The Wyvern's Spur

10 Cat’s Master

From the journal of Giogioni Wyvernspur:

Giogi leaned back in his chair and waved his quill idly in the air. Having settled his guest in her room, he’d returned to the parlor to make a quick entry in his journal before heading off to Redstone.

As usual when he wrote in his journal, there were things he thought it best not to record. Aside from keeping secret his Cousin Julia’s scandalous behavior in the graveyard, he couldn’t bring himself to reveal that Cat was the second thief. She hadn’t actually stolen anything, after all, and she’d apparently left Flattery’s evil influence.

Giogi realized he could not mention that he knew Cat to be a Wyvernspur, either, since that would put her under suspicion of the theft. That meant he could not mention a speculation he’d formed regarding the identity of the thief.

As he’d been writing in his journal, it had seemed an awfully unusual coincidence that both Flattery and Uncle Drone had found unknown Wyvernspurs to enter the crypt for them. This had reminded him of how unusual it was that he’d run into two women who looked like Alias of Westgate. That’s when it had struck him. Perhaps Alias was a Wyvernspur, too.

If that were the case, the swordswoman could be the thief. Last night, Sudacar had said she was supposed to be in Shadowdale working for Elminster the sage, but perhaps Sudacar was mistaken. There was one person who might know for sure: Alias’s friend and patron, Olive Ruskettle, who happened to be in town.

Giogi laid his quill down. He would go see Frefford’s new baby first, he decided, then speak with Aunt Dorath about the spur. There was no point, he realized, in trying to get in touch with Mistress Ruskettle before sunset. All entertainers slept in the day. After supper, he could stop in at the Fish to see if the famous bard was in.

Mistress Ruskettle, the famous bard, stirred uneasily in her sleep. She was plagued by nightmares of Cassana, the evil sorceress who’d created and tried to enslave Alias. In the current dream, Cassana was not destroyed, but had transformed into a lich, an undead magic-user. Cassana wore, as she had in life, the most expensive clothing and jewelry. All her finery could not hide her emaciated form, nor distract Olive’s gaze from her withered skeletal face, which had once resembled Alias’s.

In Olive’s dream, the Cassana lich had captured Jade, but Olive, in her halfling form, was too frightened to rescue her. Instead, she fled from Cassana. As often happened in dreams, though, no matter how fast Olive tried to run, she seemed to stand still. She heard a horse whickering. If I could just find the horse, catch it, and mount it, Olive thought, I could ride to safety.

The horse whickered again. Olive started awake. She was back in Immersea, in Giogi’s carriage house, still a burro.

“Silly mare. Here, have some oats,” a familiar voice said.

Olive peered through a gap in her stall wall. Cat stood outside Daisyeye’s stall with her hand extended out to the mare. The mage had successfully routed the horse’s instinct to raise an alarm by bribing it with more of the sweetened grain. The beast sniffed curiously, nuzzled up the treat, and lost its distrust of the woman.

Sleet still splashed and skittered on the roof overhead, but some gray daylight trickled into the carriage house from a window. Late afternoon, Olive guessed.

What’s she doing here? the halfling wondered. Maybe she’s decided to leave Giogi, after all, Olive thought, and she’s here to steal Daisyeye to escape. It occurred to Olive again that Giogi’s Uncle Drone might have been wrong about Giogi not finding the spur’s real thief in the catacombs. Cat could have had the spur all along and been only waiting for the most opportune moment to run off with it.

Instead of saddling the horse, though, Cat drew out a sheet of white paper from a pocket of her muddy robes. She began folding the paper, over and over, pulling and tucking corners until it resembled a long-winged bird.

She held the bird up to her face and stared at it angrily. With a sudden motion, she crumbled the figure and tossed it into Olive’s stall.

Olive watched Cat walk to the outside door, but the mage hesitated with her hand around the door handle. She turned about and walked back to Olive’s stall.

Unlatching the door, Cat slipped in beside the burro. She fished about the straw on the floor until she’d found the crushed paper bird. She smoothed the paper out against her thigh and folded it back into shape.

Holding the figure to her lips, she whispered, “Master Flattery, your Cat has information about the spur. She begs thee to come swiftly to her. She waits alone in Giogioni Wyvernspur’s carriage house.”

The mage walked out of Olive’s stall so preoccupied with her paper bird that she left the door open. She walked back to the outside door, opened the upper half, and held the rumpled figure in her palm. The bird twitched, then fluttered its wings. “Fly to my master’s throne,” Cat instructed. The paper bird sped from the carriage house and disappeared into the sleet.

Cat left the upper half of the door open, climbed up into the unharnessed, open buggy, and settled onto the cushioned seat. She sighed once and sat very still with her hands folded in her lap. She closed her eyes, but not completely, and from her posture, the halfling could tell she was still alert and aware.

Olive trembled with anger. The treacherous witch didn’t waste any time, the halfling thought. As quietly as she could, the burro tiptoed out of the stall and slipped into the shadows at the rear of the carriage house. How long, she wondered, would it take for Cat’s master to arrive from his throne? Cassana and ol’ Zrie Prakis sat on thrones. Mages who sit on thrones always mean trouble, Olive-girl. They take themselves too seriously.

Either Cat’s little paper bird had the speed of a dragon, or her master’s throne was just on the other side of town. Whichever it was, the woman didn’t have too long to wait. In less time than it took to hard-cook an egg, something arrived.

A huge black raven swooped through the open upper door and landed on the buggy’s lantern pole. The bird shook its feathers dry and fluttered to the buggy seat beside Cat. At first, Olive thought the bird was some sort of magical messenger, perhaps Flattery’s familiar. Then the raven grew monstrously. Its feathers became cloth and hair, its wings turned into arms, and its claws into legs. Cat remained still and silent throughout the transformation.

The raven finished changing into a man. He wore a black cloak of great size. Silky black hair, shinier than raven’s feathers, hung to his shoulders. His face was turned away from Olive, but the halfling had no trouble hearing his words, and there was something disturbingly familiar in his deep bass rumble. “Well, Catling?” he demanded.

Cat trembled and bowed her head. When she spoke, her tone was so meek that Olive cringed to hear it. “Forgive me, master,” Cat said. “I failed at the task you set me.”

Without a word, Flattery backhanded the woman across her face. The crack of his hand on Cat’s flesh startled Daisyeye, who kicked at her stall and nickered nervously. Olive backed up, prepared for an awful fight. Only last month, she’d witnessed Jade slash the finger off some fool mercenary who’d pinched her, and, of course, everyone who’d tried to keep Alias as a slave was dead, by her hand or the hands of her allies. Olive had a momentary fear that the carriage house would not be big enough to contain any magical reaction by the sharp-tongued female mage, sister to both Jade and Alias.

Cat sat motionless. She uttered no sound of protest. Her head remained bowed.

“Since I set you this simple task the spur has twice defied my power to detect it. Your failure could mean we’ve lost it forever,” Flattery snarled.

“The spur was not where you said it would be.”

“Are you saying I made a mistake?” Flattery asked.

“No, master. I’m saying someone else stole it before I reached the crypt.”

“Who?” Flattery demanded.

“I don’t know,” Cat answered. She continued hurriedly, “But I may be able to discover that information.” She paused as if hoping for some sign of pleasure or excitement from her master, but she hoped in vain.

“Continue,” Flattery said coolly.

“I saw no one else in the catacombs that evening,” Cat explained, “save the monsters who live there. After searching the crypt and finding the spur gone, I tried to leave the catacombs by the secret door, but it was sealed from without. I returned to the crypt, but the door to the mausoleum staircase was locked. I was trapped inside.” The woman’s voice quavered with the memory of the fear she’d felt when she’d been imprisoned underground.

Flattery was not as sympathetic to her plight as Giogi had been. In fact, the wizard was not sympathetic at all. “You should have stayed there and saved me the trouble of listening to your pitiful excuses,” he growled.

Cat trembled for a minute. Olive thought the woman might be weeping, but since the halfling couldn’t see the mage’s face, she couldn’t be sure.

“Continue,” Flattery snapped.

Cat sniffled once and obeyed. “Giogioni Wyvernspur found me in the catacombs,” she said. “I told him what I have told you, that I did not steal the spur only because someone else stole it first, and he believed me completely. His uncle, Drone Wyvernspur, had told him he would not find the thief in the catacombs, and he took the old man’s word as prophecy.

“Realizing that Drone must know something more of the thief, I arranged to return with Giogioni, planning to meet Drone and wheedle his information from him. Drone died this morning, however, in a spell gone awry.”

“The town heralds announced his death,” Flattery said. For the first time, he sounded pleased. “Not that it came as a surprise, did it?” he chuckled.

“I don’t understand,” Cat replied with confusion. “His family seemed rather shocked by it.”

Flattery snorted derisively. “You can be such a fool. I presume,” he said imperiously, “that you have an excuse for not returning to me immediately after you discovered Drone Wyvernspur was dead.”

“Drone left a message for Giogioni Wyvernspur instructing him to find the thief,” Cat explained anxiously. “If I remain beside Giogioni, and he succeeds, I shall have the information you seek.”

“By all reports, this Giogioni is an idiot and a fop. How can he succeed where I cannot? You are wasting both your time and my own,” Flattery growled.

“Yet, Drone Wyvernspur confided in Giogioni and left the search in his hands. Didn’t you tell me yesterday that Drone was shrewd?”

“Yes,” Flattery admitted reluctantly. He sat, unspeaking, for several moments, deep in his own thoughts. Finally he asked Cat, “Under what pretext are you remaining beside this Giogioni?”

“I told him I was afraid to return to my master without the spur. He has offered me protection from you.”

Flattery burst into laughter. The sound echoed unpleasantly through the carriage house rafters and made Olive’s fur-clad flesh crawl. The wizard leaped down from the buggy, grasped the rear right wheel in his hands, and snapped it in half. As the axle crashed to the ground, Cat lost her balance. Flattery caught her in his arms and spun around wildly. To Olive, his treatment of the woman appeared not like a dancer swinging a partner, but like a vicious dog shaking a rag doll.

When he stopped his mad capering, Flattery fell back against Daisyeye’s stall. Still holding Cat in his arms, he whispered harshly, “The Wyvernspur never breathed who could protect you should I find you’ve betrayed me. Don’t ever forget that.”

A dim beam of light illuminated his face, revealing the terrifying rictus grin he wore. Olive’s heart skipped several beats, and she forgot to breathe for a moment as she stared in horror at Flattery’s face. He had cruel ice-blue eyes, a hawk nose, thin lips, a sharp jawline—all the features of a Wyvernspur on a face younger than Nameless’s and older than Steele’s and Frefford’s. The face of Jade’s murderer.

“You trust me with so little. How can it be in my power to betray you?” Cat asked.

Flattery’s eyes glowered. “Don’t nip at me, foolish Cat. What’s annoyed you now?”

“You did not tell me of the guardian of the crypt.”

Flattery shrugged as he set her down. “What of it?”

“The guardian slays anyone in the crypt who is not a Wyvernspur. You told me nothing of this. You did not even tell me you were a Wyvernspur.”

“So you’ve figured that out, have you?” Flattery laughed. “What difference does it make? I saw to your protection. I gave you my name.”

“Is that the only reason you insisted I wed you?” Cat asked. Her tone was meek but expectant.

Flattery laughed again. “Is your pride wounded, Cat?”

“Is that the only reason?” Cat demanded more firmly.

Flattery sobered. “I haven’t decided yet,” he replied coldly.

“Suppose the guardian hadn’t recognized our marriage? You’re a Wyvernspur. Why didn’t you go after the spur yourself? Why did you send me in your place?”

Flattery’s hand shot out with the swiftness of a viper, gathering up the front of Cat’s robes and pulling her toward him so that her face was just below his. “You have to do something to prove your worth, you lazy witch,” the wizard said.

Moving his hands to her waist, Flattery lifted the woman from the ground and tossed her away from him, but, like her namesake, Cat managed to twist about and land on her feet. Flattery grabbed at her long hair and pulled her back toward him. He yanked her around by her arm.

“You have sworn to serve me,” he reminded her.

Cat’s stance became submissive at once. Her shoulders slumped. Her head was again bowed. All the fight, what little there was of it, had gone out of the woman. She whispered, “Yes, master.”

Flattery smiled. “I will expect to meet with you again tomorrow,” he said.

“I will arrange it, master.”

“Spur this Giogioni on, Catling. I know you can.”

“Yes, master.”

Flattery pushed himself away from Daisyeye’s stall and walked back toward the buggy. He spun around to keep Cat in his sight, as if expecting her to jump him once his back was turned, but she remained as still as ever. Olive, too, remained frozen, terrified of revealing her position.

Bored by Cat’s silence and submissiveness, Flattery let his gaze wander past her. His eyes fell on the portrait of the Nameless Bard that hung in Olive’s stall.

The wizard snarled like an animal. “Flame spears,” he said, gesturing with his hands toward the stall. Jets of flame sprang from his fingertips and enveloped the painting hanging over Olive’s oat bucket. The painting crashed to the floor and spread fire to the straw on the floor. Daisyeye, in the stall next door, whinnied.

“Master Flattery, what are you doing?” Cat cried out with fright.

“What do you care? Curse him. Curse them all. May their homes burn while they dream inside.”

“This place is too useful for private meetings,” Cat argued, rushing toward the fire, her meekness now forgotten.

“Then you preserve it,” Flattery snapped. He flung his arms out from his body and snarled a chant of arcane words. His voice became hoarse and sharp, and his form small and feathered. He cawed raucously in his raven shape, then hurtled out the open window and into the gloom.

Cursing, Cat grabbed the burro’s oat bucket and used it to dredge water from the beast’s trough to throw on the fire. By the time she had doused the last flame and spark, the mage was as sodden as the straw around her.

Cat picked the portrait up from the ground, but the paint was too blackened for her to make out what there was about it that had so angered Flattery. She leaned the charred frame and canvas against the wall and turned to the next stall to calm Daisyeye. The mare accepted her caresses and reassurances and could not find the heart to refuse another handful of oats from the mage.

Stupid horse, Olive thought.

It was then that Cat noticed the missing burro.

“Birdie?” she whispered. “Little one?”

Olive froze.

“Birdie, I know you’re in here. Come out, you silly ass.”

Olive held her breath.

Cat rustled her hand in the oat bag. “Want a treat, Birdie?”

Olive felt her nose twitch from the smell of smoke.

“Have it your way,” Cat said into the darkness. “Giogioni can think you caused this mess for all I care.” After giving Daisyeye a last pat on the rear, the mage returned to the outer door, joined the lower half to the upper, slipped outside, and closed the door behind her.

Olive remained still, hidden in the shadows of the carriage house, until long after the sound of Cat’s footsteps faded from her hearing.

She crept back into her blackened stall, keeping a sharp eye out for any telltale sparks Cat might have missed. The mage seemed to have done an adequate job keeping the carriage house from destruction. Too bad she hasn’t got the same concern for Giogi, the halfling thought.

Even if she was concerned for the young Wyvernspur noble, Olive couldn’t picture Cat standing in Flattery’s way should he decide to destroy Giogi the way he murdered Jade.

It was beyond Olive’s capacity to understand how Cat could transform from a clever and confident mage, able to manipulate foolish young men into taking her home, to a humble and frightened slave, who watched in silence while someone wrecked carriages and burned down horse stalls. What kind of power did Flattery have over her that he could bully her like a whipped child and had even coerced her into marriage?

Somehow, Olive realized, she had to keep Cat from double-crossing Giogi. Olive snorted derisively at herself. I have as much chance at that, the halfling thought, as I do at convincing her to help me destroy Flattery to avenge Jade.

She would be the perfect choice, though, Olive mused. Flattery trusts her as much as his insanity will allow. It would be so fitting if he were destroyed by someone with the same face as the woman he murdered.

Olive pondered the idea while she munched on hay in the smoky carriage house.

Giogi reached out and stroked his new cousin’s tiny left hand. Her delicate fingers opened at his touch, like a moss rose in the sun.

“She’s just perfect, Freffie,” Giogi whispered. “As pretty as her mother.”

“Well, she gets some of her good looks from me, don’t you think?” Frefford asked.

Giogi looked up at his Cousin Frefford and back down at the baby girl sleeping in the maple cradle. Then he looked up again at Frefford, then back down at the baby. “Not if she’s lucky,” he said with a grin.

Frefford chuckled.

“It’s so exciting, Freffie,” Giogi said. “You’re a father now, and I’m an uncle. Wait. I’m not really, am I? Just a second cousin once removed.”

“You can be an uncle if you want, Giogi,” Frefford said. “Lady Amber Leona Wyvernspur,” Frefford whispered to the sleeping baby, “this is your rich Uncle JoJo. Learn to say his name, and he’ll buy you all the ponies you want.”

Giogi grinned.

“I’m going to check to see if Gaylyn’s awake yet,” Frefford said. “You can stay here if you like.”

Giogi nodded. “Give Gaylyn my regards,” he said.

“I will,” Frefford whispered. He tiptoed from the nursery, where his daughter lay on display for well-wishers to view while his wife slept undisturbed in the next room.

Giogi had the baby all to himself now, since the well-wishers had been few so far. Some, no doubt, had been discouraged by the awkwardness of having to deliver congratulations and condolences in the same breath. The majority, Giogi assumed, had been put off by the awful weather.

The sleet had wrapped everything in a thick coating of ice, and Immersea looked like it had been encased in glass. Unwilling to risk Daisyeye on the slick roads, Giogi had once again hiked up the path to Redstone. It had been rough going, but the fields and marshes had offered his feet far more traction than the cobblestone roads would have. This latest exertion, combined with having risen at dawn after a late night of drinking, followed by walking miles through the catacombs, had left the nobleman exhausted.

Giogi slid a rocking chair up beside the cradle and collapsed into it. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than just sit here with you, Amberry,” he whispered to the baby. “It’s so snug and peaceful here, I could almost forget all the bad things that have happened.”

Giogi closed his eyes and lay his head back. His breathing slowed and grew more shallow. Giogi felt himself beginning to soar. He was dreaming again. He opened his eyes in his dream and found the field he soared over covered in ice, like the fields surrounding Immersea. A little burro trotted into view.

Giogi gasped. Not Birdie! he thought. Unable to speak in the dream, the nobleman urged the burro mentally, Run, Birdie! Birdie needed no warning. She began to gallop downhill, but her hooves slid on the ice, and she ended up on her front knees with her back legs splayed out behind her. Giogi swooped down. Birdie brayed pitifully.

“Giogioni Wyvernspur! Just what do you think you’re doing here?” a female voice barked.

Giogi started awake. He had no idea how long he’d slept, but if Aunt Dorath caught him napping, a minute would be as bad as an hour. Aunt Dorath was of the opinion that a healthy young person did not need to sleep in the day, and Giogi could hardly offer her the excuse that he was tired because he’d been out late drinking with Samtavan Sudacar.

The young nobleman leaped to his feet. “Good afternoon, Aunt Dorath. I was just having a peek at Amber. Freffie said it was all right if I sat with her a few minutes.”

“He did, did he? He would,” Aunt Dorath said with a sniff. “Did he also give you permission to slough off your duties? Or have you forgotten that this family is in the middle of a crisis of unimaginable proportions? The curse of the wyvern’s spur has already claimed Cousin Drone and nearly took Steele as well, yet here I find you napping.”

Giogi meant to point out to his aunt that Steele had brought his injuries on himself by his horrendous behavior, and that he, Giogi, had played no small part in rescuing Steele from the jaws of death, as it were, but he was never given the opportunity. Not even magic could stop the avalanche of Aunt Dorath’s harangue.

“Yet, despite his brush with the hereafter,” she continued, “Steele went off immediately after lunch in search of a discreet high priest or mage who might help us locate the spur. Of course, you’ve made discretion rather unnecessary, haven’t you? I’ve just learned that our family’s tragedy was the talk of every tavern in Immersea last night. No wonder you can’t stay awake—you were carousing in town all night, discussing family business, both of which I specifically forbade you to do.”

“But I didn’t mean—” Giogi began to say.

“I will not accept your overindulgences with alcohol as an excuse for divulging our family’s problems, nor for sleeping when you should be performing some task that will aid in the spur’s recovery. The only person with any excuse for resting on this day is Gaylyn. And Amber, of course. Even Frefford has assigned himself a task. He is investigating every stranger in town who might possibly be a long-lost relation and our thief.”

Giogi’s exhaustion got the better of his temper. “What about Julia? Why not just have her listen at the door of the thieves’ guild?” he asked sarcastically.

Aunt Dorath’s brow knit in annoyance. Her reaction was a clue to her great-nephew that she already had some inkling of Julia’s eavesdropping. The old woman recovered her lost ground quickly, though. “Julia,” she replied frostily, “is seeing to the arrangements for Cousin Drone’s memorial service. Now, what do you propose to do in what time remains today?”

Well, Giogi thought, straightening up, here goes. “I plan to discover the spur’s secret powers,” he announced.

“The spur doesn’t have any secret powers,” Aunt Dorath snapped.

“Oh, but it does,” Giogi insisted. “My father used the spur’s powers whenever he went adventuring.”

Aunt Dorath gave a little gasp and sank into the rocking chair. “Who told you that?” she demanded. “It was Cousin Drone, wasn’t it? I should have realized his oath was not to be trusted.”

“Uncle Drone didn’t tell me, Aunt Dorath,” the nobleman insisted. Angry with the old woman for keeping his father’s adventuring a secret from him, Giogi felt spite take hold of him. “Actually, it’s common knowledge,” he taunted. “They talk about it in every tavern in Immersea.”

Aunt Dorath leaned forward in the rocker and poked Giogi in the rib with her finger. “This is not a joking matter,” she reprimanded him.

“No,” Giogi agreed, feeling bad for trying to shock her. “It is a family matter, though.” He bent over his aunt and put his hands on her shoulders. “I have a right to know about my father,” he said vehemently. “You should have told me.”

Aunt Dorath glared up at him. “All right,” she replied hotly. “Cole used to tramp about the countryside in the company of rogues and ruffians, and whenever he left, he took the spur from the crypt. Not that I blame Cole. Your Uncle Drone, to his everlasting guilt, aided him, and Cole hadn’t the force of will to resist the spirit of that she-beast. She used those awful dreams to seduce him from his family’s side.”

“She-beast?” Giogi asked. “Do you mean the guardian?”

Dorath’s voice rose sharply as she retorted. “Of course I mean the guardian. What other she-beast lurks in our family?”

Giogi bit the inside of his cheeks and fought back his urge to reply.

“Who else,” Dorath asked, “is always babbling about the death cry of prey, or the taste of warm blood, or the crunch of bone?”

“She’s talked to you, too?” Giogi squeaked in astonishment.

“Of course she’s talked to me, you fool,” the old woman replied. “You don’t imagine that out of fifteen generations of Wyvernspurs you were the only child ever locked down in that crypt by accident, do you?”

Amber gurgled and squawked in her cradle, and Aunt Dorath rose to pat the infant reassuringly. Frefford’s daughter quieted.

“Do you have the same dreams, too?” Giogi asked.

For a moment, it looked as if some fearful memory disturbed Aunt Dorath’s composure, but she shook her head once, the way a horse would to dislodge a gadfly, and her face grew calm. “I had them once,” she admitted softly, then added more sternly, “but I ignored them, as would any well-bred young woman.”

“But they don’t go away,” Giogi whispered.

Aunt Dorath turned from the cradle and put her hands on Giogi’s shoulders. “You must keep ignoring them,” she insisted, giving him a shake. “You are a Wyvernspur. You belong with your family in Immersea. All that gadding about the Realms with the spur got your father was killed.”

“He didn’t die from a riding accident like you said, did he?” Giogi accused the old woman. “How did he die?”

“How do all adventurers die? Fell monsters hunt them. Ruthless bandits slaughter them. Evil wizards turn them to dust. It didn’t make any difference to me. Cole was dead. He died far too young and far too far from home. Your Uncle Drone fetched his body back. We never discussed how he died. My only concern was that it should not happen again.”

“I need to know the spur’s power,” Giogi said. “It could be a clue to who the thief is.”

“No,” Dorath answered. “It’s not. Even if it were, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Giogi sighed with exasperation. “Aunt Dorath, I don’t want to use the spur,” he insisted. “I just want to know what it does.”

Aunt Dorath shook her head in refusal. “I’m doing this for your own good, Giogi. I won’t watch another member of our family destroyed by that cursed thing.” She turned back to the cradle and readjusted the blankets around the baby.

“If you won’t tell me, Aunt Dorath, I shall have to find out from someone else,” Giogi threatened.

“There is no one else,” his aunt said, stroking Amber’s hand with her finger.

Giogi racked his brain for an idea of who could tell him about the spur.

“I’m the last member of the family who knows,” Aunt Dorath whispered down to the baby.

“Then I’ll have to ask an outsider,” Giogi said. It came to him suddenly. There was someone who’d known his father, someone who’d promised to talk more about him. Someone his aunt would hate to think of as telling him the family secrets. “I’ll have to ask Sudacar,” he said.

Aunt Dorath whirled and glared at Giogi. “That upstart?” She sniffed. “What could he possibly know? He doesn’t swallow without advice from his herald.”

“He met Cole at court. He knows all about Cole’s adventures,” Giogi answered, hoping it were really true.

Aunt Dorath’s eyes narrowed into slits. Giogi could tell she was calculating what Sudacar knew. She called her kinsman’s bluff. “Go ahead,” she said. “Ask Samtavan Sudacar. You’ll be wasting your time, though.”

“I will ask him,” Giogi retorted. “Right now.” He leaned over and stroked Amber’s little ear before turning about and striding from the nursery. “Good afternoon, Aunt Dorath,” he whispered as he left.