. Other places just toss you out the door. But we’re more considerate than that.” Especially of your wealthy guests, Jack guessed.

“Anyways, I’ll discount the room, since you didn’t actually ask for it, and we’ll call the whole tab thirty-two marks, drinks included.”

“My thanks,” Jack said a bit distractedly, as he reached for his coin purse. It was still there, and looked as full as ever. As he counted out the coins, he asked “Was the guy robbed?” Maybe I should start looking for a bodyguard, he thought. Right next to me!

“Don’t know about that. The Guard took charge and didn’t tell us anything after that. Much obliged,” the man said as he pocketed the coins. Jack waved a hand goodbye as he left the room, his thoughts already elsewhere.

The main room was fairly empty at this hour. There were only two caravaneers flirting with the barmaid and an old minstrel strumming his guitar in the corner, face thoughtful as he fingered different chords. The doors were open, letting the sun of a mild spring afternoon inside. The place looks much better at night, Jack thought. Sunlight is too harsh, it shows the stains on the ceiling, the soot from the fireplace. It also brought back his headache. He resolved to spend money on a cure for that before anything else.

He left the inn, blinking momentarily as he stepped out, and turned toward the harbor rather than home. The streets were busy with the usual late-morning crowd; servants and merchants running errands, mostly. It was too early for the evening shift of fun-seekers and those that preyed on them, and the morning street vendors and beggars seemed to have already retired. A light breeze carried the faint tang of the sea and did wonders to mask the smells of civilization. The temperature was just right and produced a crisp, sunny, bracing day. All in all, it was a wonderful afternoon, for those who had the time to enjoy it. And Jack was able to enjoy it more than he usually would, for he deliberately set a slow pace so as not to aggravate his headache any more than necessary.

As he sauntered down towards the seaside, Jack quickly fell into his normal rhythm. Exchanging greetings, making small talk, admiring a new ring, giving his opinion on the worth of a horse — though he refused a quick ride – all meat and potatoes for a son of St.Brienne, one of the six most powerful merchant families in the whole of Ascalon. I do believe, Jack thought as he entered the center of the market quarter, that I have made this city my own. Not that I had any doubts, when I was posted as Factor down here on the south coast. But in these two years I’ve come to know the place. I can tell, everything is running well and the people are happy. Great for business.

So why am I so uneasy? The mines are producing adequately. The spring planting is well underway. The ports are all open. No hint of war, famine, or pestilence. Even Simon’s horses seemed cheerful today. Maybe I should see a fortune teller, too, before I go home. As he passed out of the market quarter, he debated the thought. Most crystal gazers were notoriously vague, especially about the near future. Many were fakes. Every House employed several of them, though, for they had proven their worth predicting market trends, droughts, and sudden disasters. It was just in the little things, like a single person’s life, that reliability went down.

And, paradoxically, it was better to find a gazer that knew nothing at all about you. Some mystical theory that the interpretation of the visions is better for having an unbiased source. In practice, it meant that even those renowned as accurate gazers could never see clearly anything about their own lives. And it meant that the gazer’s union was a close-knit profession, with any gazer able to refer you to several others that might suit your needs better. No doubt with a system of kickbacks built in, Jack thought.

As he climbed the steps of the seaside Temple complex, Jack spent a moment to compose his thoughts. Never try to deceive the gods, for they know the hearts of men, his mother had said. Sound advice, Jack thought. Though the priests would gladly perform a healing for anyone with money, it was certainly wise to offer thanks to those on high for their magic.

The Temple was busy too. Seekers of guidance or arbitration, those wishing a blessing or forgiveness, anyone needing to arrange a ceremony for marriage, birth, death, or coming-of-age, and those seeking magic on the cheap all milled about in a solemn throng. A quick word with an acolyte sent him to see Elder Hotchkiss, and a few greased palms let him in quickly.

The Elder was a short, immense fellow, roughly fifty, with most of his hair gone to grey – but a dark iron grey, and he still had a full head of it. He welcomed Jack with a friendly handshake, and led him inside an office deep in the back of the temple.

“Just relax on the couch, and tell me what I can do for you today.” The Elder pulled up a stool and sat attentively.

“Just a hangover cure, and your blessing. I spent too much time at the tavern last night. Truth to tell, I just left a short while ago.” Having admitted his transgression, Jack awaited the sermon.

“Ah, the sin of overindulgence. The Green Man knew, in creating the fruits of the vine, that man would misuse his gift. Yet he did not hold back, but attempted to teach us about the uses of such things, and the way to live in harmony with nature.” Hotchkiss took a small velvet pouch from his pack, and slipped out an uncut amethyst, about as big as the tip of his thumb. “The Great Mother knows what a strong attraction a good brew has. I myself enjoy a good stout now and then, but you must always remember moderation, my friend. Moderation is the key to happiness in all things.” He leaned closer. “Now, it has been my experience that the lesson is retained longer, depending on how miserable you feel. I would suggest that you’d do better to tough this one out, let it run it’s course, and remember just how bad you felt when next you are tempted too much.” And he sat back, awaiting an answer, giving every indication that he would be satisfied no matter what Jack decided.

Of course, Jack didn’t even consider not getting the cure. This, he thought, is what wealth is for. To have your cure when you want it, and not have to wait it out like the masses. He indicated to the Elder that he wanted to continue, and dropped a large stack of coins on the small altar beside the couch, about a hundred marks. Hotchkiss listened to the notes they made as they hit the marble basin, and nodded. He motioned for Jack to lie back, and held the amethyst cupped in both hands for a moment, composing his thoughts. A soft purple glow seeped out from between his fingers, a sure sign of real magic.

“The Earth has provided this bounty of crystal, and Thinker has shown us the way it can be used. Let this use be met with their approval and blessing.” Holding the gem like a stylus, the elder began waving it back and forth in the air just above Jack’s body, tracing a route from his head to his feet. When done, he returned and sketched an intricate symbol over Jack’s head and stomach. The energy flow tingled along his skin where the priest traced. Jack reflected while the man changed gems. All magic came from one’s own being, but only extraordinarily dedicated mystics could achieve results without a gem to focus the power. Certain gems were more or less suited for certain results. Amethyst was a common stone used for healing, for curing, for purging addictions. Red jasper, as the innkeeper had said, was widely believed to stop poison — though his had not been magically charged, or Jack would have paid a lot more. Sapphire, which the elder brought forth now, was useful for a number of applications, among them physical healing.

Hotchkiss gazed at the sapphire in his right hand for a moment, then moved to touch Jack over the heart. A warmth spread outward from the touch, the elder maintaining it for a few moments, his eyes closed, until Jack’s fingers and toes started to tingle. The priest then exhaled noticeably, and moved to touch the sapphire to his own forehead. He then used this to trace a star in the air between the two men.

“May the Great Mother watch over you and protect you from harm, and may you never suffer want through all of your days, until one day she calls you back to her court to serve her again.” He raised his head, and with a twinkle in his eye continued “And may the Thinker aid your recall when next you indulge, and remind you of the consequences.”

Jack sat up as the man motioned for him to rise, and immediately noticed how full his bladder had become. The elder saw him to the door.

“Privy is just down the hall to your left, last door. Drink some water or juice to replenish your fluids. And stay away from all alcohol for the next day or so; it’ll give you the runs something fierce until the magic wears off. The elder squeezed Jack’s shoulder in farewell and turned to the next supplicant waiting on the bench in the hall.

Jack followed the instructions and relieved himself, his last few aches fading down the drain, leaving only the odd depression. Now, the faithful of the temple did include a few fortune tellers, but they tended to be acolytes looking to develop their skills in different ways. Private, professional seers were almost always more accurate, if several times more expensive, in Jack’s experience. Thus, his next stop was the Street of Dreams up on the cliffside.

Though he felt immensely better, physically, worry dogged him so, he failed to enjoy the rest of the day at all. The seer he chose, one Jules Reynard, did not help much either. A thin young man with wispy blond hair, Reynard had eyes that bulged outward, focusing on something not quite visible as he talked to you. He puts on a good show, at least, Jack thought. But he does have the guild seal on the wall, so maybe he isn’t a complete faker.

“Your worry is not without cause,” he said, as he gazed onto a large slab of agate. The stone had been polished to a mirror finish, and the seer moved a candle close to various spots before it as he gazed into it’s surface. “But every indication says that you already know the source. My best advice is to get back into your normal routine, and it will come to you.” He frowned, then leaned forward to study a random color band in the stone. “Do you know any wheelwrights?” he asked. “There’s a strong warning here not to trust one. It’s unusual for me to be able to see it that clearly.”

Wheelwrights? “Not that I know of. Can you elaborate a bit? Will he try to cheat me?” Jack tried to think of the last time he dealt with such a person. Nothing. Unless I met one last night, he thought.

“He is not what he seems, and I get the feeling he wishes you ill, personally, but that’s all I can tell.” He gazed a bit further. “You’ll continue to be unlucky at love. And I’d avoid sea travel for the next month or two, if you can. I do see a trip in your near future.” The seer lowered the candle and glanced at Jack. “Not quite what you wanted, but a pretty good reading nonetheless. Seventy marks, and if my sight proves useful, I’d be grateful if you’d recommend me to your friends.”

Jack nodded as he paid the man. “Competitive business,” he acknowledged. “Thanks for the help, and I’ll be sure to mention your name.” Gods, what an expensive morning it’s been so far. I’d better cut back a bit until Raef releases my account, or I’ll find myself reduced to eating the turnip preserves Camille always says she has at the back of the pantry. Jack noted that the thought of turnips did not cause his stomach to roll, as it would have earlier. But he resolved to avoid them anyway. A pastry vendor along the way offered him a small tort as a sample; he nibbled it experimentally, but decided he’d better not push his luck just yet.

Feeling as ready as he’d get, Jack made his way to the main guardpost in the center of the city. There were three major ‘posts and two minor ones throughout the city, but the one on Rue de Magistrat was where Raef was assigned, and there was just a chance he’d be there now. A friendly presence couldn’t hurt, Jack thought. Though more likely he’s out doing rounds.

The ‘post was a large building, built entirely of stone, designed to impress. Ugly as hell, Jack thought. Cheap honey-colored blocks, like those used throughout the region. Squat, dense, a couple windows on the upper floor. No decorations, no attempt at beauty, save for the griffin carved into the door lintel, and the plain dark red banner, the symbol of the Guard, hanging over the entrance.

Jack paused outside for a moment, as he let a guardsman march two people straight up the steps. He had them strongly by either arm. Man & woman, both looked disheveled, like they’d been in a fight. The guard showed no such signs, and the look of fury that passed between the two captives made Jack think they might be married. He sighed, thinking on the crystal gazer’s words – his love life left a lot to be desired.

Not that he’d ever had much of a one to speak of. Being a son of the St.Brienne, he knew he would eventually have to marry in a House alliance. But since he wasn’t first son, he had a small amount of say in the matter. He could pick the girl, as long as she was of the right class — rich, and had important family connections — ones that would benefit the St.Brienne. This left out just about all the most attractive ones. Most of the suitable women he knew were boring as hell, and most of the interesting ones didn’t meet the qualifications. Always, they’d been either ‘compatible, if necessary’ or ‘Mom would kill me; hope she doesn’t find out.’ Neither ever lasted long. He wondered again, is it just me? Why am I attracted to those kinds of women? Strong-willed, combative. The fun ones. No answer sprang to mind, and he entered the building. But the gods must have sensed his thoughts, for the first thing he heard upon entering the lobby was a female voice calling his name.

“Hey Jack! Over here! Took you long enough.” Black suede boots, a nice pair of smoke-grey trousers, tight in the most wonderful places. Sword belt, empty at the moment, set for a duelist-style right-hand draw. Rich orange velvet blouse, filled out nicely. Long, loose hair – brunette, light brown. Strong face – not exactly pretty, but very striking. And memorable. Jack recognized her. He had fallen hard for her, once. And here she was, locked in the holding pen of the main guardpost. Jack briefly massaged his temples as he acknowledged the gods jest.

Rachelle was a warrior, a bodyguard, a mercenary – not at all the kind of girl his father would approve of. She had a wicked sense of humor. It was completely appropriate that they first met during the Rain Of Fish, a uniquely memorable event in itself, three years ago, in the capital. But it hadn’t worked out, for a number of reasons.

“Rachelle! How good to see you. You look well. How’s the other guy?” That was one of her two weaknesses, a savage temper; her brawling was becoming legendary around town. She usually won, though often as not ended up in the post and fined for it. The others in the pen kept their distance from her.

“Still at the healers,” she admitted with a wry look. “Nose broke. Accidentally,” she added. “The guy was clumsy as well as drunk. Have you got my money?”

Money? That rang a bell. Was that it? The missing memory? “How much they stick you for this time?” he asked. She had never cheated him. Almost killed him, twice, but she didn’t have a deceitful bone in her body. Gold seemed to slip through her fingers like water. That was her other weakness. She had borrowed from the House, through Jack, many times, and always paid it back. How in the world could Jack end up owing her?

“Twenty marks,” she shrugged. “Standard ‘Public Nuisance’. Nothing special, but I need the cash from your snake to cover it.”

Snake. Damn! Sudden revelation hit him. Never again! For the rest of my life, one glass only! He knew, with certainty, he’d done something stupid, really stupid, while drunk. With a sense of inevitability, he emptied the rest of his coin purse out into his hand. There it was, a snake. Carved of blood-red carnelian, cunningly fashioned. A pass over it with his other hand told him it’s power had been expended. And it worked well, too – it had blanked a portion of his memory. They were sold to ease emotional pain; they mercifully let you to forget your problems, and only slowly allowed the memories back, one at a time. Jack hated them, swore the people who used them were idiots. And drunk, I’m an idiot, he thought.

She nodded as he held it up. “Best quality,” she said, and grinned. “I paid for it, since you were losing so much money at the dice. You always ruin the party when you’re depressed.” It was an old jibe. “Only talked him down to six hundred, it being after midnight. Melchor,” she said. An enchanter they both knew. Jack nodded, still a bit stunned, and a little sick to his stomach. “You had a ball after that,” she grinned again.

“Um. Apparently. Do me a favor, will you? If I ever get drunk again, just deck me. Knock me right out. Last night cost me, umm, about eight hundred marks. And that’s not even counting what I lost at dice. And my guild account is tied up because of it.”

A look of surprise crossed her face. “What? I didn’t think you lost that much. Don’t they only do that when you’re caught defrauding the public?” Jack glared at her a moment, but felt a bit strange as he nodded. Before, it’d always been she who got into trouble.

“A guy was knifed right next to me. Died in a pool of his own blood. How late were you there?” he asked.

She looked him over quickly, apparently checking for blood. “Just past last bell. Some numbnuts made a few too many comments, and I challenged him to arm-wrestle. Beat him too quick I guess; he and his friends started a fight. I flipped the guy past into the table behind me, and he tripped. Smashed his face against the table edge. They hauled me down here soon after; I haven’t even been home yet. You passed out before that, though. What happened?”

“They tossed me in with all the other drunks, I guess. Some caraveneer next to me was knifed in his sleep. Must have been after you left. Raef said they locked the doors for awhile there. The innkeep moved me to a private room afterwards.” Jack smiled, wryly. “Not before. The guard thinks I had something to do with it. Raef says they’ve seized my Guild account to make sure I don’t leave town.” He enjoyed the look of outrage on her face. Yep, she still cares, at least a little.

“That’s ridiculous!” she said. “Why would you need to go rolling drunks?! What are they thinking? Get me out of here and I’ll tell them a thing or two!” She rattled the door to the pen for emphasis.

“Just as soon as I can,” he promised. An idea began to form in his head. He looked around, saw no bailiffs, and flipped her a large coin. “Here’s twenty marks; if I don’t come back, could you go tell my man Heward that I’ve been jailed?” He smiled as she caught the coin, one-handed, through the bars. She gave him a quizzical look as he walked down the west hallway.

Gods it’s good to see her again, he thought. Must have just gotten back into town yesterday. I wonder if I can convince her to stay for a few days? Well, I do owe her some money. . .

He went straight to the accounting office, where a stern old woman tsked scornfully at him for bailing Rachelle out again. Of course it’s the same woman as last time. Come to think of it, it’s the same fine as last time too. It gave him a pleasant sense of ‘business as usual.’ Only that time, it was Rachelle who owed money. As he accompanied a bailiff back to the holding pen, he counted his money. Only a few smaller coins remained in his pouch. About enough for lunch, maybe. Rachelle still had that odd look that Jack translated as I’m not in the mood for any crap; do what I say and nobody gets hurt. The bailiff called her name as he opened the gate.

“I’m just about broke now,” he said. “Did you have anything you needed to do this morning? Any chance I can keep you around for awhile? With luck, maybe you can browbeat the sergeant into freeing up my account.” She saluted him for a moment with her newly regained sword, then sheathed it.

“Just follow me,” she said. “I know the way.” Undoubtedly true; he stepped in behind her as she started off down the east corridor. Jack was watching for it, and she seemed to straighten up, looking even taller and somehow more imposing, in anticipation of meeting the sergeant. It wasn’t just posture, though. Rachelle was one of the informe.

They were sometimes considered diseased, sometimes cursed. Every once in a while, they end up branded as Tempter’s own demons. Because they could change their shape. He had seen Rachelle do much more spectacular shifts, but this one she used quite often – just an inch or two of height, and a subtle change in her face, gave her a much more authoritative look. She called it her ‘Baron face’.

The informe were stronger, faster; they healed wounds in minutes, lived longer than normal humans — if they weren’t killed — and, sometimes, their minds snapped and they became mad killers. All seemed to drink blood. Tales of the informe were used to frighten children; they had a reputation for stealing kids too. And if you spent too much time near them, you could end up cursed too. They were the mercenaries and bodyguards, thieves and assassins that lived on the edges of society. And because they literally could not be recognized for what they were, a number of witch hunts had been raised against them.

Of course, Rachelle had given him the other side of the story. For starters, they were all barren. No informe could have children – they maintained their numbers mainly by adopting orphans, buying and freeing slaves, or by purchasing kids from destitute families. They had a clan, not really a House, with elders of their own. Here in Ravisa, it was rumored that old Lady Cecily was the local boss, and that she was part of a larger group based out of a stronghold in the eastern mountains. Rachelle had never confirmed that part, but she did know the lady.

They shared blood mostly during rituals, she said. Initiations. And not everyone survived the process; some grew sick and died. Not everyone had the ‘gift’ — her words — to the same degree. Some could only change their skin color, she said, while others could shift from human to lion to a peculiar-colored wall in just a few minutes. Jack had seen her grow claws and fangs, once – bone shifting was one of the harder skills, he was informed, and it took Rachelle quite a few minutes, but she could do it. Another time she had extended her arm a good eight feet to the top of a wall. That was unnerving. It took her about three minutes each way, and the misshapen, asymmetric body that resulted might have been pulled directly from a nightmare. But it got us over the wall and quietly in, he thought.

Some, she confided, couldn’t handle it. These were the renegades, the ones everyone hears about. Their minds grew warped and insane, and they became a danger to anything living. And it was usually more important for the informe to put the renegade down themselves than to wait for the regular humans to do so; to keep panic from spreading. No one quite knew the cause, Rachelle said, though her own theory was that fooling with the size & shape of the brain did it. She always kept hers normal, she said. I joked that if she were normal, with her temper, how could we ever tell if she’d snapped? She pegged me with a thrown orange.

Rachelle was one of those initiated as a child, and had made her way as a mercenary as soon as she could. She still had some sort of obligation to her clan, the people who raised her, but was basically free and unattached. Not that Jack would ever be allowed to marry her. Father would write me off completely, he thought. Just boot me right out. Though, it might be worth it, if she loved me. It was not common knowledge that she was informe. But he was obligated to have kids. Nor could he simply bed her, though he longed to; she was afraid it would infect him. It had happened before, she said. He had never asked for details. So he treated her only as a friend, albeit a good one.

They reached an open doorway, and Rachelle rapped once on the door as they entered. It was a medium-sized room, used to run the day watch, and there were a number of guards present. She glanced at a slate near the door, and led him to a scarred veteran doing paperwork in back.

“Sergeant Ferrand? I believe there’s a mistake that needs to be cleared up.” Rachelle’s voice was respectful, but firm. The woman behind the bench looked up, eyebrow cocked in a question. The sergeant glanced from Rachelle to Jack, and stood up. Pushing fifty, but she had a strong frame and obviously didn’t spend all her time behind a desk.

“Milord. I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with our little nuisance here.” Rachelle seemed to bristle a bit, but didn’t rise to the bait. “She wasn’t even in town a full day this time, before we renewed our acquaintance.” And to Rachelle, “Will you be staying very long?” The sergeant’s broad hint did not phase Rachelle at all.

“It was a hard ride back, and I’d just spent a month in the most godforsakenly dull town you can imagine. Quiet, peaceful, no crime to speak of. Didn’t you say that’s where you’d like to retire, someday . . . soon?” She didn’t actually say that last word, though she might as well have. It seemed to complete the ritual greeting exchange. The sergeant turned back to Jack.

“Milord St.Brienne. I must formally announce that you are under suspicion for the murder of Edvard Anderman. To assure your cooperation, the Guild has been instructed to freeze your assets for an undetermined amount of time.” Jack had heard the phrase before, though never directed at him. It shook him a moment, so that Rachelle replied first.

“That’s ridiculous!” she replied. “A guy was knifed in an inn crowded with weekend gamblers, how can you single Jack out that way? Did you arrest the entire inn?” She was taller than the sergeant, but they weighed about the same. Jack idly thought he’d bet on Rachelle in a sword fight, but the Sergeant in a brawl.

“No, just you two,” the sergeant replied to her. Then she turned back to Jack. “Milord, I have two things to show you. But for starters, the charges were brought against you by the man’s employer, Bernard Oloron.” A similar frown crossed both Jack’s and Rachelle’s faces. Oloron was another of the Great Houses, known mainly for shipping and imports, and Bernard was their factor here in Ravisa. Jack had known him, back in the capital, when both were boys. It would be stretching to say there was hatred between them, but both had been known to go an extra few steps to inconvenience the other. Jack passed a look to Rachelle; they both had the same thought.

The sergeant picked up a paper folder, and motioned for them to follow her. “I’d like you to take a look at the body, and tell me your thoughts, milord.” She led them out through a maze of corridors toward the guardpost’s back entrance. Lost in thought, a notion suddenly popped into Jack’s head.

“Sergeant, would you mind answering a question? Nothing to do with the matter at hand,” he added. The sergeant glanced at him, and nodded. “The rumor is, that Guards wear the particular shade of dark red they do, to hide bloodstains.” The sergeant snorted, amused. “Any truth to that?”

Ferrand smiled, and replied “Our illustrious Marshal, facing the need to equip his men, chose this particular uniform after due consideration of all the many factors involved. He considered how people would react to this color, the morale of the men, the durability of the cloth. And in the end, the contract went to his brother, one of the St.Clairs, who unloaded a warehouse full of surplus uniforms from some bankrupt little kingdom down south.” She glanced back to see if he had gotten her point. “Yes, they were surplus, and the St.Clairs made another fortune off them.” She stretched her shoulders a bit as they walked. “They are pretty durable, though,” she admitted.

She led them into the morgue. The scent of purifying candles mostly masked the smell. She led them to one cloth-draped body on a slab table, and unceremoniously pulled down the sheet. The man was still dressed, his tunic stiff with dried blood. He had been stabbed in the chest, probably one quick thrust under the ribs. He had been in his twenties, and had short, curly black hair, and a thin black mustache. Nope, never saw him before. Jack studied him a moment, while the sergeant studied him. Rachelle looked back & forth between him and the body, and spoke first.

“You need a bodyguard, Jack? I’m available.” Jack smiled a moment. Always available, but never free, a great slogan. Then it hit him. In a dim light, the man could be mistaken for Jack himself. That uneasy feeling returned with a vengeance.

The sergeant nodded to herself as she watched Jack’s face fall. “Indeed. We don’t really suspect you, of course, milord. But Lord Oloron insisted we follow the letter of the law. He had a fit when he found out his man had been killed simply to provide you with a warning.” She pulled out a sheet of paper that curled up immediately. “Wrapped around the hilt of the dagger sticking out of his chest.” She handed it to Jack, and Rachelle leaned over his shoulder as they read it together:

“Jacques; the capital is a dangerous place to be. Play it safe. Don’t go.”

They were silent for a moment. Then Jack turned his head to Rachelle. “Standard rates? Eighty marks a day, plus meals?” She nodded. “How long,” he asked the sergeant, “‘til you free my account?”

“Thinking of taking a trip? It won’t be for three days, at least. Now, this was a professional killing, and I really hate those. The man’s death is on your head. I expect you to help us find out who’s behind it.” She draped the sheet back over the corpse, and led the way to her office. Jack wandered back in a daze.

The sergeant sat back down behind her bench, motioned for them to grab a pair of stools, and asked the leading question. “So. Any thoughts?”

Jack glanced at the note in his hand again. Then, wordlessly, he shook his head, and retrieved the carnelian snake from his pouch; presented it. The captain scowled.

“I’d almost say it might have been Bernard himself, except that he’d never waste his own employee. He’s legendary for penny-pinching. And I expect he’ll have to pay death benefits, to the guy’s family.” Any other suspicions were hidden by the snake. He turned to Rachelle. “What was I talking about, last night? Any clue?”

She cocked her head, trying to remember. “You were drunk and depressed. By the time I got there, you had already lost a bunch at dice, and I was trying to convince you to switch to cards. You’re pretty good there. You held your own, but pretty soon nobody would play with you, because you were a mean drunk last night. I thought it was just the losses at dice, and I got you the snake.” She looked apologetic, and her tone softened. “I really was trying to enjoy myself, my last job was the pits, and you were ruining the party. But the snake helped. You looked better, you won a huge pot, bought a round of drinks for the house, and babbled about nothing until you passed out.”

“Any reason you were depressed?” the sergeant asked Jack. Jack turned helplessly to Rachelle.

“You were cursing everybody; the bartender, the dice man, your father, even me. But I don’t think you were worried, just pissed off.” She turned to the sergeant. “I’m afraid it was a really good snake. Melchor said it should last a week or so, for the important stuff.”

“Damn. Okay, Jacques, you let me know the minute something comes to you, understand? Stay in town for a week and three days, or until you get your memory back. Otherwise, we’ll have to confiscate your account.” Rachelle looked disgusted at her. “Rules,” the sergeant shrugged. “And I’d stay away from the liquor, for awhile.” Jack nodded numbly. She took the note out of his hand. “I guess that’s all I need you for right now. Be careful.” They nodded and left.

Rachelle started bodyguarding seriously. Going through doors ahead of him, checking windows and doorways, even rooftops. Jack’s mind settled down a bit, as they walked. A sudden rush of anger hit him as the shock wore off.

“Dammit,” he exclaimed suddenly, “I haven’t been to the capital in years, and I have no intentions of going now. Why warn me against it?” Jack pondered, Rachelle just sighed.

“I just got back from a month’s travel. Oh, well, at least the capital is a fun place. My last job was a courier deal.” She glanced around. “Head back to your place?” He muttered yes.

“Why anyone would want to hire a professional like me, just to deliver a letter to some hermit in the eastern mountains, at the prices I charge . . .” She kept her hand on her sword as they passed a small group of mercenaries.

“Of course, my last job as a bodyguard was boring too. Do you know Ettienne De Bernoud?” A dealer in spices and high-end foodstuffs. His shop was on the Rue de Quillere, three streets over. Rachelle continued when Jack nodded. “I was just for show. Just to let people know he was rich enough to afford me. Maybe to make them think he was important enough for somebody to want to kill. Just for a weekend event. I played it straight, keeping alert and intimidating anyone who came near. But then Countess Imronti showed up, and of course she had to have her own bodyguard, and of course it had to be Armando.”

Jack winced. Rachelle and Armando had been deeply in love, once. Well, maybe not quite love, but their affair was fast, deep, and, to Jack’s mind, reckless. And it had run its course, and now they could barely tolerate each other. This was before Jack had met her. Rachelle nodded as she saw Jack’s reaction. They stopped a moment to let a laden wagon pass by.

“We spent the entire rest of the holiday pointedly ignoring each other. Never said a word between us.” She glared menacingly at a pack of children as they passed by. “I thought I might be able to enjoy the festival when De Bernoud hired me. But no.”

“Well, forgive me, but I hope guarding my life is just as boring. I’d hate for you to actually have to earn your fee.” This jibe, as expected, didn’t embarrass the bodyguard at all. It just brought one of those appraising looks he’d come to expect.

“You really have no idea at all what’s going down? Personal, business, jilted lover, jealous husband? If you really are in trouble, it’d help knowing the source.” Professional, obvious question. And a good one. Jack thought a moment, but again came up blank. The carnelian snake in his pocket had worked it’s magic too well. As they turned at last onto the Rue de Patron, he shook his head.

“All I’ve got is this gnawing feeling in my gut. I know I’ve forgotten something important. Of course I’ve some business rivals, but I can’t think of any right off hand that would go that far. Not even Bernard.” Rachelle nodded thoughtfully. As they came within sight of the St.Brienne manor, a boy about ten years old ran up to meet them.

“My lord, mother is frantic! She’s been looking for you for hours! The messenger is ready to leave, but he needs your reply; your bags are all packed, but the packet ship left this morning, and the Guard won’t let you leave town anyway!” The boy had grabbed Jack’s hand and started tugging him toward the house.

Robert was the son of his housekeeper, Camille, and knowing them both, Jack would have felt amused – the housekeeper was as levelheaded as they come – if it hadn’t been for the dreadful foreboding that came with the news.

“Damn it!” Jack said, as he reached into his pocket and grabbed the carnelian idol. He hurled it down the street with a curse, when he suddenly became aware of the hay wagon. It was directly across the way from his house, leaning at an odd angle, with an obviously broken axle. A small group of men surrounded it, including one who was probably the driver, and one who could possibly be a wheelwright. And they were all looking at Jack, who had narrowly missed them with the stone.

And Jack stood, unable to react, as they all grabbed loaded crossbows from under the hay, and took aim at him.

“Run!” Rachelle shouted, as she shoved Jack behind her. Her sword was already drawn. Jack saw her take a peculiar stance as the crossbows twanged – and she managed to deflect two of the bolts, but one took her in the hip, and another got through and stabbed Jack in the left shoulder.

“Run, dammit!” the bodyguard shouted over her shoulder as she charged the bowmen, who drew swords. She limped a bit, but by the time she reached them, Rachelle had been able to shift her skin and muscles so that the bolt was ejected, and the blood vessels squeezed off. It was a skill taught to all of the Informe, though Jack had never heard of one able to do so while running.

Robert was pulling him along frantically now, toward the open gate. His shoulder seared. Just then, a trio of horsemen shot out of an alley in front of them, blades drawn, and whirled to block his way. This is absurd! All this just for me? A moment of clarity let Jack size up the situation, and he saw there was only one escape, and he took it. Grabbing Robert with his good arm, he touched the opal in his belt buckle and released its energy with a thought.

A rainbow strobe engulfed them for a moment, blinding anyone looking in their direction, and by the time vision had returned, Jack and Robert had vanished. The gem had contained a very expensive Rescue spell, one designed for just such an emergency. It teleported Jack directly to a safe room under his manor house, one stocked like a healer’s clinic, and set off a series of alarm bells throughout the house.

“Oh, gods!” Robert moaned, clutching his stomach. The rescue spell was worse than seasickness. But Jack was in pain of another sort, and he’d been through the effects before. He shook the boy just a little. “Go find your mother,” he ordered gently, then clenched his teeth and sat back against a cabinet. The boy looked at him, and tossed a clean towel at him before leaving. Jack could hear him shouting “Mama!” as he wobbled up the stairs.

The first time I used the rescue spell, I was trying to make it home in time for mom’s birthday celebration. He carefully wrapped the towel around the arrow, to control the bleeding. And Julienne had badgered me into seeing that faire all the way over in Tagge Marche. Julienne had been fun, but had cost him a fortune. We made it back, and I got chewed out royally for such a frivolous act. A wizard who could enchant a rescue spell usually charged twelve or fifteen thousand marks. I had to pay back every bit of it. He grinned. Well, most of it. Mom helped.

Camille strode down the stairs, Robert at her heels, her face stern. Like it was my fault, Jack thought. “Rob, go watch the water pot,” she said. “Bring it to me as soon as it’s too hot to touch.” Jack’s smile turned weak under her scrutiny.

“And how is your world this fine morning?” She didn’t bother with a reply, just started to remove the towel. It had soaked up a respectable amount of blood, and she inhaled sharply when she saw the arrow.

“This is poisoned,” she said. “I’ll need to use the mongoose.” She stood up and unlocked a drawer, picking out a carved amethyst. Even with his earlier hangover treatment blunting the effects a bit, Jack felt an extra burning running down his arm. Damn, he thought. What is the world coming to? That’s another thousand marks down the drain. At least the amethyst would be reusable. The opal in his buckle had fractured when he released the spell.

The housekeeper tore apart his shirt, around the wound, calling up the stairs. “Robert! Where are you with my water?” Her voice was calm, Jack noted. From the hallway upstairs came a faint reply. “I’ve got it! It’s heavy!”

“What on earth have you been up to, Jacques?” she scolded, looking at Jack. He could only shake his head, feeling weaker now with each passing moment. When at last the boy arrived with the water kettle, Camille began to clean the blood away. “Looks bad. If we didn’t have the stones, I’d not give much for your chances, my lord.” Before this could sink in, she tugged experimentally at the arrow, sending a fresh spasm through him. “Huh. They must have expected you to be in armor,” she said as she smoothly drew the bolt out. It was not barbed, but tapered. Quickly she doused the wound with hot water again, and again once more, making a large bloody puddle beneath him. She then placed the amethyst on the entry point, and invoked the power it contained, while he trembled a bit. An icy chill ran through his blood from the spot, and that helped to keep him from passing out, for a moment.

“Camille, they were right outside in the street. Make sure no one gets in.” A thought occurred to him. “Rachelle was fighting them off, we need to help her!” He didn’t have the strength to move, though. The woman gave him a stern look again.

“That one can take care of herself. A sight better than you can, I expect!” She once again placed a stone on the wound, this one a bloodstone sphere, and uttered the words that allowed the healing magic it contained to flow. Jack spasmed again, and passed out.

Chapter two

Better to have a horrible ending than horrors without end.

The third time Jack awoke that day was the worst of all. Healing spells worked mostly by speeding up a body’s natural recovery, compressing weeks into seconds. But they sucked the energy out of the rest of the healthy tissues to do it. Healers were very careful to avoid overstressing an injured man’s system – it was possible to push a spell so far that the patient’s body simply shut down.

Jack routinely stocked the strongest healing magic he could find. He reasoned, not without some justification, that if he needed to use them, then the situation was a screaming emergency; any lesser problems could be handled by calling a healer in, or a trip to the Temples.

But the strength of the spells meant that recovery time was prolonged due to stress. Jack felt like utter shit. His shoulder throbbed, his head pounded, his guts seemed to have lost all grip; he was trembling weak and shaking with chills, even under the blankets. But it’s over now, he thought. I’m safe in my own bed, watched over – he could hear Camille and Rachelle murmuring in the next room.

Relief at the bodyguard’s safety washed over him, his last urgent concern, and he relaxed as much as he could, and resolved just to endure for awhile. The indistinct conversation lulled him back into a doze until late afternoon. Rachelle peeked in as he staggered back from the privy. She looked a bit tired, but otherwise healthy. She nodded at him and withdrew again.

He collapsed back into bed, weak, and just lay there until Camille came in with a laden tray. “When did you last eat, milord?” Jack looked blank, trying to recall. “As I thought. I’ve got bread and warm soup, and hot tea and cold juice, whichever you think might help more.” She set the tray on a sideboard while she helped prop him up with an extra pillow.

“Everything seems settled at the moment. The guard hauled off four bodies, hired toughs all, they said. The rest scattered when you vanished. Guardsman Rafael checked in on you, but your bodyguard seems to have told him enough to send him away.” She cocked her head as he nibbled at a crust of bread, and gave him a moderately stern look. “I’ll save you the lecture on drunken binges until you’re better able to appreciate it. Call me when you’ve eaten your fill.” She shut the doors behind her, leaving him alone again in the approaching twilight. Might have turned on a light for me.

He checked his stomach, and sipped the tea to test it — mint, with a little honey. Not too hot, just right in fact, and he sipped it appreciatively. His stomach seemed undecided, but the warmth helped. I’ve lost a lot of fluids today, he reflected. All I’ve had since yesterday was a bit of Paulo’s pastry this afternoon. He snuggled back into the pillows and slurped a bit of broth — potato, with salt and a bit of onion for flavor. Pretty weak, but anything stronger wouldn’t sit well right now, he thought. The bowl was cold by the time he finished it, but his nausea had faded into the background, leaving the headache as his worst problem. He tried not to move very much, and fell back into a fitful sleep.

He woke in his own bed the next morning, sunlight again streaming in, to a knock on the door. A pleasant knock, this time. One he recognized as Heward, his right-hand man, who took care of much of the tedious day-to-day business for him. As usual, the man walked right in after knocking. Someday, I’m going to be lying here naked, with a pair of dancing girls covered in caramel and nothing else, just to see the look on his face. Jack smiled. Probably ask if he could have a taste.

Heward was about fifty, heavyset, gray hair receding fast; his clothes always seemed a bit rumpled, and he could teach Jack a few things about holding his liquor – or so he said, immediately upon entering. A short lecture followed, and Jack took it patiently.

“Now, I admit I’ve been known to bust up a pub myself, in my younger days,” he concluded, “But I learned the hard way what it costs. If you’re smart, you won’t have to go through what I did. Nevertheless, even I would never have done so in your particular situation.” He paused a moment, searching Jack’s face for something. Not finding it, he pressed on. “I was told about the memory snake. And having been absent when the decision was made, it is I who’s been appointed to tell you what’s going on. Camille and Rachelle decided I was the best man for the job, because neither of them wanted to do it. I’m going to chicken out too. So here it is, straight from the horse’s mouth.” He handed Jack a folded letter. “I’ll be downstairs with the others when you’re ready, milord.”

This looks ominous. It was cream tan stationary, a single sheet. Thick paper, the kind that should be elegantly handwritten. Love letters always seemed to require perfume – there was none, and there was nobody to send him one of those anyway. He opened the letter; smooth, neat handwriting – he recognized his mother. Oh, damn . . . His spirits fell into the miasma of foreboding that had dogged him.

“Milord Jaques; I regret to inform you that your father died on the twenty-first . . .” Jack closed his eyes and let the letter fall, as a wave of melancholy swept him under.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, for quite a long time. Several times there came a knock at the door; he didn’t much notice, and didn’t much care anyway.

Duke St.Brienne had been a huge part of him, Jack realized slowly. And his death had left a vast hole inside him. In moments of lucidity, Jack knew that the snake was at fault here. Every memory having to do with his father had been suppressed, and was just now squirming back into his awareness. What astounded Jack was the thoroughness of the man – he had touched on, wormed his way into, nearly every facet of Jack’s life. It’s a wonder I remembered how to walk yesterday, Jack thought. His entire childhood was a slowly-clearing haze. His teens were better, gaps between vivid memories – memories of friends, teenage rebellion, a trip here to Ravisa from his home in the capital; his first real journey by himself.

He marveled at Melchor’s snake. It had burrowed through his mind and numbed anything having to do with his father. If I hadn’t escaped here to the coast two years ago, if I hadn’t been out of his grasp for the whole time, it probably would have crippled me. Feelings began to awaken in his mind. The first, and probably most powerful emotion, was hate. Jack could, in a way, feel around his mind for the dead spots. It took little time to realize, that his only regret was that he was sorry he missed the Duke’s death.

But details continued to return to him. He knew he hated the man, deeply, but the facts returned slowly. With his death, the title would pass to Jacques elder brother, Jerard. Solid, dependable, he would probably make a good duke, Jack thought. Jerard was a bit boring, in Jack’s opinion, but he liked him anyway. Their mother would stay long enough to see the transition through, then retire to her own family estates, as custom dictated. Jerard was married and had two kids, a girl and a boy, and his wife would soon take over their mother’s duties.

Probably, Jack would have to move back to the capital. He would have new duties as well. Though for the moment he could not remember what they might be. He wondered if there would be a bequest for him, in his father’s will. Probably not. Almost certainly not. But his new position, one rank up, as it were, should increase his personal revenues significantly.

Jack wondered awhile, what it would be like to follow the gods. Not just pay them homage in times of trouble, which was what he usually did, but to believe in them, wholeheartedly. Asked, the believers said the feeling of security and belonging was like nothing else. Trust in the gods, and they take your life in their hands. To Jack, that was impossible. He could not abide anyone else making his decisions for him. To follow the way of Lightbringer, for example, even though he admired everything he’d ever heard about the faith, was tantamount to slavery, in Jack’s mind. And in a sudden flash of realization, Jack remembered why he had left the capital, left his father – who had controlled his every waking moment, and even where he slept, as well.

He chose my first love. Maybe others too. He manipulated who I saw and what I learned. Who my nannies were, and what they told me. My playmates, my friends. My tutors, the subjects they taught, what they didn’t teach. He maneuvered me into those back-breaking trials to join the Order of the Dram; I am a knight, not because I wanted to be, not because I thought it would be advantageous, but because he required it. Mom even says he bullied Arturo into breaking my fingers during that practice session. “It is necessary that he know the feeling; that he realize pain and broken bones can be dealt with; that fear or shock not hinder him in emergencies.” Mom did his voice perfectly, that time. Even months later, when she finally told me.

He didn’t hate her. His mother had always been his refuge, the one he ran to when the world’s demands got too great. She never openly defied the Duke. Even agreed with him on numerous occasions — all the while hugging Jack and telling him she understood . . . But the Duke was always the villain. Jack wondered how she was coping with his death – she had believed in him, and even loved him, Jack thought, as his mind wandered down old roads.

It was a full two bells later that he finally remembered the announcement. The tan stationary was a bit rumpled — he had rolled over on it — but it didn’t hold the shock anymore that it held the first time.

“Milord Jaques; I regret to inform you that your father died on the twenty-first. I am sure you understand what this means, and that your presence is required here in the capital as soon as possible.” The first House meeting he’d attend since . . . well, ever. Jack had exiled himself from anywhere his father might be for years. Sometimes he’d sent Heward to represent the Ravisa branch, but he had never returned himself.

“His end was quick, if not entirely painless – an assassin’s blade. You understand what that means, too, I hope. Despite your feelings, I know you have always been loyal to the House. We especially need your support now, facing a possible trade war.” Jack snorted ironically. So if I find out who did it, do I buy him a drink? And do I poison it? A trade war often started with an assassination. Or maybe two assassinations? Jack thought. Is that why somebody wants me dead? As part of a move on House St.Brienne? But why send me a warning, then?

“I have delayed the ceremony until the first of the month. I realize this is short notice, but I hope you can join us.” Doubtful now, Jack thought. Two extra days lost. “His pyre will be at the Temple of Earth, of course. You need to be here for the Succession, on the thirteenth, though I expect to see you here sooner than that.” He imagined her voice on that last – and nodded meekly to himself. Why didn’t I ever rebel when she made me do things? His mother was formidable in her own right. Though clearly overshadowed by the Duke, she had been a respectable operator for the Armagnacs before the two married. But she never seemed as . . . as malevolent as he did. Everybody likes her. I’d be surprised if she has any enemies at all. Well, personal enemies. In a trade war, she’d be just a piece on the gameboard. Like me, I guess. An unsettling thought.

Okay, if it is part of an attack on the House, then I’ve got to get moving. Protect myself, for starters. Protect our interests here in Ravisa. Heward will have to stay here; I can’t run things all the way from the capital. I’ve got to get to the capital. Oh, gods, my account is still frozen. Can I convince the sergeant my memory’s returned? Has it returned? Jack spent a few moments squinting in thought. I can’t sense any gaps. If anything’s still buried, I hope it’s pretty trivial. I’ve got to ask Melchor about that before I go. The memory snake sure didn’t last a full week. Maybe Rachelle didn’t get such a good deal after all.

So. What do I tell the sergeant? He burrowed back into the pillows and ran through the major Houses in his head. His shoulder ached anew as he moved. He made a note to pamper his headache, too.

St.Brienne is a mining House; building stone, metals, coal, gems and marble are our livelihood. Oloron does transportation, shipping, caravans, imports and exports – they have a huge trade fleet. St.Clair handles cloths and dyes. Armagnac deals in foodstuff, wines & spirits. House Velais makes their living in banking, entertainment, and gambling. Deveraux, the royal House, began as a mercenary army. The Roussillon – honestly, I have no idea what keeps them afloat. They should have gone insolvent years ago. And that’s it, that’s the seven great Houses. If we are indeed in a trade war, it has to be one of them. No lesser house could hope to weaken us enough.

If I had to guess, I’d say Oloron, because we’ve built up a halfway decent trade fleet of our own, and I know we’re taking cargoes that they used to get. Or maybe Roussillon, if they are desperate. Not Devereax, they have everything they want anyway. Probably not Armagnac, because we’re half-Armagnac ourselves, Jerard and me. I haven’t heard of any major upsets in the other Houses. Usually trade wars began after a crisis or change in leadership. Jack was a bit rusty on the political side of House affairs; that aspect was centered in the capital, and he had exiled himself out to the coast. Ravisa was a major port, but still out of the immediate political atmosphere. He resolved to brush up on the situation before he began talking to other nobles in the capital.

Now, if it were me starting things, I’d go for Oloron. We already have a foot in the door since we acquired the Marsei fleet. And ships are a weakness, because they can be sunk, and Oloron absolutely relies on them. One swift campaign, if it were strong enough, would cripple their entire operation. St.Brienne doesn’t have quite the same problem. Hundreds, maybe thousands of individual mines; we could lose half of them and still keep going. Two-thirds, if we kept the few really good producers. Military fantasies wandered through his thoughts until he fell back into a doze.

Jack was up and getting dressed by the time the next knock sounded at his door. Rachelle poked her head in. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “Any better?” Jack tested his shoulder a bit, flexing it, and made a face at the pain.

“I’ll live,” he admitted. “But it’ll be a while before I’m wrestling in the sheets again.” Having decided this, he chose an eastern-style patterned dressing gown that he favored for quiet days at home.

“It’s almost seven bells, and we need you to make some decisions. We’re downstairs,” she said as she closed the door softly.

Jack couldn’t help but make an entrance into the side parlor downstairs. He pushed open the double doors, and they all turned toward him, immediately the focus of attention. It felt like a momentous event, the kind that was remembered years later as a turning point. And so it is, Jack thought. My future begins here. Camille gestured toward the center table.

“Fruit, pastries, and warm tea, milord. Or I can get you soup if you’d prefer. How’s your stomach?”

“Just tea for now, thanks. I’m not very hungry right now.” The teapot had been out for awhile, he noticed, the tea merely warm. He could heat it up again, one of the few magic spells he knew how to perform, but he didn’t feel up to it. He tasted it, and added a bit of honey, then sat down in his favorite chair.

“So. What’s first?” The others glanced among themselves for a moment, then Rachelle spoke up.

“The assassins.” The others nodded, and she continued. “There were six waiting at the cart, and three on horses. I got four of the footmen, before the horsemen hauled the other two off. I’m sure I wounded several of them, though the guard couldn’t find them.”

“Couldn’t you have taken one alive?” Jack asked, almost amused. Nine to one, and she ran them all off. Best idea I ever had, hiring her.

“The horsemen killed the ones I was saving,” she sounded disgusted. “Two of them should have survived, given help. But they were cut down while I was occupied.” She fingered her sleeve a moment. “I’m charging you for that outfit they ruined, by the way. It was the best formal suit I owned.” She returned to the subject. “The horsemen were much better than the others. They were professionals. The rest were just hired muscle, common street toughs. There was nothing on them to indicate who hired them. They may not even have known.

“But if someone hires nine assassins, he’s pretty much committed. I don’t think this town is safe for you anymore.” The other two murmured consent.

“You have to leave for the capital anyway,” Camille said, searching Jack’s face for any signs of defiance. He assented with a slight nod, and she went on. “The weekly packet ship left without you” – Jack made a wry smile, apologizing – “but you can board one of the House ships, surely.”

“Won’t be as fast, but it should get you there,” Heward chimed in.

“On the other hand,” Rachelle said, “we could head overland, and send a decoy along with the ship. It would add a day or two to the journey, but it would be safer.” The others looked a bit sour at this idea, but said nothing.

“Are the passes open yet?” Jack asked. Ravisa was separated from the capital by a pair of mountain ranges, making overland travel slower, especially for caravans.

“I was just there,” the bodyguard said. “The thaw is well under way. It will still be cold, but we shouldn’t have any problems. That is, if you can ride yet.” She gestured with her shoulder.

“You should at least try to arrive in time for the funeral,” Camille said. “On horse, you have no chance at all.” Clearly, she did not like the idea.

Jack’s expression hardened. “It’s not like he’s waiting on me. I’m sure his soul is roasting in Hell already. I don’t think my being there would help him any.”

Camille tried again. “But it’s important to show your respect, for your mother, for the other nobles. Arriving late, on horse like a commoner, is sure to cause talk.”

Jack was silent for a moment, trying to be calm.

“I am sure that anyone who bothers will remember that we’ve been estranged for three years now. I doubt they’ll find anything remarkable in that, especially when word of the assassins gets out. But I think you miss the point.

“I am not going to my father’s funeral. If I’d known, I’d have spent my fortune to be there when he drew his last breath. I will not honor in death the man I hated while alive. He hounded me, manipulated me, controlled me – did you know he paid one of my classmates to break my fingers? I could not do a single thing that he didn’t scorn. If it weren’t for my mother, I’d have fled the country long ago, just to get away from him.

“On my tenth birthday, he took my dog away. I never saw it again. When my brother Jerard went before the King and gave his oaths as the Duke’s heir, he wouldn’t even let me go. One year, he made me pay fifteen thousand marks for mother’s birthday.” Jack stood up and began to pace.

“Do you want to know what the final insult was? The event that drove me out of the home I’d lived in my entire life? The one that sent me storming out of the capital, screaming I’d never return?” Jack’s voice was raised, on edge now. “It was the week after my nineteenth birthday. After four years of training, I’d finally been knighted in the Order of the Dram.” He looked around to see their reaction. Heward looked suitably impressed, he knew a bit about the kind of training Jack went through. Rachelle frowned for just a moment; perhaps she had little use for knightly orders. Camille just nodded, expressionless.

“Learning how to fight was the easy part of it, and I got pretty good with a sword, with bows, with my hands. There were riding lessons, sailing lessons, tactics, strategy, logistics, diplomacy, manners, etiquette; they taught me survival skills in case I ever get trapped in the wilderness, navigation for when I’m lost at sea, and escape tricks if I’m ever captured. I learned the history of the Order, of the country, of the kings and wars. I learned about our friends and enemies. The history and political positions of every kingdom for a thousand miles in any direction! Do you know that it’s a deadly insult to show the bottom of your boot to your host, in Safaria?

“I didn’t want to be a knight in the first place. I thought they were all arrogant shitheads with too much time on their hands – that there ought to be a war, just to give them something to do. But my father insisted. Forced me to; actually marched me down to the practice grounds the first day. I almost ran away then. But I came to like the Order. The traditions and values they teach, the way they turn kids into adults. I won’t bore you with the details, but I am a better man than I would have been.

“When it finally became my turn, at the knighting ceremony, you can’t imagine how I felt. All my life I’d taken his abuse, but here I had finally done something worthwhile, for myself. It was the proudest moment of my entire life when the Grandmaster buckled that swordbelt on me. I mean, I’d had practice blades before. Even bought a pretty one, for formal occasions. But this one I earned. Four years of study, and practice, and lectures, and more practice, but it was finally here. The symbol that I’d passed, that I’d been judged worthy. That I’d been accepted, by people my father had no control over. That I was good enough.” Jack paused for a sip of tea.

“The next day he saw me fooling around with some friends, showing them my sword. You have to swing a sword, to show the balance, right? I can still hear his exact words. ‘Didn’t you learn anything in the last four years? You’re obviously still a child, because adults have more sense than to swing weapons around their friends. Grow up, boy!’ And he took it. We all just stood there, dumbfounded, as he walked away, with my sword.” Jack turned away, drained the tea cup, and stared out the window.

“Those were the last words he ever said to me. Because I left, less than an hour later, for good.”

The others were silent, until it began to be uncomfortable. Jack took pity on them and returned to the subject. “I favor the overland route. I'd rather be late than dead. Rachelle, can you set that up, quietly? And Heward, can you get a ship lined up? And spread the word, if you know what I mean.”

“We should set the House here in Ravisa into mourning. That will help explain why you won't be seen as much,” Camille said.

“Does anyone else actually know about the Duke?” Rachelle asked the group. “I mean, obviously somebody does, but it would help me if I knew who to watch out for. Has anyone been acting suspiciously? Do you have any idea who's behind it?” Jack and the others slowly shook their heads. “Well, that's just fine. Jack, you don't go anywhere without me, is that clear?” She stared at him until he agreed.

“Yes, ma'am.” Jack returned to the overstuffed chair. “Camille, how's security here at the manor? Anybody try to get in? Do we have enough guards?”

“There's been no sign of intruders. We moved four guards from the warehouses in to patrol the grounds. I would like to get a few more, and some of the dogs in to help. If we do that, you'll need to hire more guards for the warehouses. And if you want to spend the money, I can have the Guard set up a watch at the end of the street. For the short time you'll be here, I would recommend it. Any longer, and it would get to be too expensive.”

“Heward, can we afford it?”

“Easily, milord,” he replied. “But you should really get your own account back. We can front you enough to get by, but most of our cash is tied up until next month.”

“The Severais shipment, I remember,” Jack said. “So I'll need to see the Sergeant again, Rachelle. Soon.” Everyone was silent for a moment. “Anything else important right now?”

“You should take a look at the paperwork for the last few days, but it's not too much.” Heward said. “Sign off on that Valois contract.”

Camille shook her head. “Nothing but the usual invitations. I'd planned to send polite notes saying you won't be able to attend.”

“Good. Heward, it looks like the House is going to be in your hands for awhile. Is there anything you need from me before I go?”

The man shook his head, and replied “I'll keep you updated. I should be able to get by for the next month, at least. When the big shipment docks, I'll need some help. So let me know if you'll be gone longer than that.”

“That's it then?” Jack asked. Heads nodded. “Okay, I'll go fiddle with paperwork for awhile, then I'm taking the rest of the day off to recover. I'll be here if you need me.”

Chapter three

Experience enables you to recognize a mistake when you make it again.

His office was normally off limits to everyone, due to the House financial secrets scattered about inside. But rather than clean the room himself, he allowed Camille in to straighten up and reduce the clutter to a manageable level. It was obvious she hadn’t done so since the last time he was here.

He remembered the point at which that pile of papers had fallen off his desk. He had been stunned for a few long moments by his mother’s letter; then he lay his head on his arms for a moment, wishing for tears. When they didn’t come, he struck out with his left arm, scattering the records of a dozen Severais Range mines all over the floor. Other piles were scattered here and there – typical of the middle of a workday.

And in counterpoint to the slightly disorganized mess, a single lavender iris in a small crystal vase stood alone in a clear spot on his desk. Beneath it was an envelope, addressed simply “Jacques,” in an elegant, female style.

Now, no one was supposed to be able to get in here. Expensive locks, sturdy construction, bars on the windows and an alarm spell protected the St.Brienne secrets under his care. But here was evidence that all his precautions weren’t good enough. His depression edged a little deeper, even though he recognized the handwriting.

“I am so sorry to hear about your father,” the note said. “I remember vividly my own such tragedy. If there is anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask. All my services are at your disposal.” It was signed merely with an elaborate “S.” This was Lady Salmais Mirebeau, his current love. Or, to be more accurate, the latest woman who tolerated his pursuit, and hadn’t yet rejected him outright.

The younger daughter of the Duke of Tagge Marche, the title had gone to her older sister Julienne. But Sali was considered a prime catch at the moment; single, nobility, well-off — though not as rich as the St.Briennes, and not at all bad-looking – it was her secrets that intrigued Jack. Only rumors, of course. But Lady Salmais was said to employ spectral assassins and spies, earning her a very good reputation among the Houses. She had always denied it or changed the subject when he inquired, but here was a strong kind of proof. And, rereading the short note, an offer and a sample too. Sali always seemed to know any secret you cared to hide, and how she learned of his father’s death so quickly was merely a sample of that. But the note, the method of delivery, was an offer to put her agents to work for him.

She surely knew, being under the same expectations as he, that his primary interest in her was to benefit the House. But, unlike their older siblings, Jack and Sali had some say in their eventual alliances – being worth less, in terms of House mergers, than their elder siblings, they could at least search for someone compatible. And indeed, Jack felt some affection, and fascination of her. And perhaps, given the offer of her help, she might care for him a bit, too.

The thought set off another wave of discomfort in Jack’s innards. What timing. As his rational part immediately resolved to recruit her help, his emotional side thought. This, on top of my father’s death, the assassins after me. The gods are toying with me. Makes a man want to just hide in a cave for a year or two. But, as one of his mother’s sayings had it, the gods grow impatient with those that ignore them. He needed to find out just what was going on.

Taking a moment to sniff the iris on his desk — not a ‘sniffing’ flower, he concluded — he sat down and composed a response to Lady Salmais. The first draft didn’t satisfy him, and fluttered down into the scrap pile where he threw it, but the note that he soon sent young Robert away with was designed to enlist her aid by appealing to her curiosity. Not blatantly, but by hinting that he knew things that should interest her, and that a friendly meeting to exchange news might profit them both.

Not that he actually had anything of a similar worth; the information he sought – who had tried to kill him, for starters – was far more important than anything he imagined trading to her. So he resigned himself to getting the worse of the deal . . . financially, at least. He began rehearsing lines while he cleaned up the room and sorted papers. Apologize ahead of time for my behavior; I’m understandably out-of-sorts right now. That’ll help explain some of my questions, and reluctance to answer hers. Should I evade, or be silent? Addlepated or just preoccupied? Might need to have a burst of anger at father, to change the subject quickly. Jack smiled a wry smile. Might actually do me some good to throw things. Breakable things.

Heward rapped on the door and entered, seeking his signature. Jack put the mines down in a semi-sorted order as the man spoke. “Cargo manifests. The Blue Lion made port yesterday. Seems to be short a few bales of cotton, but otherwise intact.” He stood a moment and searched Jack’s face. “Are you going to be alright? No more binges for awhile?” His concern was evident. Jack’s answering smile showed a confidence he didn’t feel inside.

“I’m okay. My mind’s just about back to normal. For example, I think you’ll find that those missing bales probably concealed some illegal or expensive items from their last port. Dreamweed, is my guess. Don’t know how he got ‘em off the ship, but I think you’ll find that one particular crewman decided to sleep on the bales as a soft bed on the way.” Jack enjoyed the look on Heward’s face, and his own broke into a grin. “I found out about it almost a year ago, by pure luck. I get ten percent, and promised to help him if he ever gets caught.” Government tariffs were annoying, and most houses tried to pay as little as possible. But it would indeed be very embarrassing, and expensive in terms of fines, too, if he was found out.

Heward looked scandalized. “Milord, you shouldn’t be involved in such things. Your reputation, if you get caught. You should distance yourself from this immediately.” He looked serious. But Jack knew him too well.

“And leave the grifting to, say, a lesser assistant?” Jack’s eyes twinkled. “One that might keep a watch on things, for a small percentage?”

“That’s a brilliant idea, milord. Half?” A fifty-fifty split? Harsh, but reduced liability for Jack. And in practical terms, the profits so far had not been spectacular.

“Done!” Jack clapped the man on the shoulder. “But don’t expect much just yet. He’s still learning. Might make captain of his own ship someday, if he doesn’t get caught.”

Father would never get caught, Jack thought. In fact, he probably even would have turned the guy in, himself. It was amazing, the way he kept the profits coming in, without ever once slipping around the law. Jack was as law-abiding as the next man, but even he felt that certain laws were of a lesser priority than others. I’ve paid a fair amount of bribes, he thought, but I’ve mostly kept my neck clean. That’s one thing he did do for me – his spotless reputation clung to all of us, the entire family.

Heward left silently, papers in hand, as Jack toyed a moment with the iris on his desk. It had lavender petals and a kind of yellow brush at the center. It looked to be freshly cut – how long had it been here? Jack lifted the small vase to examine the bottom: he found what he was looking for, a small piece of jade. His fingertips passed lightly under it, and he felt the tingling of a preservation charm. Rather expensive for just a single flower. But somehow, it made Jack feel better. Probably it had been on his desk for more than a day.

He set the vase back on the corner of the desk and looked to see what the priority items were today. Usually import/export manifests and vouchers were time-sensitive, and ought to be dealt with first. Today was a slow day, apparently, as the only such item was authorization to hire extra guards for a shipment of raw gemstones destined for the capital, and the House gemworkers there. House St.Brienne was still known as the ‘House of Jewels,’ even though his father had diversified into many areas during his lifetime. This was one reason why House Oloron held such little regard for them; St.Brienne had cut into their shipping and transportation business.

But now that his memory had been jogged, he remembered that there should have been a pair of ships awaiting his approval to sail. It took a few moments, but he found a copy of that very approval, with his seal, in the ‘done’ pile. Had to be Heward. The seal was kept in the top drawer here. Jack looked at the stamped impression for a moment – a round tower, with battlements, against a background of stars. In color it would have been a black tower and a blue night sky, with a light showing in one thin window. The stars harkened back to the St.Briennes, but the tower was his own symbol. Embattled, defiant, a symbol of strength against troubles – Jack had chosen it upon his coming-of-age ceremony, partially because he liked the image it conveyed, but mostly as a sign of rebellion against his father, that he would stand firm and refused to be controlled.

It was a great idea, Jack thought, even if he did break down the walls. More accurately, snuck in an unguarded gate and compromised the whole castle. Now that he’s gone, what does the symbol mean to me? Jack pondered that a moment, and was interrupted by Robert knocking at the door.

“Note for you, milord,” he said as he performed a slight bow, offering a sealed envelope. It was Salmais’ reply, Jack saw, and nodded for Robert to wait a moment. It reassured him somewhat that this message was delivered in the normal fashion.

“Milord, there is a very good possibility that there are watchers outside your estate; it would be better for us all if I were not seen entering. If you can slip away, I will receive you here. You remember the way, I trust. Your servant, Salmais.” Jack’s first thought was that she had never signed anything ‘your servant’ before. Second, her information sources were amazingly up to date, if she knew about the snake. And third, would there really be people watching for him, even now? Why in the world does somebody want me dead so badly? What he had said to the sergeant was true – he knew of no enemy who would go to such lengths. But after yesterday’s confrontation, it would be prudent to take precautions.

Jack sent Robert to fetch Rachelle, and sealed a few routine accounting directives. She arrived with a half-eaten peach in her hand. She had changed clothes since that morning, and now wore a plainer black blouse with loose sleeves, and rust red trousers. Her sword was at her side, in a harness of worn black leather. She looked quizzically at him.

“I need to go see Salmais Mirebeau. Is it safe for me to go outside?” She gave a little start, then swallowed.

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Anyone who could afford to hire that many assassins wouldn’t balk at hiring more. I’m good, but you know I can’t stop an army.” She gestured at his shoulder. “More to the point, are you out of your mind!? She’s more of a danger than any fifty assassins.”

“That’s right, you’ve been out of town. I’ve dated her a few times.” Rachelle looked scandalized. “I knew her sister, back in the capital before their father died. I trust her.” Rachelle looked extremely skeptical. Jack shrugged — and winced in pain. “She says she can help. You know her reputation.”

“That's what I'm worried about,” she replied. Jack stiffly stood up, aches in his shoulder and back.

“If we took the escape tunnel, we could get out without being seen,” he said.

“Mmmm. You really want to do this?” Jack nodded.

“I've known her for a long time. And I have a feeling she'll help.”

“You're sure she won't just kill you herself?”

Jack smiled. “No, she'd probably hire somebody to keep her hands clean. Maybe she's not as dangerous as you think. She's never been caught at anything, you know.”

“No surviving witnesses anyway,” Rachelle grumbled. Jack just grinned and headed upstairs to change. His injured shoulder made it an adventure, but he was dressed and down in a few minutes.

Rachelle took a short appraising look at him. “Not like that,” she said. Jack looked down at himself, puzzled. “Your father just died. Show some respect. Mourning clothes.”

Jack found it disturbingly easy to call up that anger he had practiced earlier. “Damn the man! From beyond the grave, even, he tries to control me. Even the very clothes I wear!” Jack knew he was just venting frustration, but he didn’t care. “Nobody’s supposed to see me, anyway. It doesn’t matter to anyone but his departed spirit, and if it’s offended, so much the better!” He turned away, wishing for a shot of bourbon.

Rachelle cocked her head and gave him a stern look. “Salmais will see you.” Jack blinked a moment, then swore inwardly, already knowing he’d lost this one. “Are you, or are you not trying to get her help? It’ll be hard to get her sympathy if you show just how much contempt you had for the man.” She stood there with her hands on her hips for a moment, then reached out to turn him toward the door. “Mask too. It’ll impress her that you observe the old rites.” She gave him a gentle shove. Jack sighed, and obeyed.

Back to his rooms, which were as clean and orderly as the rest of the house. He spent longer than he expected, looking for an appropriate costume. In a fit of pique, he began dumping rejects on the floor. My life’s a mess, obvious to anyone who walks in the room. He finally found an ivory mask deep in a bottom drawer. Masks were traditionally used to hide from the spirits of the dead, or to frighten them away. This one was strips of ivory on a black cloth, making vertical stripes about a finger-width wide, broken by one horizontal stripe across the eyes; plain black cloth with two eyeholes. As he tried it on in the mirror, he wondered if he had worn it when Sali’s father, the duke, passed away. He had joined the mourners, mostly out of concern for Julienne. He searched his memory, and could not come up with an answer. He didn’t remember what Sali wore, either.

He presented himself to the bodyguard, raising his arms and shifting about, seeking her approval, sarcastic without even a word. But Rachelle did approve. All black, but textured; with his black hair, he looked thin, pale and severe, but that was exactly what he should look like. Jack had only two pieces of jewelry on; a black onyx ring, oval set in silver, and an earring, also silver, a small, thick hoop, hardly visible under his hair and the mask. Anything more would spoil the ‘mourning’ effect; anything less would make him appear too distraught, too shaken. Nodding, she turned to precede him down to the tunnels.

Escape tunnels were a standard feature of noble houses. So common, in fact, that some ended up with odd turns and dips, to avoid the ones already there. This one led into the back of a small bakery a few blocks over on the Rue de Meil. As a precaution, though, there were a series of barred gates along its length. Rachelle had never been down here, yet she led the way through the back of the linen closet, down the stairway, and into the passage with every indication she knew what she was doing. Jack didn’t say a word, growing ever more incredulous, until they reached the first gate and she held out her hand expectantly.

“I’m surprised you even need keys,” he said as he handed them over. She gave him a look that said “I don’t,” and opened the door slowly.

“Look at the north wall here somewhere,” she said, “I think past the second gate. If you look closely, you’ll see where it’s been repaired.” She enjoyed the look on his face. “I had to raid your wine cellar, once.” She grinned at his appalled look. “Kidding! Gods. Relax a bit, Jack! Your father’s just been killed, you’ve survived two attempts on your life, and you’re about to walk into the home of probably the most dangerous woman in the city, asking for help. If you stop to think about it, you’ll just worry yourself to death.” She looked back at him as they reached the second gate. “I’ve seen you in life or death situations. Don’t try to tell me you’re not enjoying this, at least a little.”

Jack paused, stunned for a moment. Did she enjoy it when people wanted her head? He tried to tell himself that her attitude was ridiculous . . . but there was something about the whole situation that appealed to his sense of the absurd. He enjoyed himself immensely, in retrospect, during the raid on the temple last year. How was that different? Rachelle stood looking at him as these thoughts raced through his mind. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

“I think it’s because this time, I’m not the one sneaking in the background. I’m the target. And we were successful. But I’ll try.” He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

“Don’t worry about it. We were better than them last time, and I know I’ve only gotten better. Just take it as it happens. Don’t freeze up.” Jack worried about worrying too much, all the way to the bakery.

The scent of fresh bread permeated the air beyond the third gate and up the narrow stair. They emerged into the tiny storeroom of the Marvelous Bakery, and Rachelle listened at the door until she was sure there were no customers, then slipped past. Jack followed more slowly.

As Jack exchanged pleasantries with the baker, and tried a small berry pastry, Rachelle scouted the street outside. After a moment, she returned, looking shorter, with straight hair a shade or two darker than it had been before, and a noticeably sharp chin. Jack would have recognized her, but only after a second look. She reported everything acceptable.

“Again, my condolences,” the baker offered as they left. He had asked about the mourning costume, of course. Jack owned the building the bakery was in, and had known him for many months. Rachelle seemed to trust him, too, which surprised Jack a bit. I guess I am getting paranoid, he thought.

The Rue de Miel was not a major street, and they didn’t pass but two or three people until they turned down towards the Mirabeau house on Rue Partha. No assassins jumped out at them, but Jack tended to twitch at the passers by anyway. The entire journey was less than fifteen minutes. He’d spent longer getting dressed.

The gateway at Lady Salmais’ manor was open, as indeed was Jack’s most of the time. They passed an apple tree in bloom in the courtyard, and it brought back memories of the first trip Jack had ever made here to Ravisa, four years ago. It was spring then, too, he remembered. I arrived by ship, and helped to expand the House office here to handle the increase in shipping after we acquired Cameron Marsei’s trade fleet. It was this trip that really convinced him that business was where he wanted to be. I could have been a military man, possibly even a sorcerer, though that would have been too much work; more than it was worth. I made a few friends, exploring the possibility, though. Like Melchor. They said I have the gift, but it would take years of training before I could use it effectively. Jack smiled at this. They’d be surprised at how much I figured out on my own, he thought.

Jack could sense things. Not like diviners saw the future; he could feel only what was already there. He could, for example, tell with a touch if a gemstone was real or counterfeit. His talent helped him sense inclusions or stress fractures too. He could detect if a drink was poisoned – or more accurately, that something wasn’t quite right with the mixture. I hadn’t really needed to develop that particular skill before, he thought. The first thing on the ‘to do’ list when life settles down again.

A middle-aged servant lady ushered then inside the manor and left them in the sitting room for a few moments while she went to seek out Lady Salmais. Jack noticed Rachelle had shifted back to her normal look.

“Why be normal now?” he asked. Nobody really noticed bodyguards, in Jack’s experience. Though if they all looked like Rachelle . . .

“Just keeping in practice,” she said as the servant returned. They were led through to a bright sitting room at the back of the manor. Sunlight filtered in though small windows high on the wall, lighting the room without glare. The furnishings were dark wood with comfortable cushions. Lady Salmais stood as they entered, displacing a cat from her lap. Jack noticed again how short she was; he stood six inches taller than she. Rachelle stood an inch or two above Jack. Usually. Sali’s wavy strawberry-blond hair hung loose past her shoulders, and her face was hidden beneath a jade green mask that matched her dress.

She came forward to grasp his hands briefly, murmuring condolences. He exchanged subdued greetings as they sat down. Rachelle stood behind his couch. The servant had disappeared. Salmais began the exchange by asking after his health.

“How are you holding up, Jacques? You seem to be moving a bit stiffly. Hangover?” Her eyes seemed to smile.

Jack replied by removing his mask, acknowledging the informality between the two. It was only as he did so that he realized he was perspiring. Too warm a day to be wearing a black mask, he thought. Sali removed hers a moment later. She looked much better than he did.

“I swore off liquor again yesterday. It seems to make me stupid.” Rachelle suppressed a snort. Sali smiled, but noted his pallor and sunken eyes.

“Well, pardon me for saying so, but it looks like you could use one. You look unwell. With reason, of course. But is there anything I can get you? Tea, perhaps?” She looked quizzically at him.

“Actually, a shot would probably do me worlds of good,” Jack said. He glanced at his bodyguard. “If Rachelle will let me have one . . .” his eyes beseeched her.

She rolled her own eyes, and said “One. Only.” He grinned back at her, then smiled and nodded at Sali, who turned to the other woman.

“Would you mind, Rachelle? One for yourself, too. I can imagine what working for Jack must be like.” Rachelle suppressed another snort.

“Bourbon, milord?” Rachelle knew him well. Jack just nodded. She turned to Lady Salmais.

“The Avicelli for you, milady?” Rachelle expressed disapproval of the cherry-flavored brandy with both her tone and her look. Salmais would have been within her rights to deliver a dressing-down – you did not talk to nobility that way, if you knew what was good for you. But Sali just favored her with a slight smile.

“I’ve a bottle of Terini I’d like to try. You can’t miss it; it’s bright green. Made from some sort of melon, they say. It was recommended as a good dessert liquor.” Rachelle gave a little bow, and walked out.

“She’s got a good reputation,” Sali said, as she fingered the mask on the couch. It was a pale green, and seemed to be carved from a single piece of jade. Jack automatically appraised it in his mind; Average quality stone, maybe five marks at most. But fantastic carving. I’d be surprised if it went for less than seventy. I know dealers who could sell it for almost two hundred. I wonder if it has any enchantments on it?

“I’ve known Rachelle for years. She’s saved my life once already this week.” She was staring at him. “What?” Jack asked.

“Do you care for her?” she asked. Jack flushed a bit.

“Well, yes. I do. I was infatuated with her when I was younger. It didn’t work out, of course. We come from separate worlds.” Sali smiled at this.

“What I’m getting at, is that it might not be a good idea to hire a bodyguard like that. She could cause you to hesitate, when you perhaps ought to be running.” Jack frowned at this idea. It made sense, but he disliked it. He did a quick tally of pros and cons before replying.

“While you may have a point, I think her skills far outweigh that little negative. I know she’d give her life to save mine. While I pay her, anyway.” He smiled himself. She might do more, if she were in the mood. But he wouldn’t count on it.

Satisfied that she’d made her point, Sali turned to small talk about mutual friends for awhile, until Rachelle returned. She bore three bottles, all different shapes and colors, and presented them respectfully. Probably chose an expensive one for herself, Jack thought. Lady Salmais gave her approval of the choices.

Rachelle then poured the three liquids into identical aperitif glasses. Bright green for Sali, dark amber for Jack, and a burgundy for herself, then delivered them appropriately. Jack sipped; it was the bourbon he wished for earlier. He relaxed into the sofa as Sali thanked the bodyguard. It was time to get down to business.

“So let’s see. Your father is dead, killed by an assassin.” Jack was a bit taken aback by her bluntness. “You’ve been targeted by assassins yourself. Your House may be under attack in a full-scale trade war. Have I missed anything?” Her expression was hard to read, but intent.

“Um. Just a little thing about the Guard seizing my personal account. But I hope to clear that up soon. How in the world did you find out about all that?” She probably bribed the messenger, at least. Maybe she has informants in the Guard? Sali just shook her head.

“I’m sorry Jack, but I can’t reveal my sources. If they were ever discovered, I’d have to start all over. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m right, aren’t I?” She knew she was. Jack conceded gracefully.

“In all respects, milady. Your own reputation is well-deserved too. And so I come to you for help. Can you tell me who, and why, and what I can do about it all?”

“I can help, though I don’t have answers to all of your questions. But I need you to be completely truthful with me. Will you do that for me?” She was serious, he saw. Warily, Jack nodded.

“Forgive me if my questions sound odd, but I do have your best interests at heart. And I need to know your answers, to sort things out in my own mind, before I can answer your questions. Are you with me so far?” She looked up at him without blinking. Her face held no expression, but her eyes were sincere. She held his gaze, waiting for his signal to proceed. He nodded slowly.

“Think back. In the past year, have you personally killed anyone, or ordered the death of another?” Jack’s eyes widened, and he drew back in surprise. Salmais’ expression did not change. Rachelle grinned a silent grin, Jack noted.

“Are you hinting that I might have made enemies by doing so?” Sali didn’t reply, just awaited his answer. “Because if I had, in theory, done something of that nature, I would have left no trace for anyone to find. Or,” Jack amended, “if anyone did realize it, they would have met a similar fate.” Jack didn’t even try tact. She had caught him off guard anyway, even though he was ready for it. But he felt he had neatly sidestepped, and launched a counteroffensive of his own. Rachelle ruined this masterful riposte, however, by letting out a small snort.

“The temple at Alders doesn’t count,” Rachelle said. “That was a battle, and we won. I know you killed men there. She’s asking if you ever murdered anyone.” Jack scowled at her.

“Bluntly, yes,” Salmais said. And she awaited his answer, with no further explanation.

Jack stood up and paced a bit. “Men have died because of decisions I’ve made. Does that count? I’m thinking of the mine collapse at Gerais a few months ago.” Jack did not meet their eyes.

“Did you intend their deaths?” Sali asked, in a normal tone.

“No!” Jack spat, then regained his composure. “I listened to the assayer. He convinced me to keep the mine open. It was purely a business decision.” And ten men had died. The mine was still producing, though. Dad trained me too well, Jack thought to himself. The women exchanged silent glances behind his back. After a moment, Sali resumed.

“Next question. Compared to other House managers, how badly do you cheat the crown out of its percentage?” She had chosen her words with care, he noticed. Perhaps to make up for the slap her previous question had given him. He stopped before a portrait, and stood facing it before replying.

“I observe the law more closely than Bernard Oleron, but not as much as my father did.” He glanced back at Salmais, eyebrow cocked. Close enough? What is it you want to know?

Sali thought a moment, then nodded to herself. “Last one. If a conflict arose between the crown and the Houses, over the issue of nobility being above the law, what side would you choose?” Jack turned to stare at her in consternation, but her expression hadn’t changed. Her lips showed perhaps the trace of a frown.

The heart of the matter at last, he thought. Jack stood and considered this one carefully. His sympathies tended toward the crown – he knew exactly how much certain Houses got away with. Truth be told, he envied some of them their successes. But House St.Brienne, thanks to his father, had a spotless reputation. Somehow, the man had kept everything profitable. So Jack had little to lose in such a conflict. Might even gain, if the crackdown hurt House Oloron. If, indeed, the matter was as simple as certain houses cheating on taxes. Jack doubted it would stop there. Perhaps the crown might look suspiciously at someone like Lady Salmais herself. Here was one area where his beliefs might get him in trouble. In theory, the Crown handled all legal matters, but in practice, their agents were overworked and tied by their own laws. There were many times when private resolution of a conflict was the wisest course. Jack tried to frame his answer in the correct terms.

“I have little to hide; my House has a good reputation for legality. If such a situation arose, I expect my initial sympathies would lie with the crown, as it went after my rivals. At some point though, I would have to side with the nobility. I would hope that the reputation of the St.Briennes would help pacify the crown at that time. But I don’t make policy for the House. My brother Jerard does now.” Now it was Jack’s turn to study Sali. She was not happy with his answer, he could tell. She frowned openly, now.

“If such a situation did arise, I suspect neither side would be happy with that answer. Think on that, for a minute.” She gestured to Rachelle and received a refill. She paused a moment, marshaling her thoughts, while Jack stood silent. After a moment, she took a long sip of the Terini and began again.

“I believe you’ve run afoul of two separate groups. They oppose each other, but both are afraid of what you might do. The problem is that you could wind up dead at the hands of either. Somehow, you have become a piece in their game. And each group is afraid you’ll be used by the other.”

“Two Houses? And I’m in the middle? What would anyone want me for?” Jack was bewildered. It made no sense.

“I don’t know enough yet to tell you why they want you. But they do; you are valuable. Too valuable to risk joining the other side. But I don’t know which side hired the first set of assassins. And it’s worse than a mere trade war. I am very much afraid it may turn into a full-fledged civil war.”

Jack was stunned. His thoughts raced in circles for a few moments, until Rachelle spoke up.

“King Masroun is ill; has been for some time. Are you saying that someone is plotting to overthrow the Deveraux?” She looked upset.

“I have no evidence of that yet. Just plots and counterplots, at least two different groups exist. And one of them seems to be anti-Deveraux, yes.” Lady Salmais looked at Rachelle a moment before continuing.

“There is a rumor that Prince Kevlyn is growing impatient for his father to die. That may be the source of some of this. But more is involved.” Rachelle looked a bit worried. Sali turned back to Jack.

“For now, all we can do is keep our ears open. But I do have some advice. Fence-sitters are never looked upon favorably. Sooner or later, with all the interest in you, you’re going to have to join one side or the other. You’ll get more credit, and protection, if you join early.”

Jack thought a moment. “Have you joined a side yet?” If so, that might make a decision easier.

Sali smiled. “Jack, you know I never mess with politics.” Rachelle snorted again, and Sali frowned at her. “But seriously, I’m still trying to figure out what they want. Honestly, you intrigue me. What do they want with you? I’m sure that’s a major piece of the puzzle.” She sipped the green liquor again, and changed subjects.

“Anyway, what are your plans now? You’ll go to the capital?” Jack answered with a nod.

“I have to. But I can’t imagine why my choice matters. Any one of a hundred nobles could have the same effect on their cause as I would. Unless they plan to kill Jerard’s family and set me up as Duke.” I’m certain Jerard has taken precautions. But I’d better mention it when I see him, just to be sure.

“Do you want to be Duke?” Sali asked. She seemed deadly serious again. Jack answered solemnly.

“I think I’d make a good one. But no, I am loyal to the family, and my brother. I won’t do anything against them.”

“That’s a start, I suppose.” Sali set her glass down. “Did you have any other questions?”

Jack had to ponder that one a moment. Too much information had overloaded his thoughts. “Nooo, I think that pretty much covers it. I’d appreciate you keeping me informed, though.” Sali nodded.

“I’ll need to head for the capital myself soon. I’m sure we’ll see each other there.” She was distracted as another cat walked up; she grabbed it and started meowing to it. Jack and Rachelle broke into smiles. The cat squirmed a little, then submitted to having its belly rubbed.

“Be careful Jack, okay? It would be a shame to lose you through simple stupidity.” Jack murmured agreement as she stood up and let the cat escape. They all started toward the door. As they reached it, Jack drained his glass and handed it to her.

“For the record, you never did actually answer my first question,” Sali said, a smile in her eyes as she twirled her glass around with her fingers. Jack gave her a scowl.

“No. Not in the last year,” Jack said. “One day, I’m going to ask you to answer that question. I expect an honest answer, too.” Sali smiled briefly.

“I’ll have to start keeping track of them, then. After awhile, you start to lose count.” Jack honestly couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. Rachelle muttered something about a ‘body count.’ Sali looked at her and asked “What was that, dear?”

“Oh, nothing,” the bodyguard said, looking innocent. Jack had the feeling that an entire conversation had passed between the two in that moment. Rachelle said to him “So, shall we go, milord?” I guess Sali won that one, he thought. Whatever it was.

By unspoken consent, they did not talk about the meeting with Sali in the streets. The walk home was uneventful until Jack felt his insides start to lose their grip. He managed to hide his fidgeting for awhile but Rachelle noticed his silence.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concerned. “You seem upset.” Jack managed a terse reply.

“They tell you not to drink for three days after a hangover cure.” He grimaced down at the street.

“Oh, shit!” She giggled a little. “I’m sorry, Jack. Can you make it home?” He wasn’t looking at her, but heard the grin on her face in her voice.

“I think I can make it to the bakery,” he allowed. They quickened their pace. Luckily there were no customers as he bolted past the front counter and straight for the jakes.

“Is there a problem?” the proprietor asked Rachelle.

“No, he just ate something that didn’t agree with him.” They both stifled smiles at the embarrassing noises coming from the back, and silently agreed to change the subject.

“Do you have any of those applet tarts you had last fall?” she asked. “I’ve never been able to find them anywhere else, even in the capital.” She peered around as a pair of women came in for bread.

“Alas, the applet is a summer fruit — it will be a month at least, probably two.” He busied himself with the other customers for a few moments before he returned.

“And I don’t doubt that this is the only place you’ll find them. Only here on the south coast are they even edible. Up north they call them crowapples, and even I can’t do anything with them. But with my father’s secret recipe I can work miracles.” He gestured to a redberry-filled pastry. “It’s not as tart as applet, but the redberry turned out particularly good this week.” Rachelle sampled one, and motioned for the baker to pack up a half-dozen as Jack finally re-entered the room. His mask was off again, and he looked pale.

“None for you, milord?” Rachelle mumbled through the rest of the pastry. Jack shook his head.

“I couldn’t enjoy them right now,” he said. “Emil, my thanks, I need to get home. Rachelle?” She handed some coins to the baker with a slight smirk, and they returned to the secret passage in the storeroom.

“Not a drop of liquor for the next week,” she commanded. “No bourbon for you.”

“I swear,” Jack agreed. “You know, I can usually tell if my drink is poisoned. Much good it does when the liquor itself takes me down.”

“I’ve heard of people who can do that,” Rachelle locked the gate behind them. “Can you purify it too?”

“No, just sense that it’s been altered. That’s part of the reason I drink bourbon so much – I know how it feels. It takes awhile to discern a new liquid. Gods know what was in that Terini of Salis. How do you suppose they made it bright green like that?” Rachelle just shrugged. “I could hold two glasses of that, and sense if either was different from the other, but it might not be poison. Might just be a twist of lemon. Though I’d know lemon, I think. You get what I mean,” he concluded.

“You can sense impurities,” she ventured. Jack nodded. “Same thing that makes you such a good gem trader, you can sense flaws in gemstones.”

“And inclusions, yes. It’s the same process. I once caught a smuggler with an urn full of dreamweed in a bundle of cotton. Though usually I have to be touching it.” They returned to the house proper.

“I’ll go downstairs and see if there’s anything for the runs,” she said. “You have any red clay?” It was an unappetizing but effective remedy that Jack would avoid if he had any choice. He took stock of himself and decided he needed it this time.

“Ask Camille, I’m sure she has some around,” he said. “I’ll be upstairs.” He made it up to his bedroom and had begun changing by the time Camille stormed in.

“Back in bed, right now!” she commanded. “You’re not leaving this room until tomorrow.” Jack saw her expression and submitted meekly. “Gods alone,” she muttered, “know how you’ve survived this long without a lick of sense in you . . .” She smacked a large red lozenge and a cup of water on the table beside him, blistered him one more time with her gaze, then stormed out again, trailing a string of curses at his general idiocy. Rachelle poked her head in a minute later.

“She could give Zalay Deveroux a good match,” she said. Zalay was the king’s youngest sister, and was reputed to have the sharpest tongue in the land. The royal court could not stand her presence, and so she spent most of her time in the convent, caring for the king’s mother. Jack had never met her, and counted himself lucky. Even her husband spent as much time abroad as he could.

“So,” she said, as he downed the tablet with a grimace, “What’s the plan now? Do you still want to ride to the capital?” There were only two routes, by sea around the Montique peninsula — the fastest route; or overland, through the mountains — shorter in actual distance but longer in travel time.

“Can we make it by the first of the month?” he asked. She was much more of a traveler than he.

“By ship, maybe, if we leave tonight. No chance by land. Five days, probably,” she said.

“I’m not going to the funeral, anyway. Okay, set up the ship for, maybe two days from now? For the decoy.” He lay back on the bed in his dressing gown. “Can you sweet-talk Sergeant Ferrand into freeing my account?” She knew guard procedures fairly well by now, he figured. But she gave a little snort.

“Not a chance. I’m on her black list permanently. Heward might be able to, though. Are you willing to cough up a death fee?” One of the loopholes the law sometimes allowed nobility was the option of a stiff fine. To pay it was tantamount to admitting guilt, of course. Jack winced at the idea.

“I’d be the only St.Brienne in fifty years to do that. It would be a big blot on the honor of the House, as bad as being caught using blood magic.” And now Sali’s words came back to him. “If I do pay the death fee, that’s pretty much admitting that I side with the nobility in Sali’s civil war, isn’t it?” Do I want to do that? he thought. It would stop one group from attacking me, probably, but maybe make the other side my confirmed enemy. I need more information.

“If there’s any way to avoid it,” he decided, “I don’t want to pay the fee.”

“Then they’ll keep your account frozen until the fifth. If they haven’t found any additional evidence against you by then, they have to let you go. If you leave that morning, you should make it to the capital by the eighth or ninth. Is that okay?” Rachelle did know the travel routes. This would keep him in Ravisa for another eight days. “Give you time to recover,” she said sympathetically.

“And maybe figure out what’s going on,” he said. “I’ll have time to wrap up some business, too. I don’t know how long I’ll be away.”

A thought crossed Rachelle’s mind. “Do you think you’ll be coming back?” she asked.

Jack thought about it. “That’s a good question.” It could go either way. If Jerard has the reins firmly in hand, and I’m still an embarrassment, I’d be back here in a week. But if not, or if a trade war really starts, I might be needed there indefinitely. “I don’t know. I suppose I’d better plan for the worst. Anyway, we’ll leave on the fifth of next month.” Rachelle nodded at this.

“If a civil war is brewing, the Deveroux have to be on one side of it,” she said. “I mean, they hold the crown. Crown versus nobility, right? One of the factions has to be King Masroun’s. Have you ever done anything to piss off his highness?” Jack looked askance at this.

“I can’t imagine what. None of the royals even care I exist, to my knowledge.”

“You’d probably be surprised,” she said. “They’re all hip deep in politics up there. I’m sure you’ve been a piece on the gameboard for years,” she said. Jack looked appalled, and Rachelle grinned.

“Think about it. I’ll go set things in motion for the trip.” And with that she left.

What a horrible idea, Jack thought. And once in his head, the idea took root and grew. I’m going to arrive home and find I’ve been pledged for twenty different things, by people I don’t even know. Maybe this whole assassination plot was hatched because I was pledged to join something secret by someone I’ve never met. Can the royal court really be nothing more than a school playground? Everyone worried about who’s dating who?

He settled back onto the bed, and the aches of various parts of his body told him that Camille was probably right – he should stay in bed.