Henamor had taken out a small silver knife—of a finer quality than anything that had ever graced Garen's stock—and cut away the wax seal surrounding the cork on the stone bottle. With great care, he withdrew the cork, and poured one of the small silver cups full, sniffing at it delicately and then smiling.
'Ah. An unexpected surprise, and pleasure. I'm sure you'll find this an unanticipated change from what you're forced to deal with here in the rural outlands.' He poured the second cup full as well, and passed it toward Garen.
Generally Garen did not care for brandy. He found it harsh and biting, and its only virtue was that it got a man drunk far more quickly than wine. This brandy, however, was nothing at all like any he had ever experienced— mellow and fiery, with no bitterness to it at all.
'More what you're used to, eh?' Henamor said with a congenial chuckle.
'I… yes,' Garen said. Suddenly he very much didn't want his new friend to lump him in with the boors and country bumpkins that surrounded them. He wanted to seem to be the sort of fellow who drank this kind of brandy as a matter of course.
'Well, we must all make sacrifices…for the good of the City.'
Garen nearly choked on his drink. Was Henamor hinting that he was actually in a situation similar to Garen's—an agent of the Golden City?
He'd better not say anything. The penalties if he made a mistake would be too dreadful to contemplate.
But oh, only imagine if it were true! Obviously, this man was a full citizen, and had mistaken Garen for the same. How wonderful to think that his years of study and sacrifice had borne fruit, just as he had always hoped…
IN his guise of Henamor Lear (he had not been able to resist using the name, and the real Lear was long past complaining), secret agent of Armethalieh, Prince Zyperis stifled his laughter with an effort. How very easy it was to fool these brutish, half-bestial humans! It didn't even require any more magic than was necessary to disguise himself as one of them. Why, the gullible fool—who was, in fact, one of Lycaelon's own handpicked Undermages, his true memories hidden behind a spell-screen until his field assignment should be complete, or unless true danger threatened him personally—wanted to believe 'Henamor.' He wanted to think he was special, and superior to these simple farmers, when in fact Zyperis could tell no particular difference between them.
Other than that Garen had power, of course. And if the situation had been otherwise, he would have taken very great delight in charming Garen Miq entirely into his clutches and then ripping the spell-screen from his mind, allowing him to know just who—and what—had beguiled him. So many of the High Mages were so conservative…
But today he acted at the word of Queen Savilla, and his dearest mama had other plans entirely for Garen Miq.
Fortunately for Garen Miq.
So Prince Zyperis went on pretending to be Henamor Lear, implying that Lear was a High Mage of the Golden City, traveling in disguise, and that Garen—foolish softskin!—was Henamor's equal in all things. He plied Garen with excellent and only slightly spellbound brandy, and he talked.
Oh, yes, he talked.
'No doubt, dear Garen, you saw the Outlaw Hunt go by this spring— or heard of it at least? It is a terrible thing when a citizen is Banished— worse by far when it is the Arch-Mage's own son!'
He leaned forward, placing his hand over Garen's confidentially. By now the man was more than a little drunk, but not so drunk that he did not hear every word—and would not report them all to his masters.
'The Arch-Mage's son was Banished?' Garen breathed, sobering a little at such a shockingly intimate piece of gossip.
'Oh, yes,' Zyperis/Henamor said confidingly, lowering his voice. 'They're keeping it very quiet, of course—and quieter still that the boy escaped the Hunt. He's living just the other side of the border, with his sister. Near a Centaur village—Merryvale, I think they call it. Someone here would know where it is… for the right price. I suppose he thinks he's safe enough.'
It was amazing just how much Brightworlders could resemble goblins when they really tried—without, of course, having any of the little creatures' more endearing characteristics. Garen Miq looked very much as if he were about to swell up and explode, and his eyes were as round and bulging as fishes' eggs.
'Are you sure?' Garen said in a strangled whisper.
'Dear fellow, I saw him myself,' Zyperis drawled. 'No mistaking Kellen Tavadon—or his sister. Go see for yourself, if you doubt me. It's only a couple of days from here, I expect.'
'I will,' Garen said boldly.
