of our animals? Isn’t the dreadful mask enough?”
“Fear not, Senator,” Willem reassured him. “For me, the weasel has always been of interestits habits and its upbringing. I chose the mask for that reason, not the other way around. A similar devotion on the part of any other guest to their totems is hardly required. But in any event, I hope the ambassador is entertained.”
“I am,” she replied. “But I hadn’t intended to inquire into the secret mating rituals of the weasel. I remain curious as to why one of His Majesty’s subjects sits on the governing body of an independent city-state so far from home? Surely a young man of your accomplishments could have found a suitable position at home?”
“One would think,” Willem answered, letting all the bile, all the old animosity he could muster weigh heavily on his words. Meykhati actually took a step back, Insithryllax tensed as if expecting a fight to break out, and Thurene gasped. “But, alas, I was wooed away. Once again, I’m reminded of the weasel. Their fur-lined dens are stolen from the burrowing animals they’ve killed and eaten.”
“Have you killed and eaten us then?” Meykhati asked.
“Not quite eaten yet, no,” replied Willem.
A waiter passed by, his naked body painted to resemble the colorful feathers of a native bird Willem didn’t know the name of. He took a tallglass of wine from the proffered tray and drained half of it in a single swallow. The mask made that difficult, but he managed it without spilling any, even with his mother pulling on his arm.
The master builder cleared his throat and said, “So, Willem, do tell. Have you given any further thought to Phyrea?”
“Phyrea?” the ambassador asked.
“The master builder’s lovely and charming daughter,” Thurene answered. “Senator Inthelph and I have hopes for them.”
“Our humble take on the royal marriage,” Meykhati joked.
Willem took a deep breath and almost spilled the wine on his silk tunic when he went to touch the brooch again. It steeled his nerves, but did nothing to help him organize his thoughts. The mention of that name was enough to send him almost into a swoon. Phyreabeautiful and disturbed, with her bizarre convictions and mysterious agendasand Halinasoft and insubstantial, but comfortablethe two women in his life.
“Really, my dear,” Thurene said, “what could possibly cause you to hesitate? She’s such a lovely girl.”
Three women, Willem corrected himself.
“Gracious as always, Madam Korvan,” the master builder gushed.
But Willem knew all too well why Inthelph wanted him to marry his daughter. He thought Willem could rein her in, settler her, control her, and make her something she wasn’t. He couldn’t even do that for himself without the aid of Thayan magic. He touched the brooch again and felt just a little less warmth.
“In the winter,” he said, “the weasel’s fur turns white.” He gestured with his tallglass to indicate the white mask he wore. “If this was the Midsummer revel, I’d have had it painted brown. Phyrea is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
There was another heavy silence, but Willem felt less inclined to revel in it. Insithryllax and Kurtsson traded a look. Thurene moved her hand up his arm and found fresh skin to mar with her expensively-manicured talons. The ambassador studied him from behind her eagle mask as though he’d just crawled up out of the sea. Meykhati chuckled, and the master builder nodded in a confused, dull way.
“If you will excuse us,” Insithryllax said, and with a bow of his dragon head, he and Kurtsson moved away.
Willem caught a glimpse of a woman with a mouse mask standing behind them and got the distinct impression that she had been eavesdropping. Before he could study her in any detail, though, the master builder stole his attention.
“What do you say, Willem?”
“Yes, my dear,” Thurene pressed. “Wouldn’t the ransar’s New Year’s Masque be the perfect place for such lovely news?”
“Phyrea?” Willem asked, and they all nodded, even the woman from Cormyr. “The weasel is a night hunter that kills by biting into the back of its victim’s neck.”
“You mean its prey,” said the ambassador.
“Yes, my dear,” Thurene said with another painful squeeze, “do say what you mean.”
“Not everyone is fond of the weasel,” he said, “though its poor reputation is hardly deserved. So it takes a chicken or two here and there. It also eats rats and mice, so even a chicken farmer can appreciate it. It’s as noble a creature as any, the weasel, and deserves a chance to survive.”
“I’m sure we would all do our best to preserve the noble weasel,” Meykhati said, his voice making it plain what he wanted from Willem.
Willem touched the brooch and studied at the people who looked at him through their masks. Their eyes pulled at him.
“Even weasels must come together for the good of their kind,” Willem said.
“Indeed,” said Meykhati. “Even weasels.”
“Master Builder,” Willem said, turning to address Inthelph. Thurene’s hand fell away from his arm, and he heard her breath catch. “In the spirit of the noble weasel, in the home of our ransar, in the presence of my mother, and because her beauty is unparalleled in all the world, I humbly seek your permission to ask your daughter to become my wife.”
Willem ignored the ensuing gaggle of congratulations. He didn’t really even hear the master builder give him his blessing, but he of course didand with great enthusiasm. Instead, his attention was drawn to the woman with the mouse mask, who stood several paces away, staring at him. He blinked, but couldn’t quite see her eyes. Still, there was something familiar about her.
“Oh, it will be a grand affair!” Thurene all but shrieked.
He glanced at her, but then movement drew his eye back to the mouse. She took her mask off with a shaking hand.
“Halina,” Willem whispered.
Tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at him.
Willem touched the brooch, but it wasn’t courage he needed just then.
“Willem, dear,” his mother all but shouted at him. She grabbed his arm, again and he flinched.
Meykhati clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Well done, Senator. Well done, indeed.”
Willem forced his gaze away from Halina, but he could see her turn and run into the crowd of revelers from the corner of his eye. He spent the rest of the last night of the Year of the Sword talking about weasels and marriage.
28
30 Nightal, the Yearofthe Sword (1365 DR) The Canal Site
He moved on top of her, inside her, to a rhythm that had started out as his own, but had become a perfect fusion of two heartbeats. Phyrea let herself gasp, let a tear trickle from the corner of one eye, and let her body take his and be taken by his. She gave herself to Ivar Devorast as best she could when he wanted so little of her. He made no sounds, but his body told her that he wanted her, wanted nothing more at that moment than to be there with her. She had from him the best he could give, and more than she could ever truly have hoped for: his undivided attention.
When finally he slipped off her, Phyrea had to gasp for air. Though it was cold in his odd little cabin, a sheen of sweat covered her. She lay there until she began to shiver before she drew the blanket over herself. He looked down at her, and she wanted him to see her. The air could have been drawn from the room, the blood drained from her heart, but as long as his eyes were on her she would be sustained.
He smiled at her in that way he had that made it appear as though he knew everything, and she shivered again.
Outside, the whistle of the winter wind mixed with the sound of men drinking and laughing, shouting and
