“Ah, Tola. Good. I should very much like to keep this short.”
“I’ve no qualm with short.”
“Glorious. I find discussing politics tends to spoil the taste of cakes.”
The woman returned with menus and passed them to each of her guests. “I-I recommend the raspberry crème cake… if… if that’s not too forward.”
“Goodness no it’s not. Is it a raspberry jam?”
“It…” The shopkeep swallowed and shook herself loose of her nerves. “It is. I prepare enough when the raspberries come to season to keep through the cold.”
“Then I shall have it. Two slices, in fact.” She turned to Inney again. “I do love raspberries. Did I tell you about the time Síocháin—” Síocháin elbowed her in the ribs before she could finish the thought. “Yes. Two slices of the raspberry and… something warm.”
“We’ve drinking chocolate and—”
“Delightful. That, yes.”
Inney ordered a spiced cake and Síocháin asked for a pomegranate shortbread with cream. Tola, to Rianaire’s disappointment, ordered only warm cider, insisting he had work to complete when their business was done.
“Well enough. Then I shall be right to it. I have come to make you my Binse of Coin.”
Tola stared at her silently for a minute, searching her grinning face for some hint of the joke. “I beg pardon, Treorai.”
“Ah, the shouting of the docks must be a strain on you. Binse of Coin. You would come to the Bastion City and see to the books of the province.”
“I fear I am unfit for the work.”
“Not this again.” Rianaire complained as the cakes and drinks were sat in front of them. “Do you think I am a stupid creature, Tola?” He hesitated. “Go on, it’s not a rhetorical question.”
“No. I should say not.”
“And why? Because you fear me? Have you any reason?”
“Nothing of the sort. Our province has not known such a boon since…” He quieted, not wanting to disparage her lineage.
“Yes, yes, yes. In quite a long time.”
He nodded quietly and drank from the cider mug. “Such a thing can be no accident.”
“And you know as much because you know your work well. So tell me, if I am no stupid creature, do you believe that I make decisions so lightly? That I would simply take the word of a whoremonger and ride off to Casúr?”
“I… I cannot imagine you would do such a thing.”
Rianaire smiled wide. “Wonderful. Then, your answer? Will you become my Binse of Coin?”
He stared directly at Rianaire for a time with a serious expression on his face. He sipped the cider again and spoke. “I will need three days.”
Rianaire smiled. “Take as much as two weeks. I have other business to see to. Now, as our business is through I would very much enjoy some time with these cakes.”
“Then I’ll take my leave.” Tola stood and left, leaving the cider behind.
Rianaire plunged her fork into the cake, a bit of the raspberry jam falling onto the plate. She laughed to herself, looking at the cake. She leaned her head toward Síocháin. “Do you believe that I make decisions so lightly?”
As Inney snickered beside her, Rianaire ate the cake on her fork. “He could not imagine it, Síocháin.”
Síocháin pushed her fork into the shortbread, the shade of a smile in her voice. “He would not be the first to describe you as unimaginable.”
Rianaire laughed and took another bite from the cake. “Awful, Síocháin. Simply awful.”
U
Aile
They were flanked by satyr from before they had even left their chariots. A silent line of them staring at the old man they’d brought back. Their hero. You wouldn’t know it from the looks on the faces of the largest who came to see him on the slow walk through the camp. Some of the satyr knelt, some chittered quietly, others stared, most at him, some at her. Aile cared very little about the eyes on her. She was used to them, to say the least. It was the stink that had begun to draw thoughts of slaughtering as many of them as she could to mind. The charm of a fetid stable was slim enough when it held something of use like a horse or a noble’s carriage. The satyr camp offered no such treasures. Only an owed payment, awful food, worse drink, and the slow-turning minds of muleborn who seemed to think dying at her hand proved brave.
Ilkea was uncharacteristically quiet. She had withdrawn into herself again among the people who hated her for the station of her birth. The girl, for her part, was fool enough to dream that some sort of grand act might endear the rest to her. It had been hard for Aile to imagine a race more wrapped up in idiot sentiment than the elves, but the satyr were successful at that if nothing else. They grasped their customs and their honor and their ignorance tight and pushed it on any who made the mistake of drawing near with all the beaming pride of a dim child.
When they had finally reached the tent, Ilkea pulled the flap aside. Aile motioned Shahuor in and followed, finding Salaar sat at his desk. Ilkea let the flap fall and moved to the side of the desk.
“I see you have succeeded in your mission.”
Aile sat. “I would have my pay.”
“How fastidious.” The faun looked to Shahuor and motioned to a seat. The satyr ignored the offer. “Very well. Shahuor, you do honor me with your presence. I do apologize for the accommodations and the shared chariot. We have little we can spare.”
He paused there, expecting an answer from the old goat. Not finding one, he continued.
“You are welcome to anything that we have, Shahuor. Food, drink, beds, women.” He paused again only to be met with unrelenting silence and a grim stare. He began again, trying to maintain his upbeat nature. “Well, if it please you, then go and be among your people.”
Shahuor chuffed and turned, pushing his way out of the tent.
“Well, a shorter greeting
