You tell me, Lorryn said blandly.
Nothing, that's what! The stranger emptied the cup again; this time Lorryn refilled it. You come of age, and nothing changes! You're still 'the boy,' still have to come and go as you're bid! You want to ha-have a little fun, bring in some friends, and next thing you know, he's got you hauled up in front of him like you were stealing from his money chest!
Ah, Lorryn replied wisely. I know. You want to have a little manor of your own, a few slave-girls, you ask for it, and hoy! He acts like you'd spit on the names of your Ancestors!
Oh, aye! the stranger agreed. And just try and walk off the path, just a bit, just for a lark! He's on you, he's using his power on you as if you were his slave, his property! Bad enough he crushes you down to the ground, worse that he lays the Will-Lash on you! Next thing you know, he's threatening the Change on you, to make you mind!
'To unmake your mind, you mean, Lorryn said, in a grim voice. Ah, so that's what's set this one off. Not that I blame him, not after what Rena told me. Make you into some kind of puppet, dancing to his tune!
That's ex-exactly what he said! the young elven lord said in surprise. 'You dance to my tune, boy, with the Change or without it, so put your mind to it! And next thing I know, he's got me betrothed to some whining, milk-faced girl who can't walk across a room without having vapors, who can't say three sensible words in a row, who—Ancestors, help me!—faints whenever she sees a man with his shirt off! What's she going to do when she sees more than that? And I'm stuck with her!
And if you choose to leave her in the bower, and find some fun elsewhere? Lorryn prompted.
The young lord snarled. It'll be the Change for me, my lad. I'm to do my duty by her, like a proper er-Lord, that's what! He poured another cup of wine, but this time he didn't drink it. Instead he leaned over the table and said, in a far different tone, But I've heard there's a remedy for that situation.
Lorryn made patterns on the tabletop with his finger and a bit of spilled wine. Filigree patterns. There might be—so I've heard, he said casually.
I've heard there's a bit of jewelry that can keep someone from—having magic worked on him against his will. The er-Lord looked up through his long, pale eyelashes expectantly—and a little desperately.
There might be. I've heard that. Lorryn completed his lacy pattern. I've also heard there's something of a craze for patterned silver necklaces, armbands, headbands. Very popular among the young lords these days, I'm told. You might begin to wonder if the cure for your troubles is in that jewelry, eh?
The stranger nodded eagerly. You wouldn't know where I could find a dealer for some of that—would you? A man's got to keep up with the fashions.
Lorryn pretended to think about it. You know, I might have a bit of that with me now, he replied. I'd bought it for a friend, but I could let you have it right now for the same price. I can go find the maker again, easily enough, but he's a hard man for a stranger to find.
And what would that price be? Now the er-Lord was leaning forward so eagerly that Lorryn almost spoiled the entire deal by laughing out loud. He named the price, and the stranger pulled a purse off his belt and shoved it across the table.
There's twice that in gold there, he said, his fingers twitching, as if he could not wait to get his hands on the jewelry. Take it, take it all! The desperation in his eyes overwhelmed the wine. Then again, who wouldn't be desperate, threatened with the Change?
Lorryn did not touch the purse; he carefully took a purse of his own from his belt, one containing silk-wrapped, silver plated ironwork from the hands of Diric's people, and slid it across the table. The er-Lord snatched it up, hiding it in the breast of his tunic, and only then did Lorryn take the purse of gold.
You'll want to test it, of course—for its quality and workmanship, he said. There'll be a party three nights from now in the private room above the Silver Rose. If you show up there, wearing that, someone who's an expert in jewelry will look it over for you, and you might hear something more that's likely to interest you. And keep it in the silk until you need to use it, hey? You know how things—give themselves away. You give the game away, and you'll hurt more than yourself.
The er-Lord nodded, obviously impatient to be gone. Lorryn suppressed a smile. He was able to hear this one's thoughts as clearly as if he were shouting, which, in a sense, he was. That was how Lorryn knew who the would-be informants were—and knew when he had persuaded them to his side.
This young man could hardly wait to get his prizes home. He planned to wear them constantly, as so many of his friends were, hidden beneath the silk of his clothing as like as not. And he would be at that party, another set of willing hands to aid the revolt that Lorryn was planting the seeds of. Lorryn would not even be there—
He didn't have to. The ringleader of the revolt, at least in this city, was Lord Gweriliath's seneschal, a man who had seen his precious daughter sent away as a bride to another powerful lord more than old enough to be her great-grandsire, and all to pay one of Lord Gweriliath's gambling debts. Lorryn only needed to coordinate the revolt; the ringleaders sprang up of their own accord as soon as word of the power of the jewelry began to spread.
And Lorryn had hardly been able to restrain himself when he saw, this very morning, copies of the filigree jewelry showing up in shops—but in gold, of course, and with none of the detail and intricacy of the genuine article. Before long, the er-Lords themselves might just start plating the silver with gold, and no one would ever be able to tell the difference between the genuine article and the copies.
Except by the effect—or lack of it.
I wish you well, sir, he said gravely, giving the young er-Lord the signal that the interview was over. And do enjoy the party.
I shall, trust me, I shall. And with that, the young elven lord was out of his seat and striding out of the room with no sign whatsoever that he had put away enough wine to knock out a cart-horse.
Lorryn waited a little longer, but the hour was late, and it appeared that this was going to be his final customer of the evening. He paid the tavern-keeper—and paid him generously. The tavern-keeper was a human, and under his livery tunic he wore a much simplified version of the filigree-work torque, a cross between the women's jewels and the warriors' torques. These were being turned out by the clever hands of human slaves, craftsmen bought with the gold the lords were paying for the prettier styles.
They were very popular with the slaves, although Lorryn was being very careful whom he sold—or gave—these little baubles to. It had to be to someone who had a strong grievance against his current or past masters—and yet someone who was unlikely to be on the receiving end of his current master's power. Shopkeepers were good prospects; tavern-keepers, some overseers, a concubine or two. These, Lorryn tested himself, heart and soul.
He left the half-finished pitcher of wine on the table, and went up to the third floor, bypassing the second altogether. Here was where the tavern-keeper had his own quarters, and where the offices were. And here the tavern-keeper had made a small apartment, which Lorryn lived in with his sister and with Mero.
He paused outside the door, and sent a delicate thought-touch to the occupant. Mero opened the door for him, and he slipped inside.
Convenient, this wizard-power, when you're building a conspiracy, he remarked, as Mero returned to the task he had left, of carefully wrapping silver-clad iron in swaths of silk, then slipping the resulting packet into a pouch like the one Lorryn had just given the young er-Lord below.