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SNOW HAD BEGUN TO FALL, clinging to Shianan’s cloak as he crossed the courtyard, but Shianan had no eyes for it. He tore open his office door and stalked inside, casting a dark glance at the soldier leaning against the edge of his desk. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
The soldier jerked to attention. “Sir! I had reports, sir, and I—”
“And you saw fit to wait in my office?”
He faltered. “I’m sorry, sir, I thought you wouldn’t mind... It’s snowing...”
“So I see.” Shianan shook the flakes from his hair and ripped his cloak from his shoulders. “I seem to have survived it, myself.”
The soldier straightened. “I am also to tell you, sir, that Sergeant Parr would like a word with you before our next assembly, regarding the upcoming review.”
“Can’t he organize a handful of turnip-headed—” Shianan stopped himself and took a slow, shuddering breath, raking his hand through his damp hair. “Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Shianan slammed the door behind him and snapped the bolt into place. He would see no one else that afternoon. He went into his sleeping quarters, locking that door too behind him.
He dropped heavily into a chair and let his head fall backward, eyes closed. His stomach clenched into a sick, wretched knot.
Useless. All of it, useless.
She committed treason for the unconscious Ryuven—she risked her life for him. All that Shianan had done for her, she did for the Ryuven—and not just a Ryuven, but for Pairvyn ni’Ai, the nemesis of legend, their enemy above enemies. She sheltered him, protected him, risked her life for him.
He groaned miserably. She committed treason, betrayed all that he had done for her, and he knew he would never speak a word against her. Jealousy would not make him overturn his effort to save her. And that hurt nearly as much as the betrayal.
He did not try to conceal his conflict. There was no one to see it. His quarters were empty, chilly with an untended brazier. No one would see.
No, it had not been quite useless... At the least, she had survived and come home to their world, safe from the Ryuven. Hadn’t he told himself that he would be satisfied with that? Wasn’t it enough to know she was not dead, or the helpless prisoner of some depraved Ryuven?
He set his elbows on his knees and buried his face. And he could take some small vindictive pleasure, if he tried. Ariana could no more openly claim her choice of lover than Shianan could have done. He had always known his desire was a fantasy, that the bastard would never be permitted a Mage of the Circle. And a Mage of the Circle could never wed the Ryuven champion. He choked a bitter, contemptuous laugh.
He wanted to go and find the strongest drink money could buy, to gulp it until his throat burned and his stomach scorched and he could not recall even his name, much less the details of his unhappy existence. He missed Luca keenly. He had not guessed how stark his quarters would be without the slave. Before Luca’s coming, Shianan had not known what he lacked. And he missed the White Mage, whom he’d barely known but had grown to like during their brief conspiracy. It was too awkward to speak with him now.
He rubbed savagely at his eyes. He could not afford to drink, not now. The last incident had scathed a warning deep into him, and while he had little pride left to preserve, he’d rather not sacrifice the rest before the court. Given his luck, the moment he picked up a bottle, the king himself would walk through the door. Even Prince Soren couldn’t save him then.
He sagged another inch. The prince might well ask him how the apology had gone, and Shianan had no reasonable lie. He would have to answer that the Black Mage preferred someone else to him. He sighed. At least he could be spared explaining that his rival was such in every sense of the word.
MARLA EYED THE STRANGER warily. He was swathed in a cloak, which he kept pulled close about him as if cold, and when she caught a glimpse of his hands, hidden within his cloak despite the moderate temperature, the wrists were wrapped to the arms. What was this man? Had her master brought a leper?
Her master and the others were leaving, and she followed them to the gate and bowed before locking it behind him—locking herself with the cloaked monstrosity and his big slave.
She turned and moved to within a dozen paces of her master’s guest. The slave was speaking to him. “Where will you have me sleep, master?”
“Do you prefer the dignity of the house or the privacy of the hut?”
The slave inclined his head. “I’ve not been a personal servant, master. I’m willing, but I will need instruction.”
The cloaked figure laughed dryly. “I’ve no need of that, Cole, none at all. Sleep where you will. You are at this woman’s disposal for our time here.”
Marla nodded respectfully. “The hut and the quarters in the house will be equally available for him, master. I have my quarters in another room.” Please, please don’t say that I’ll be sleeping with you.
“Then, Cole, do as you please. I only want that I won’t be disturbed.” He looked at Marla, freezing her blood with his shadowed face. “Is the master chamber upstairs?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Is there a bath?”
“Beside the kitchen, my lord.”
He nodded, the movement barely perceptible within the hood. “I would like a bath. Very hot. In private.”
She nodded. “And supper?”
“After the bath, if I am still awake... But Cole will need something, and yourself as well. I’ll have a portion of whatever you’re having.”
She hid her perplexity with a small bow. What an odd man he was. Perhaps, if he did have an illness, it sapped his appetite. “I’ll go and heat your bath, my lord.”
The sun faded quickly, slipping behind the mountain, and by the time the bath was full, the room needed candlelight. She set out a number of lights, checked the supply of soap, and went to the front room where he seemed to perch uncomfortably on a chair.
He’d removed the hood, and the cloak had fallen back a little, giving her a better view of his wrapped arms. She had not expected his face, much younger than her master’s, serious and deeply thoughtful. “Your bath is ready, my lord.”
He followed her to the room, now comfortably warm with steam. “Thank you.” He crossed to the curtained doorway opposite and lifted the dark fabric, peering into the dog-legged storeroom beyond.
In private, he had said. What was he hiding?
“Cole will need a healthy ration tonight. His meals have been lean of late.” His words slipped together, as if he were barely drunk or very tired. “Can you see to him?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Thank you.” He checked the latch behind her.
Marla went to the kitchen and set another pot to boil, this time for their supper. She glanced out the window, where the slave Cole had fallen asleep on a stone bench beside some frost-killed flowers. She liked that stone bench; it held the sun’s heat for some time. He might stay until she called him in.
The water was still quiet in the pot. She glanced again at Cole—he did look a little underfed—and then went to the kitchen end of the dog-legged storeroom. The stranger hadn’t guessed it had two openings. She could creep to the far end and learn what sickness was in the house.
There was a tiny gap between the curtains near the floor. He was sitting outside the tub, his cloak folded neatly behind him. His clothes were new and of a moderate cut, well-made but not extravagant. He was leaner than she would have guessed with the cloak. As she watched, he unwound the bandages on his right arm, staring as he did so as if he expected to find something unpleasant. But when the wraps came free, there was nothing distinguishable to her eyes.
At least it isn’t leprosy.
He unwrapped the other arm, equally whole, and then he began to work his tunic and shirt over his head. As the fabric slipped over his bare skin, she caught her breath. Even in the candlelight, the stripy scars showed plainly.
The stranger had been flogged. He was a criminal or a slave.
She slipped silently backward as he stripped his leggings and braies and got into the steaming water. The bandages over his arms... They might serve to conceal the marks of wrist cuffs or shackles, indistinguishable in the dim candlelight. Which was he—a criminal, a runaway slave, or a freed slave? Was he dangerous?
She returned to the kitchen and glanced at Cole, still sleeping in the garden. Did he know what his master was? Would he tell, if she dared ask?
When the water began to boil, she added handfuls of cut vegetables and meal. She had been startled by his bald statement that he would share the slaves’ meal, but now that she had seen his history, she understood that he would be satisfied with their fare. She glanced again at Cole and took down a sausage to cut into the pot. Then after a moment of thought, she took another. The stranger had been thin beneath his clothes as well.
The supper had been ready in the pot for some time when Cole came into the house, looking sleepy and vaguely guilty. “Was I called?”
She shook her head. “He’s still in the bath.”
“Still?” He rotated his neck stiffly. “I suppose he had a lot to scrub away.”
He knew something, but she did not think it prudent to ask. Instead she indicated the covered pot warm beside the fireplace. “Food’s ready. He told me you’d need an extra ration, so there’s plenty.”
“He—? I see.” Cole looked at the pot, his face concealing some inner thought.
She took a polished wooden bowl and uncovered the pot herself. “Have you been with him long?”
He shook his head. “Only a few days.”
“I suppose he wants you fattened to his standard, then.” She handed him the bowl. “There’s a spoon behind you.”
“Thanks,” he said gruffly, as if the word were disused. “He—he could use an extra helping himself, if you made enough. I mean, you should make enough.”
“I already considered that,” she answered blandly. “I wouldn’t short my lord, don’t you worry.” She looked at him. “So who are you?”
He swallowed a mouthful of thick meaty porridge. “I’m Cole.”
“I’d heard your name.” She watched him shove another spoonful into his mouth. “He picked you up a few days ago?”
He nodded. “Pike, woman, this is good,” he mumbled through chewing. “I’ve been living on the chunky colored water they give out in caravans. You say there’s more?”
“Glad you like it, though it’s naught too special. And it’s Marla.” She scooped another healthy portion from the pot.
“It’s special enough, woman,” he answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I haven’t eaten my fill since I went in the line.”
She halted the ladle over his bowl and eyed him. “Marla.”
He blinked, a little surprised, and then seemed to understand. “Marla.” He had the sense to look sheepish. “Sorry. I—I’m used to—it’s Marla.”
She plopped the porridge into his bowl. “Have all you want. I can make more. Didn’t he ever feed you?”
“It’s only been this day.” He took another bite.
“I thought you said you had been with him a few days?”
“He made my purchase then,” Cole said awkwardly. “Out of a caravan line. But I stayed until—it was only today we came to the town below this place.”
“I see.” So the criminal or escaped slave had purchased another slave, though he seemed to have no real need for him, and come to her master’s house to hide. Curious, indeed. Some men might need someone in their power, to assure themselves of their new higher place, but that didn’t seem consistent with what else she’d observed.
She glanced out the window. The garden was dark. “He’s been a long time. His bath will be cold.” Cole said nothing as she levered another pot from the fire and wrapped a rag about the handle.
She did not take the short passage through the storeroom but went into the corridor, tapping at the bath’s door with her foot as she held the heavy pot away from her. “My lord? I’ve brought hot water.”
There was a quick rippling splash and then a voice called, “Yes?”
She took that as admission and nudged the latch with her elbow. He was in the narrow, upright bath, sunken to his chin, his back pressed to the wall. Concealment, she recognized. He looked startled. “What do you...”
She realized he hadn’t understood her. “I’ve brought water to heat your bath. I thought it would be cooling by now, and you’d said you wanted it very hot.”
She tipped the pot over the tall bath, steam rising over both of them. He shifted quickly beneath the water—covering himself, she thought, or hiding his wrists. Perhaps he was a eunuch as well. At least with his shyness she did not have to worry that he would call her to his bed. “Is there anything else you need, my lord?”
“Is Cole settled?”
“He’s eating now, my lord, and then we’ll make a pallet for him. Is there anything you require of him?”
“No.”
“Would you like me bring your supper? It’s plain fare, as you said, but I can—”
“No,” he said quickly, and his arms dropped another inch beneath the water, rippling with candlelight. “No, thank you. Please leave a tray in my room.”
He was afraid for even a slave to see. Perhaps Cole did not know, after all, or only suspected. “As you wish.”