Exile's Valor

stained-glass window, and raised an eyebrow. “Now I see why you put that bit of artwork in. Or one reason, anyway.”

“Yes. We cannot be watched, through such a thing,” Alberich replied.

“Hmm. And when I think of all the people who said you were the last person to put in Dethor’s shoes. . . .”

“Myself, included,” Alberich replied. Talamir gave him a penetrating look, then shrugged.

“I wouldn’t have picked Myste as a spy either,” he said. “Good night, Weaponsmaster.”

When he was gone, Alberich folded the papers into their original packet, and felt carefully under the table until he found the catch that released a little drawer inside one of the thick legs. Dethor had shown it to him, so he was reasonably sure that no one else knew about it. There were hiding places like this all over the private quarters of the salle, but this was the only one that he could use without getting up. Probably there was no one out there trying to make sense of the shadows on the other side of the colored glass, but just in case there was, there would be no way to tell that Alberich had hidden something. It only looked as if he was reaching for his drink.

And there was another set of papers on the tabletop, just in case the shadows had betrayed that Talamir had been looking at papers. This was a report about bandit activity along the Karsite Border, something that Alberich could reasonably have an interest and expertise in. If someone came to the salle in the next mark or so, Alberich would take great pains to mention that report. It wasn’t just that he was taking precautions about the papers Myste had stolen, he was protecting himself. There were a great many people in Court circles who distrusted “the Karsite,” besides those who had no reason to love him because he did not cosset their children. Sometimes he grew very tired of it all.

Layers upon layers; he envied Jadus and Elcarth and all the others who didn’t have to live their lives weaving webs of subterfuge. He wished—

Well, it didn’t matter what he wished. He would, as a gambling friend of his had often said, play out the cards he had been dealt.

Complications, complications.

“My life is full of complications,” he said aloud. There was no answer. Vkandis knew it was true enough.

Another complication: Myste herself. She’d been on his mind all day. There had been no doubt in his mind that Myste had been discreetly flirting with him last night. And he’d liked it. He’d even tried a little clumsy flirting back—

:Not as clumsy as you think,: Kantor put in. :I was pleasantly surprised. You’ve got a light: touch, when you care to use it.:

He felt himself blushing, but it was at least partly with pleasure. But what would the other Heralds think of this, if they realized that she and he were attracted to one another.?

:If they bothered to take any notice, they’ll wait to see if you mind teasing, then give you both a bit of a word about it, now and again,: Kantor told him. :Other than that, they’d probably begin a betting pool as to when the two of you decided to stop flirting and get down to something serious.:

:Serious—: he ventured.

:Bedding,: Kantor said bluntly.

Alberich bit his tongue. Quite by accident—Kantor had startled him. :But—:

:Sorry. Didn’t mean to shock you. But if this gets past flirting, Myste is going to expect it to go there. Heralds are—well, by the standards of a Karsite, they’re flagrantly immoral and utterly hedonistic when it comes to the ways of man with maid. Not that she is. Myste, I mean. She’s not a maid.:

Maybe he should have been shocked, but he wasn’t. Startled, yes, but not shocked. Well, not that Myste wasn’t a maid, anyway.

In fact, he was relieved. It had been a long time since he’d—well—and then it had been someone he’d paid. He didn’t have any practice in the more polite forms of congress, and he was probably going to step on his own feet more than once if things—got past flirting. And the ache in certain parts of him let him know in no uncertain terms that his body certainly wanted it to get past flirting. Far past flirting.

As for how she came to be not a maid, well that was her business.

Unless she made it his. And then it was even more her business. . . .

:Good man. Slow and cautious. She’s in no hurry and neither should you be.: