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
