The Warlord's legacy

Chapter Two

ALTHOUGH SITUATED ABOUT AS FAR from Mecepheum as Imphallion's borders allowed, Rahariem was one of the nation's more important centers of trade. Grains and hardwoods thrived nearby, and what little trade trickled into Imphallion from Cephira and other neighboring dominions invariably crossed this border. Even more significant, however, the local laborers and craftsmen were rather more enthusiastic about working in general, for they kept more of what they earned. Far-eastern Imphallion remained largely under the sway of its hereditary landowners, and while taxes and tariffs weren't precisely low, they were lower than those imposed elsewhere by the reigning Guilds, and handily offset by the high prices Rahariem's merchants could charge the rest of Imphallion for their exotic goods.

Of course, dwelling so far from the centers of power also had its inescapable downsides. This was a lesson taught to Rahariem-in blood-more than twenty-three years ago, at the start of Corvis Rebaine's campaign of conquest.

It was a lesson of which they'd been forcibly reminded two weeks ago.

Today, not only the streets of Rahariem, but also its surrounding fields and gently rolling vales were occupied by thousands of newcomers, and these were not the sorts of traders, travelers, and merchants the region welcomed. They swarmed the city, clad not in silk and velvet but thickly padded doublets, armored cuirasses of boiled leather, and hauberks of chain. At their sides hung not purses filled with discretionary coin, but broadsword and hand-axe, mace and hammer. Like an avalanche, they had rolled over the grossly outnumbered knights and foot soldiers of Rahariem's nobles. What they wanted, they took, and woe betide the vendor or shopkeeper who dared raise voice in protest.

Yet for all the terror and violence of their conquest, looting, rape, and other atrocities had been kept to a minimum. Riding their barded chargers throughout the multitudes of soldiers, their crimson banners flying from every government structure in the city, the officers of Cephira kept an iron-fisted command of conquered and conquerors alike. Encased in gleaming plate, tabards sporting the black-on-red gryphon crest of Cephira's throne, the captains and the knights waged a war as disciplined and civilized as war ever got.

And if certain men among the occupied populace-men long frustrated with the nation's bickering factions, furious that the Guilds had not responded to Cephira's act of blatant aggression, disgusted by the lack of discipline in Imphallion's own military-if these men couldn't help but admit a grudging appreciation for the competence of the invading armies and the rigid order imposed by the officers, perhaps they might be excused for such borderline treasonous thoughts.

It was early summer, some weeks yet before the scorching heat of the season would grow fat and harsh. Cooling, cleansing rains remained common, but not so frequent as to thicken the air with oppressive humidity and render sweating its own exercise in futility. And for all of this, the citizens had cause to be grateful, for Cephira's soldiers weren't about to allow such a readily available workforce to go unused.

Overseen by crossbow-wielding sentinels stationed atop buildings and boulders and hillsides, the common folk of Rahariem labored for their new masters. Some constructed fortifications, hauling wood and stone that would ward off the population's potential liberators if and when the Guilds finally ceased dithering. Some razed houses and shops for raw materials, weeping at their loss but never daring to object-for they'd seen the even harsher labors heaped upon the shoulders of those who had. Others labored beyond the city gates, tearing up stumps, hacking through undergrowth, breaking rocks and carting them away: expanding the roads that led east from Rahariem, making them ready for supply wagons and numberless Cephiran reinforcements.

The bite of picks on stone was deafening; the rock dust in the air blinding, choking, a poisonous blizzard. The sun, gentle as it was so early in the season, still beat down between clouds whose shade never lingered long enough to appreciably comfort the workers. Trickles of sweat scribed intricate tattoos into the dirt-caked chests and faces, and though the guards were not stingy with the canteens, the water never soothed.

Leaning upon his heavy spade, one of the workers raised a ragged sleeve to wipe the moist filth from his forehead. Eyes hidden by the gesture, he peered intently at the guards, cataloging, assessing. This soldier was alert, but that one preoccupied; one politely solicitous of the prisoners in his charge, another delighting in any excuse to wield discipline's whip. But today, as every day for the past two weeks, none had what he sought, what he must have before he could take his leave of these intolerable circumstances.

He certainly appeared unremarkable. He was a lanky fellow, wiry rather than gaunt, the athletic tone of his limbs sharply contrasting with the crags that creased his weather-beaten face and the grey that had long since annexed his hair and close-cropped beard. He might have been a man just approaching middle age who looked older than his years, or one on the far side of midlife who kept himself rigidly fit; casual observation refused to confirm which.

"Hsst!"

This from the worker beside him, a younger man responsible for cracking the rocks that he himself was supposed to be shoveling. "Whatever you're daydreaming about, Cerris, you'd best shake it off. The guards won't be happy if they see the rubble backing up."

The grey-haired fellow, who was so much more than the moderately successful Rahariem merchant he was known as-so much more, and so much less, no matter how determined he was to think of himself only as "Cerris"-grunted something unintelligible and resumed scooping.

All right, then. He'd given it almost two weeks, and two weeks of hard labor was more than enough. It was time to go looking. EVENING NEARED, signaling the workers to queue up under the watchful gaze of the guards. As a dozen crossbows quivered like hounds straining at the leash, a single Cephiran soldier moved down the line, closing manacles around every left ankle. They were simple shackles, these-U-shaped iron cuffs, closed at the back with a stubby rod-but quite sufficient for the job at hand. Following behind him, a second man huffed and sweated as he lugged an enormous length of chain, threading it through hoops in those cuffs.

Watching through tired eyes as they neared, Cerris began to whisper under his breath. His hands opened and closed, the rhythmic stretching serving to hide the subtle twitches of his fingers.

It was a simple enough spell. A shimmer passed over his left leg, so faint and so swift that even Cerris himself, who was not only watching for it but causing it, barely noticed. He shifted his posture, standing rigidly, feet together, keeping his real-and now invisible-leg outside the phantom image. Not a comfortable stance, but better that than to have the guard bump a knuckle into something that wasn't supposed to be there.

The guard approached-yawning as he knelt-clasped the manacle around a length of absolutely nothing that looked and felt an awful lot like a human ankle, and continued on his way.

Cerris continued his whispering, new syllables replacing the old. He saw the manacle fall to the dust, but to everyone else, it was invisible, appearing instead to be firmly locked around the equally illusory leg. It was enough to fool the second guard, who passed his length of chain through the nonexistent ring without so much as a heartbeat's hesitation.

Struggling to conceal his smile, Cerris knelt briefly as though massaging a sore foot and slipped the real manacle around his arm so as not to leave any evidence behind. Then, matching his shuffling step to the prisoners who actually were chained together, he allowed himself to be led away.

Not far from the road crouched a simple wooden hall of slipshod construction. Thrown together by Cephiran soldiers, it served as bunk for the road workers, far more convenient than herding them back through the city gates every night. Cerris wrinkled his nose as he passed through the wooden doors, the miasma of sweat and fear, waste and watery stew an open-handed slap to the face. It had long since soaked into the wooden walls and the cheap woolen blankets on which the exhausted prisoners slept away their fitful nights. Bowls of that stew, which contained as much gristle as meat, already awaited, one bowl per blanket. Foul as it was, nobody hesitated to down their portion in rapid gulps. While their companions watched from the doorway, two guards moved through the hall, one collecting bowls, the other fastening the end of the long chain to a post that punched through the wooden floor and deep into the unyielding earth. Thus secured, the prisoners could shuffle around the room-clanking and clattering the chain like a chorus of angry ghosts, more than loud enough to be heard from outside-but even if they could somehow force open the door, they wouldn't have sufficient slack to pass through.

It was a simple arrangement, but an efficient one… assuming, of course, that the prisoners were actually fastened to the chain.

Cerris lay back on his blanket and waited, though he yearned to be up and moving. In a matter of moments, the snores, grunts, and moans of exhausted sleep rose from all around him. He found himself halfway tempted to join them-the accommodations were hardly comfortable, but damn, he was tired!-and it was only sheer force of will that kept him from drifting off.

After what he judged to be about an hour and a half, Cerris was certain that every man in the hall was deep in slumber. Sitting up, he glanced around to confirm, and then rose, wincing at the faint popping of joints that were, despite his fervent demands to the contrary, growing older. Hefting the manacle in one fist, he stepped over the length of chain and crept on silent feet toward the door.

It was slow going indeed, for the room's only illumination was the occasional flicker of the campfires outside, slithering in through tiny gaps in the wood or the handful of six-inch windows that prevented the air within from growing too stale. More than once, Cerris stumbled, and though reflexes born of a violent life kept him upright and silent, he still cursed his own clumsiness.

'Getting decrepit, old boy. Slow and clumsy. Even just a few years ago, you'd never have…'

Then he was at the door, the time for bemoaning over, and Cerris gleefully shoved that voice back into its burrow in the depths of his mind. He knew that the door boasted no lock, but was held shut by a heavy wooden bar in an iron bracket. More than secure enough, since even if a prisoner could slip his chain, he had no tools at hand with which to lift that bar.

Except, of course, for the manacle that was supposed to be linking Cerris to the others.

For long moments, he listened, struggling to judge the number of guards by the occasional shifting of mail or bored sigh. Possibly only the one, he decided eventually, certainly no more than two. He contemplated a spell to cast his sight out beyond the door, but even after several years of practice, he found clairvoyance disorienting and difficult. He might learn what he needed to know, only to find himself in no shape to take advantage of it.

Ah, well. He'd faced worse odds, in his day.

'Yeah, but you always had help facing those odds, didn't you, "Cerris"? You never were worth half a damn on your own.'

He frowned briefly, pressing his lips tight, forcing himself not to respond. It had been years since he'd banished the vile thing that had once shared his thoughts, yet still he swore he heard that mocking, malevolent voice in his head. And all the more often, these past few months. He must finally be losing his mind.

'Not that you ever had much of one to lose…'

"Shut up!" he hissed, even though he knew, he knew he was berating himself. He forced himself to relax with a steadying breath, then opened the manacle and began working the rod-a length of iron nearly six inches long, and almost as thick around as his thumb-through the gap in the door.

And thank the gods the Cephirans had been in such a hurry to throw this place together! It was tight going, but the narrow rod indeed fit. Cerris slid it upward, slowly, wary of allowing it to screech or grate against the wood. Inch by inch, carefully, carefully…

The rod touched the bar with the faintest of thumps. Cerris held his breath, waiting to see if the guard-guards?-had heard. Only when a full minute had passed was he confident enough to continue.

Here we go. All I have to do is lift a heavy wooden bar, with no leverage to speak of, toss it aside, throw the door open, and take out a guard or two before they have time to react. Nothing to it.

He allowed himself another moment to bask, almost to revel, in the insanity of what he was attempting. Then Cerris whispered a few more words of magic, one spell to alleviate a modicum of his exhaustion, another to cast an illusory pall of silence that might grant a few precious seconds. Then, squeezing both hands around the tiny length of metal, he tensed his back, his arms, his legs, and heaved with everything he had.

For a few terrifying, pounding heartbeats, he knew he'd failed. The bar had to weigh close to a hundred pounds, and trying to raise it with a few inches of iron felt very much like trying to lift a house by the doorknob. His hands ached where the metal bit into flesh, sweat masked his face, and a gasp escaped his lungs and lips despite his best efforts toward silence.

And then, praise be to the ever-fickle Panare Luck-Bringer, his problem was solved for him. Something of his struggle-a breath, a twitch, a shiver in the wood-passed through both the door and his phantom shroud of silence. Uncertain of what (if anything) he'd actually heard, unwilling to look the fool in front of his comrades, and thoroughly convinced that the prisoners remained securely chained within, the soldier standing beyond did not signal for help. He did not raise an alarm.

He lifted the bar himself and pulled the door open a scant few inches, just to take a look and reassure himself that all was well.

The iron weight of the manacle-the cuff itself, not the fastening rod-made for a poor weapon, but better than none. Gripping the inner curve of the U, Cerris punched. The prong that broke teeth and tore up the back of the soldier's throat might have left him capable of screaming, if inarticulately. So might the other, even as it crushed an eye to jelly against the back of its socket. But the both together proved too much, and the guard fell with a sodden thump, unconscious if not dead from shock alone.

Glancing around furtively, Cerris stepped through the doorway and slid the bar back into place behind him. Moving as swiftly as he could manage with the awkward load, he dragged the soldier away from the prisoners' bunkhouse, easily avoiding the few wandering patrols that remained awake so late at night. He dropped the body behind a mess tent only after taking the man's own sword and driving it several times through the corpse's face, hiding the true nature of the fatal wound. He couldn't avoid rousing suspicion, not with a dead soldier in the camp, but at least he left nothing behind to point directly at an escaped prisoner.

That bloody business aside, Cerris rose and chanted yet another illusion beneath his breath. The chain hauberk and gryphon-stitched tabard that shimmered into view over his prisoner's tunic wouldn't stand up to close observation, but they would do until he could find another guard-one who, unlike this useless fellow, was near Cerris's own build. ONCE SAID GUARD HAD BEEN LOCATED, and throttled from behind, the sheer size of the Cephiran occupying force actually proved an advantage. Unable to memorize the face of every soldier, secure in the knowledge that the prisoners were under control and that the highway patrols would prevent infiltrators from beyond, the men-at-arms at Rahariem's gates waved Cerris through with scarcely a glance at his uniform.

Within the walls, Rahariem didn't actually look all that different. Crimson pennants flew from flagpoles, yes. Many of the people wandering the streets wore tabards of a similar hue, and atop the walls and makeshift platforms rose an array of engines-mangonels, ballistae, even trebuchets-which had served to aid in the Cephirans' conquest of Rahariem, and served now in its defense. But those streets seemed no less busy, the laughter in the taverns no less raucous. While the bulk of Rahariem's working-aged commoners had been hustled into work camps throughout the city, the young, the old, and the infirm were permitted to continue their daily lives. Shops still fed the local economy, taverns and restaurants provided services to citizens and invaders alike, and of course the officers definitely knew better than to deprive their own soldiers by shutting down the brothels or taking the prostitutes off the streets.

Cerris strode casually along those streets, offering distracted nods to his "fellow" soldiers, salutes to the occasional officer, glowers to those citizens who had legitimate business being out after curfew. He made good time, as he knew he would. Intended to facilitate merchant caravans, the city's broad streets were smoothly paved, running in straight lines and recognizable patterns. It was a layout that had served the city well-right up until it facilitated the invading troops just as handily.

'It's astounding these people even have the brains to know which end of themselves to feed. Ants and termites build more defensive communities than this. Serves them right, what happened.'

"They didn't deserve this," Cerris argued with that voice-his voice?-under his breath.

'Oh, I see. They only deserved it back when it was you who was-?'

"Shut up!" He barely retained the presence of mind to whisper the admonition rather than shout it to the heavens.

Glass lanterns on posts burned away the darkness, accompanied by stone-ringed bonfires the Cephirans had constructed in the midst of major intersections to illuminate the night more brightly still. Nobody was going to be sneaking around, not on their watch.

Nobody lacking a stolen uniform, anyway.

His back quivered with the strain of maintaining a steady walk when every instinct lashed him with whips of adrenaline, demanding he break into a desperate sprint. Every few steps he rubbed the sweat from his palms on his pant legs, and his eyes darted this way and that with such spastic frequency that he was sure he would soon learn what the inside of his skull looked like. Cerris wasn't one to succumb to fear, and frankly being found out and executed as a spy would be a far more pleasant death than many he'd courted, but something about the need to remain so godsdamn casual got his dander up.

'Or maybe,' he swore he heard that demonic voice whispering, 'it's that you still believe, deep down, that they should be afraid of you.' A moment of blessed silence, then, before 'Even if you and I both know that there was never any good reason to be. Not without me doing all the heavy lifting. You never were much more than a porter, when you get down to it, were you?'

Finally, after a few more minutes during which Cerris was certain he'd exuded enough sweat to float a longboat, he neared his destination. The streets grew smoother still; some avenues even had mortar filling in the gaps between the larger cobblestones, to prevent carriages from rattling. The houses here were of a larger breed and stood aloof from one another, boasting sweeping expanses of lawn behind wrought-iron fences or stone walls. Here, in the city's richest quarter, most traces of invasion vanished-except for the guards who stood at the entrance to each gated estate. These were clad in the ubiquitous crimson and boasted the night-hued gryphon, rather than the various colors and ensigns of the noble houses.

Just another example of Cephira's commitment to "civilized warfare"-a concept that, where Cerris was concerned, had about the same legitimacy as "playful torture" or "adorable pustule." The commoners might be pressed into service, but the nobility? Their soldiers and much of their staff were stripped from them, and they were confined to house arrest, but otherwise they remained unharmed and largely unmolested. There they would linger, until either their families offered sufficient ransom to buy their release, or until someone in the Cephiran military command decided that they posed a threat or possessed knowledge the invaders needed.

At which point, all bets were off. Civility only goes so far in war, after all.

"Colonel Ilrik requires information from the baroness," Cerris announced as he advanced up the walk toward one particular estate, dredging from memory a name overheard during the past weeks. "I'm to question her at once."

"What questions?" asked the first guard, a young man whose sparse beard did little to hide either his rotted teeth or his smattering of pock-marks. "What could Colonel Ilrik need with…?"

Cerris halted and slowly, deliberately, turned the full weight of his contempt upon the soldier. Eyes that had seen horrors few could imagine bored into the guard's soul, and the younger man visibly cringed within his armor.

Expression unchanging, Cerris looked the soldier up and down as though examining a rotting, maggot-ridden haunch of beef. "My apologies, Baroness," he said, his tone frosty as a winter morning. "I didn't recognize you in that outfit."

"I… Sir, I just thought…" The guard glanced helplessly at his companion for support, but the other soldier had the good sense to keep his mouth firmly shut.

"You're still talking," Cerris informed him. "You really ought to have a physician look into that before it affects your health."

The pair moved, as one, to open the gate, the younger even tensing his arm in an abortive salute as Cerris marched past. The guards already forgotten-or at least dismissed as unimportant (he'd never forget a potential enemy at his back)-Cerris made his way up the familiar pathway. Around a few small fountains of marble and brass, and through gardens of carefully tended flowers, all of which were actually rather understated where the nobility were concerned, he followed until it culminated at the Lady Irrial's front door…

Cerris paused a moment to scrape the muddy snow from his boots on the stoop, then entered the Lady Irrial's parlor, all beneath the unyielding and disapproving gaze of a butler who probably only owned that one expression-perhaps borrowing others from his employer when the rare occasion required it.

"And is my lady expecting you?" the manservant demanded in precisely the same tone he might have used to ask And is there a reason you have just piddled on a priceless carpet?

For several moments, Cerris couldn't be bothered to answer, instead gazing around to take in the abode of one of his new noble "customers." Where previous houses had practically glowed with polished gold and gleaming silver, brilliantly hued tapestries and gaudy portraits, it appeared that the Baroness Irrial might have more restrained tastes. The chandelier was brass and crystal, but its design was more functional than decorative. A large mirror, framed in brass, stood by the door so that guests might comport themselves for their visit, and a single portrait-the first Duke of Rahariem, grandfather to the current regent and great-uncle to Irrial herself-dominated the far wall above a modest fireplace.

Finally, the butler having stewed long enough that he was probably about ready to be served as an appetizer, Cerris replied, "No, I don't believe so."

"I see. And do I recall correctly that you gave your name as 'Cerris'?"

"I hope you do, since that actually is what I said."

The butler's non-expression grew even more non. "Have you any idea at all, Master Cerris, how many people show up here on a daily basis, expecting to meet with the baroness without an appointment?"

"No, but I'd lay odds you're about to tell me."

"None, Master Cerris. Because most folk are polite enough, and have sufficient sense of their place, not to arrive unannounced." His lips twitched, and Cerris was certain that he'd have been grinning arrogantly if he'd not long since forgotten how.

"Well, I'm terribly sorry to have upset your notion of the rightness of things. Now please tell my lady that Cerris is here to see her regarding the family's trade arrangements."

"Now, see here-"

"Go. Tell. Her."

"I shall have you thrown out at once!"

"You could do that," Cerris said calmly. "Of course, then you'll have to explain to Lady Irrial why she's the only noble in the city who suddenly can't afford textiles from Mecepheum, or imported fruits, or a thousand other things."

"I… You…"

"Run along now." He refrained from reaching out to pat the old man's cheek-but only just. Cerris was actually rather surprised that the butler didn't leak a trail of steam from his ears as he turned and stalked, back rigid, up the burgundy-carpeted stairs.

Only a few moments had gone to their graves before footsteps sounded again on those steps, but the descending figure, clad in a luxurious gown of emerald green girdled in gold, was most assuredly not the butler. She looked a decade younger than her years, apparently having faced middle age head-on as it drew near, and beaten it into a submissive pulp with a heavy stick. Her auburn hair, though coiled atop her head, was not so tightly wound as the current style, and her face boasted a veritable constellation of freckles. Most aristocrats would assuredly have tried to hide them with sundry creams and powders, but she seemed to wear them almost aggressively, as a badge of pride.

Cerris, who hadn't really had eyes for a woman since-well, in quite some time-found himself standing just a tad straighter.

"Lady Irrial," he greeted her, executing a passable bow and brushing his lips across her knuckles.

"Why are you bullying poor Rannert, Master Cerris?" she demanded in a husky voice. Her lips were turned downward, but as he rose, her guest could have sworn he saw a flicker of amusement ripple across those freckles.

"Well, I didn't think you'd appreciate me actually knocking him out, my lady, and bribing him just seemed so disrespectful."

Those downturned lips twitched.

"Please be seated, Master Cerris." She swept toward one of several chairs, gown swirling like a mist around her.

"Oh, just Cerris, please," he said, sitting opposite her. Then, "I do apologize for just dropping by like this, my lady. I simply thought it best to make sure everyone got to know me, since we're all going to be working together."

"Are we indeed? And why is that, 'just Cerris'?"

"I'm the new owner of Danrien's mercantile interests."

Irrial's jaw went slack. "Danrien sold? All of it?"

Cerris nodded.

"I can't believe it. That old coo-ah, that dear old man," she corrected, recovering her manners through her shock, "ate, slept, and breathed commerce. I was certain that, come the day he died-Vantares be patient-his successors would have to pry his ledgers from one hand, and his purse from the other." Her brow furrowed. "To hear Rannert tell it, you're not exactly the most diplomatic individual. How did you convince him to sell?"

"Just worked a bit of my own personal magic, my lady," Cerris said blandly.

"I see. I do hope that you're not planning to conduct all your business in the same manner that you dealt with my staff."

"Not unless I have to."

A moment of awkward silence. "You realize, Cerris, that my cousin Duke Halmon actually rules here. The rest of us govern while he sits on the regent's throne in Mecepheum, but we each own only a portion of the city's lands. I can't unilaterally make trade arrangements for all of Rahariem."

"Oh, I understand, my lady. You're not the only noble on my agenda. I just wanted to get to know each of you, and to assure you that I won't be taking the opportunity of the changeover to raise prices on goods and transport."

"That's very kind of you, Cerris. And will you be taking Danrien's place in the Merchants' Guild as well?"

"I thought," he said carefully, "that it would be best to deal with the real power in Rahariem first, make certain my foundation was solid with you, before-"

Irrial raised a hand. "You wanted to have the nobles backing you before you approached the Guild, so that they'd let you take over Danrien's senior office, rather than starting you at the bottom of the heap as they normally do new members, no matter whose routes they now oversee."

Cerris felt himself flush lightly. "You're quite astute, my lady."

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Then perhaps we ought to discuss a lowering of prices, Cerris. Just to make certain that I feel comfortable backing your claim."

For a long moment, he could only stare. Then, "I should have bought out Rahariem's coopers as well. At least that way I could have gotten some work done while you've got me over this barrel."

Irrial laughed-not the genteel titter of an aristocrat, but a full-throated guffaw that would have been at home in any tavern. Cerris couldn't help but smile along with her as they began their negotiations. HE'D VISITED THE ESTATE often in the intervening years-perhaps, though he'd never have admitted it to himself let alone anyone else, more frequently than business strictly mandated-and he knew the layout well. He knew, too, that while his stolen uniform had been necessary to get him through the gate, and indeed across the property, it would stand out dramatically in certain rooms of the main house.

Slipping through the kitchen entrance, he paused, letting his vision adjust to the faint light. He avoided the servants' quarters entirely, for they, as with similar halls throughout Rahariem's estates, were currently serving as billet to a squad of Cephiran troops. The servants who remained, those who hadn't been pressed into work gangs, would instead be bunked three or four to a chamber in the house's guest quarters. In silence born partly of skill and partly of magic-the latter to cover incidental sounds, squeaking stairs, and the occasional pop of aging joints-Cerris crept through those rooms now, and recognized one of the men therein. Sprawled across a sofa, snoring as though Kassek War-Bringer and Oldrei Storm Queen were wrestling in his nostrils, lay the butler Rannert. In all the days since their first meeting, Cerris had never once seen the old man smile, and even in the depths of what must be a worried sleep, his jaw remained fixed in a look of stiff propriety.

The intruder stepped carefully away from the sleeping forms to the wardrobe, slipping on a hanging overcoat he pulled from within and leaving his crimson tabard behind. Back to the kitchen, then, to acquire the necessary props to excuse his presence should anyone awaken and challenge him. Finally, now looking very much the household servant-if, perhaps, a somewhat disheveled one-he trod softly up the stairs and along the hall toward the baroness's chambers.

Decorum demanded that he knock and announce his presence before entering Irrial's boudoir, but prudence demanded with far more conviction that he not risk attracting attention. Working swiftly, Cerris lifted the latch and darted inside, allowing the door to click shut behind him.

It wasn't much of a sound, but the baroness, perhaps troubled at having enemy soldiers in her city and her house, proved a light sleeper. Snapping open a shuttered lantern at her bedside and grasping a long dirk from beneath her pillow, Irrial bolted upright-and stared. Cerris, a tray of steaming tea held aloft in one hand, gaped back at her. Her hair, tousled and tangled with fitful sleep, hung about her shoulders, and the flimsy nightshift she wore to bed was, put politely, neither as formal nor as modest as the gowns Cerris was accustomed to seeing on her.

In a single instant, a dozen apologies and excuses, any one of which might have salvaged the situation with everyone's dignity intact, flashed through Cerris's mind. So of course, what blurted unbidden from his mouth was, "Wow, that really is a lot of freckles."

"Cerris!" she protested, flushing hotly. She nearly cut a finger on her dagger as she dropped it, the better to clutch the heavy blankets to her bosom. "What the hell…?"

"Oh! Oh, gods, I… I'm sorry, I…" Stammering like a schoolboy, blushing as darkly as she, Cerris finally had the presence of mind to turn his back, allowing the baroness to haul the concealing blankets up to her chin. It said more for his good fortune, and less for his manual dexterity, that he didn't upend the tray in the process.

"You can turn around," she told him, her tone bewildered and more than a little cold. He did so, to see her sitting upright and utterly concealed, save for her face, beneath the quilts. "Cerris…"

"I'm so sorry, my lady," he told her. "I didn't intend to, ah…" He cast about desperately for a way to phrase this. "To startle you like that," he finished lamely.

"Startle. Right." She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. "You know, there was a time in Imphallion's history when you'd have had your eyes put out for something like this."

Cerris couldn't help himself. "It might've been worth it," he said, and he was almost certain, when she looked down and growled something, that it was to hide that familiar twitch of her lips.

Finally having regained his composure, Cerris approached the nearby wardrobe, selected the first blouse and skirt that looked manageable without the aid of servants, and looked away once more. He could all but hear her pursing her lips at his selection.

"Color-blind, are we?" she asked as she dressed. Once done, she put a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him to face her. "What are you doing here, Cerris?" she asked seriously. "If you escaped from your work gang, why in the name of all the gods aren't you miles away by now?"

He stepped aside, poured them each a cup from the teapot he'd brought from the kitchen. "I need your help," he told her softly. "And then we're both getting out of here." He seemed surprised even as he said it.

'Oh, please. Tell me you're just saying that to make sure she helps you,' his mind taunted in the demon's voice. 'Given the stellar accounting you've made of yourself with women so far, anything else is either delusional or masochistic, wouldn't you say?'

Cerris found himself grateful that he was already blushing from before, since it hid the shameful flush that newly rose to his cheeks. In any case, it was done, and he focused away from his inner dialogue to listen as Irrial spoke.

"… commoner might just disappear," she was saying, "but I think if one of the nobility vanishes, they might well come looking, wouldn't you say?"

"Are you afraid of that, my lady?"

"No," she said, and he found he believed her. "I could do a lot more good outside this damn house. But this sort of thing takes preparation, Cerris, and I'm just not-"

Cerris raised an interrupting hand, nearly spilling his tea. "You misunderstand," he said. "I'm not planning on making our escape tonight. Actually, in another hour or so, I need to sneak back into the barracks before I'm missed."

Irrial blinked twice, perhaps checking her vision since her hearing was obviously faulty. "What are you… I don't…"

"I need you to help me find something, Irrial," he said, unaware that he'd dropped the proper formal address. "Something that'll give us a vital edge. I can't leave without it."

"What?"

"A weapon. One that would certainly have been claimed by someone of rank. The Cephiran officers meet with the nobles and Guildmasters regularly, don't they? To make sure the city's running to their specifications?"

Irrial nodded. "Twice a week, so far."

"Then you've a better chance of spotting it than I do. It was taken from my home when they attacked, and I want it back."

" 'It'? You're being awfully cryptic. What sort of weapon?"

Cerris sighed. "I don't know."

"Cerris, what are you trying-"

"Have you ever heard," he asked slowly, as though deciding how much to trust her, "of the Kholben Shiar?"

"What? You're joking, right? They're a myth."

"They're not. I have one. Or I did, anyway."

Maybe it was his eyes, maybe his voice, or maybe the fact that he'd have to be insane to risk escaping-and then breaking back in-on a jest. Whatever the case, Irrial obviously chose to believe.

"My gods." She began pacing the length of the bedroom and back. "Rumor has it that Audriss the Serpent and Corvis Rebaine each had one, you know."

"Did they." His voice, flat as an undertaker's slab, made it a statement rather than a question.

"I saw an axe hanging at Rebaine's side, the day he took Rahariem." She was whispering, her expression unfocused. "I don't even know why I noticed it, there was so much else about him… Was that it, do you think? The Kholben Shiar?"

Cerris said nothing, and Irrial scarcely seemed to notice his silence. She shook her head as though dragging her thoughts more than twenty years forward, back to today. "If you don't know what form it's taken, how am I supposed to recognize it?"

"It keeps certain traits," he said, hoping now that her memory wasn't too precise. "It'll have runes and figures adorning the head, blatant no matter what it looks like. If you stare at them long enough, they'll even seem to move."

She nodded, though her expression remained doubtful. "All right. And if I find out who has it, what then?"

An hour and more they spent in discussion, making arrangements, suggesting adjustments to each other's plans. Night was pregnant with the dawn by the time they'd finished, and Corvis-with a lingering "Thank you" whispered in Irrial's ear-had just enough time to recover his stolen uniform, make his way back through the gates, and sneak into his bunk, where he waited to rise-exhausted but newly determined-with the guards' morning summons.