“Have they caused a lot of trouble?”
“Some,” Geran admitted. “But Brun Osting’s right-there’s more on the way if things keep going on as they are.” They rode into the small square at the foot of the causeway leading up to Griffonwatch. Geran reined in again and looked down at Nimessa. “Can I offer you the hospitality of Griffonwatch? I’m sure that we can find you something better to wear. Or would you rather go to your family’s holding now?”
“The Sokol concession, please,” Nimessa answered. “I have to tell our people there about Whitewing and send word to my father right away. But I thank you for the offer.”
“As you wish. Consider it a standing invitation.” Geran hid his disappointment behind a small nod. He found that he was reluctant to part company so soon. Once he escorted her to the Sokol compound, she would be back among the people and surroundings she was familiar with. He’d check on her in a few days, and if she recovered as well as he thought she might then he’d leave her be. It would likely be for the best.
Then again … he’d been haunted for almost two years now by the memories of Alliere. Maybe some part of him was hoping that Nimessa was not interested, simply so that he could go on dreaming about the elf princess he would never see again. Or was he afraid of what Mirya Erstenwold might think, if he were to start courting again? He frowned behind Nimessa, unhappy with his musings. He’d never been one to puzzle out the workings of his own heart. All he knew was that he’d spent two years living like a cloistered monk because Alliere had broken his heart, and Nimessa Sokol reminded him that he wanted to be free of her ghost.
He tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks. “The Sokol trade-yard’s not far off now. Allow me to see you home.”
THREE
14 Eleint, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
Rhovann Disarnnyl detested his human guise. He was mortified by the unkindnesses of age, the heaviness of his sagging features, the rough whiskers on his face, and the wiry, gray hair on his chest and arms. Elves suffered none of those indignities, and in his natural shape Rhovann was a fine example ofhis graceful race. He consoled himself with the thought that his disguise was only a magical glamour he could end any time he chose with a few arcane words. But the difficulty was that crafting a persona as carefully thought out as Lastannor-middle-aged, balding, with a meticulously squared beard of iron gray and a coarse, dusky, complexion-required hours of painstaking work. The trouble of re-creating his disguise was a strong incentive to endure his altered appearance as long as he could. And there was always the risk that he’d overlook some small detail like the exact shape of the nose or whether the rounded ears lay flat by the skull or stuck out like cup handles, a detail that some observant enemy might notice. Fortunately he’d had the foresight to make Lastannor as close to his own natural height and build as possible, so that he would have one less opportunity to err. No human could really match the slender athleticism of a moon elf, but Rhovann avoided trouble there simply by shaping Lastannor’s build as gaunt and by making a point of moving with a sort of exaggerated lethargy to conceal the lightness of his step.
He was nothing if not attentive to details.
“You have a sour look to you today, Lastannor,” said Lord Maroth Marstel. The Hulburgan and his House mage rode in the human noble’s carriage, rolling through the streets of Hulburg toward the castle of the Hulmasters. Marstel peered suspiciously at Rhovann with weak eyes in a red, heavy-featured face. He was a thick-bodied, white-jowled man of sixty-five years or so, with a thick mane of hair and a broad white mustache that was yellowed at the edges by his ridiculous habit of pipe-smoking. The old lord wore a scarlet tunic embroidered with his family coat of arms, which featured a leaping stag amid a whole field of gold embellishments. “What troubles you?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Rhovann lied, feigning a friendly grimace. “Something disagrees with me, my lord.” Of course, it was Marstel himself Rhovann found disagreeable. The man possessed a truly spectacular combination of loud bluster, oxlike wit, and ill-informed opinion. He seemed to crash through his days like a wagon rolling down a steep hill, completely insensitive to the damage he caused. If Rhovann hadn’t given himself the task of elevating the man’s fortunes, he might have looked on the whole affair with some small amusement. As matters stood, Rhovann had spent several months now soothing feathers Marstel ruffled every time he opened his mouth, and safeguarding the buffoon who sat in the carriage next to him from even greater disasters.
“You’re a scrawny fellow, and you hardly eat at all,” Marstel observed. “I can’t imagine why your stomach should trouble you. I think it’s a lack of exercise and fresh air. And not enough wine. Two good goblets a day would serve you well.” The white-haired lord nodded to himself, satisfied that he had diagnosed the problem. “Yes, that must be it. You should come hunting with me tomorrow. It’s always a good, vigorous day.”
Rhovann sighed. “I am afraid I have business to look after, my lord. But you should go ahead without me. As you say, the outings are good for you.” Marstel’s idea of a vigorous day of hunting was to be driven up to some wild field and seated in a comfortable chair while his servants did their best to drive game in his general direction. The old lord would spend the day getting drunk and loosing quarrels at anything that moved. While one might naturally assume that Marstel rarely hit anything, the man was a far better shot than he had a right to be, and he often collected a fair assortment of game. He also occasionally feathered one of his own dogs or beaters, especially late in the day after he was well in his cups. Fortunately Hulburg had no shortage of poor foreigners anxious to earn a few coins any way they could.
“Suit yourself, then,” Marstel said with a sniff.
Rhovann sighed. Now the old fool was going to be sore at him. Only a month or two more, he told himself. Endure this ox-brained fool just a little longer, and through him the fall of the Hulmasters will be encompassed. He flexed the cold metal of his silver hand-veiled under the illusion of human flesh and bone-and thought of Geran Hulmaster’s destruction. To slay Geran for the injuries he’d inflicted would be simple justice. What Rhovann craved was vengeance. No, before Geran Hulmaster died, Rhovann meant for his enemy to see all that he loved torn away from him. Only then would the scales lie in balance between the two of them. For that worthy end, a few months of tedious and unpleasant work were a trifle.
The carriage came to the causeway leading up to the castle of the Hulmasters and climbed up the roadway. In a few moments they rolled into the cobblestone courtyard inside Griffonwatch’s front gate and halted. Liveried footmen hopped down from the carriage’s running boards to open the door and set wooden steps for the passengers. Rhovann climbed out and settled into the shuffling gait that was almost second nature to him now; Marstel followed him. Several other coaches were already gathered in the courtyard, and another rolled in just behind Marstel’s carriage.
He leaned close to Marstel and gripped the old lord’s arm in his hand. Silently he brought the enchantments that bound the two of them together to the forefront of his mind and bent the power of his will on their invisible connection. “Speak only as I have instructed you,” he whispered into Marstel’s ear. “If you do not know how to answer a question, stay silent and give an appearance of careful thought. I will tell you what to say.”