“Haris! . . . Uhm, excuse me . . . I mean, my lord. Myr . . . uh, King Myr wants to know if the delegation from Ynstrah is here yet? He can’t find them anywhere, though the gatekeeper says that they came in last night.” The page stood at the top of the stairs pulling at the velvet surcoat he wore.
“Tell him I’m coming, Stanis,” grunted the Seneschal.
The Lyon gave a last look at the cakes as he followed Haris up the stairs.
When they were safely gone, the small, bright sea-green eyes of the cook opened, almost concealed in the folds of her face. She shifted her amazing mass out of the chair and waddled to the bakery trays. Taking a cake in her pudgy hand, she threw it to the guardsman who served as taster. He caught it easily despite the eye patch he wore.
“I told Ren that we wouldn’t learn anything at an event this size,” she said. “There isn’t enough privacy for any good plotting. The only thing that ever happens at a state occasion is an assassination attempt, but Myr has already hired Sianim guards to stop that.”
The guard nodded—he’d heard her complaint more than once. He examined the little delicacy with his good eye before biting into it, saying, “You could have let him have the cake, Aralorn. They’re easy enough to make.” Another cake appeared in his hand as he spoke, and he tossed it to Aralorn.
“I couldn’t undermine the authority of the castle cook,” said Aralorn in a shocked voice, while catching the treat with a dexterity that was out of character. “Besides,” she added, taking a bite of her cake, “this way they’ll enjoy the two that Haris snitched even more.”
Wolf sauntered to the dessert trays and saw that there were indeed three delicacies missing. “Should we tell Myr that his Seneschal is light-fingered?”
“Not unless he wants to pay for the information. We’re mercenaries, after all, Wolf.” Aralorn licked her fingers. “By the way, where did you learn to cook like this?”
Wolf bared his teeth at her, and said, his voice as macabre as always, “A magician needs must keep some secrets, Lady.”