21: THE SHATTERED VEIL CLUB

Qown’s memory The Lower Circle of the Capital City, Quur

The day after Qown entered D’Mon service

Qown woke to find himself staring at a mask. He managed not to scream, although it was a close thing, slowly focusing on the fact that the ceiling of the room he was in was simply covered—covered—in masks. Masks everywhere. They were all sorts of styles, many unfamiliar, surely from far away countries. None of them seemed friendly or nice.

It was extremely creepy.

The bed he was on was comfortable, covered with a thick red velvet cloth and a great many pillows. The floor was carpeted in a large, thin red rug, tough-textured, woven with stripes of color and glittering with sequins. The mage-light wasn’t red, but it seemed likely that Qown was still somewhere on the D’Talus grounds. The air smelled like cinnamon and frankincense, mixed with a more complicated incense.

Qown sat up and immediately knew that Lady D’Talus had made good on her threat; his hair fell in front of his eyes. He brushed a hand through the mass and realized not only had she done as she’d claimed she would, she’d gone a bit overboard. His hair reached nearly to his waist. He staggered to his feet, noticing more changes. He’d been dressed in kef pants of the highest quality, dark brown, and was wearing a wrinkled but perfectly elegant pale off-white silk misha embroidered with lilies. The agolé draped across the chair next to the bed was even more ornate, and the boots were … astonishing, really. Exquisite. Qown had the immediate thought that Relos Var would love them, but it was a thought largely drowned out by shock and panic.¹

A mirror lay against the wall on the far end of the room, next to a large wooden wardrobe and glass-topped circular table. He stumbled over to it and stared.

Lady D’Talus had indeed made good on almost all her promises. Qown was a little relieved to note that he was still … well … him. Still recognizably the same features, the same cheekbones, the same nose. But his hair looked like there had never been a day in his entire life where servants had not washed it, combed it, and layered it with the finest oils. And his skin, while unchanged in color, was so perfect it was nearly poreless and without a single blemish or mark anywhere. The dark circles under his eyes were gone; he couldn’t deny that he finally looked as young as his actual years.

But there was one change that she had not made, or rather, one change that she had not made as promised. Qown looked at his eyes and hissed, unable to stop himself. Heat rose to his cheeks. Not shame but anger.

Lady D’Talus had turned the color of his eyes orange.

Not House D’Kaje. House D’Erinwa. The slavers house. The house that had, once upon a time not very long ago at all, been the house in charge of gaeshe. Never mind that it was a death sentence to impersonate a royal, but to impersonate someone from House D’Erinwa? Of all the sick, twisted … Of all the Royal Houses, this was the house he hated the most. This was the house Qown would gladly have destroyed if it was in his power, even though he hated violence, even though he had always told himself he valued human life above all things.

He stopped himself. It was, he supposed, a way of ensuring his cooperation with whatever strange scheme Lady D’Talus had come up with to protect her daughter. All they would have to do to keep Qown in line was drop a friendly note to House D’Erinwa letting them know that an impostor was mimicking one of their own. And that would be that. He’d have witch-hunters after him. People with ridiculous, ironic, and horrifying names like Humility, Grace, or Mercy.

“Ah, you’re up. Very good, my lord,” someone said behind Qown.

He turned around. A man close to his own age had opened the door. He had the red hair of a Marakori native but the accent of someone who had grown up in the Capital. His clothing was not nearly as nice as Qown’s, but good enough to suggest he wasn’t in danger of starving. The clothing looked nothing like House D’Talus livery. He had a tray in his hands, which held several bowls and a tea set.

Qown had never seen the man before.

“I’m sorry, I—” Qown put his hand to his head as though nursing a headache, which was true enough. “What happened?”

He chuckled. “You were so drunk when your man brought you in last night, I’m surprised you remember your own name, my lord. Anyway, I thought it best to put you in here to sleep it off. Keeps the riffraff from taking advantage.”

“Ah, um … and you are?” Qown decided not to mention that he did not, in fact, remember his own name, or at least he was reasonably certain that whatever fake identity they’d created for him was unlikely to be “Qown.”

“Oh right. I’m Merit. I run this delightful establishment.” He grinned at Qown as he set the tray down on the table in front of him. The grin struck Qown as rather predatory and just a bit vicious. “If you need anything or anyone, just let me know.”

“Thank you, Merit,” Qown said. “Wait. You mentioned my man. Where is my man right now?”

“Eating breakfast, I assume. Would you like me to fetch him for you, my lord?”

Qown stared. “Yes. Please.”

When the man left, Qown looked at the food. Vanoizi-style poached quail eggs in a spiced tomato sauce, not poisoned, with accompanying sag bread and seeded loquats, also not poisoned. The tea was not tea but coffee, again, not poisoned.

Three years in Yor had made the habit of checking for poison automatic. One never knew when WyrgaSuless had slipped something into the pot.

Qown sighed, slid on the boots (they fit perfectly), washed his hands, and relocated the tray over to the glass table, where he could at least sit down on a chair while he ate. No sooner had food crossed his lips than the door opened and another man walked through, one far more familiar.

He was dressed in clothing that suggested he’d done a lot of drinking the night before and hadn’t yet changed his shirt. His black cotton misha was rolled up at the sleeves and unfastened partway down the front, and he wasn’t even wearing a sash or agolé over his dark burgundy kef. His hair was short, tousled, and uncombed. His eyes were … brown. Just brown, although they still managed to suggest dark, fresh-turned earth in private, secluded bowers. His fingers were smudged with ink.

But it was still Galen D’Mon.

“My lord,” Galen greeted loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear as he closed the door behind him. “I trust you slept well.”

“What. Have. You. Done?” Qown demanded. “This is—what—” He gestured to himself, frantic.

“Shh,” Galen said. “Now it’s all right to be a little temperamental. Royals often are. But let’s not get too carried away.”

Qown stared at him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found himself so desperately wanting to punch someone.

Oh right. That had also been Galen D’Mon.

“Lady D’Talus said she was going to make my eyes yellow, not orange. Why did your mother-in-law do this to me?” Qown asked, and then he gestured at Galen. “And how did you change your eye color? That’s supposed to be impossible! It’s supposed to be a curse!”

Galen traitorously directed one of those smiles at Qown as he sat down in the other chair and started eating Qown’s breakfast. “Oh, it is. Honestly. My eyes are still blue. But did you know that if you know what you’re doing, you can make a very fine film that fits over the eye and has a colored lens? And Lessoral—or Lady D’Talus to you—really knows what she’s doing. You would think it would hurt, but it doesn’t at all.” Galen stared at his hands, seeming to realize only then that they were stained. “Oh sorry.” He quickly found a washbasin and washed his hands too, although it did nothing for the ink stains.

“Oil,” Qown murmured.

“Sorry?”

“You’ll want oil to get rid of the stains. Rub it in until the oil turns dark, then wash that off.”

“Huh. Never knew that.” Galen returned to the breakfast table and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Merit must have suspected Galen would join him, Qown realized. There were two cups.

Qown took deep breaths. “Why? Can we please go back to why?”

“That was my doing. I asked her to go with orange instead. Because people are looking for Galen D’Mon,” he said. “But nobody’s looking for a down-on-their-luck royal from House D’Erinwa.” He pointed a finger at me. “D’Erinwa is in even direr straits than House D’Mon, if you can imagine. With all the gaeshed slaves they used to keep? Oh, it was a bloodbath. Royals murdered left and right. I don’t even know who’s high lord over there right now, so no one will question why the odd stray royal is lurking down here in the Lower Circle keeping their head low until the dust settles.”

Qown felt his stomach flip. “We’re in the Lower Circle?”

“Mmm-hmm.” His eyes danced with mirth. “You’re slumming.”

Qown inhaled. “Why am I pretending to be House D’Erinwa? Why wouldn’t it be you if you’ve found a way around the god-touched curse?”

“Oh no. I’m much too tall. Besides, I’d look terrible with jacinth eyes. It’s quite breathtaking on you, though.”

Qown ground his teeth. “I didn’t agree to any of this! This is outrageous!”

Galen paused while eating a tomato and gave Qown a shrewd eye. “Oh, that’s perfect. Just like that. I knew you’d make a terrific royal.”

Qown attempted, somehow, to calm himself down a third time. “You’re laughing at me.”

Galen paused. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, the smile faltering on his lips. “But not in a mean way. I’m not … I’m not mocking you. I promise that. I actually do need your help.”

Qown knew he was failing to calm down. “If you needed my help, maybe you should have asked. Instead of—” He gestured around, latching onto a question that mattered not at all but at least wouldn’t have him screaming. “Why do you have all these masks here?”

Qown was the calm one. He was always the calm one. Why was he being so completely and totally not the calm one this time?

Galen shrugged. “Not a clue. They were here when I bought the place. You should try to eat something.” He saw the look on Qown’s face and sighed. “I’m not going to make you do anything. If you don’t want to help me, that’s fine. It’s up to you. You can stay here, anything you want will be brought to you, and you can hide out for a couple of weeks until the meeting with my aunts is arranged.”

Qown looked around the room. “This is a hospitality house?”

“Oh no, it’s a velvet house,” Galen said, “called the Shattered Veil Club.”

“A brothel?” Qown said. “We’re in a brothel!”

He waved a hand. “Sort of. Technically. The area up front is where the brothel is. These are the private quarters of the velvet house’s owner, a terribly mysterious figure called the Veiled Lady, who may or may not be Zheriasian and only rarely makes appearances.” He shrugged. “I’m told the previous owner really was Zheriasian and really was mysterious. So we just sort of went with it. Why toss out a perfectly good reputation for being terribly mysterious?”

“But this ‘Veiled Lady’ isn’t the owner. You are. You own a brothel.” Qown glared. He wondered, fleetingly, if Relos Var had any idea in the whole world. “I thought that Merit person owned the place.”

“He runs it for me. Close enough.” Galen shrugged and stood. “I do understand. I do. Lady D’Talus can run roughshod over people if you let her. She has the same personality as an entire herd of elephant matriarchs. It’s almost impossible to refuse her. So please accept my apologies and enjoy yourself here. If all goes according to plan, we’ll be back inside the Blue Palace within a month at the latest, and you can shave off all that gorgeous hair and dress as poorly as your vows demand.”

Qown stared at him. “It’s a brothel,” he repeated.

He seemed a bit stuck on that point.

Galen cocked his head. “So don’t have sex with anyone. That’s your objection, right?”

Qown scowled. “Won’t that look odd? Why would a royal stay at a velvet house and not sleep with any of the velvet girls?”

“Okay, so do have sex with someone. Velvet girls, velvet boys. Sleep with all of them. I don’t care. It’s on the house.”

“I have taken a vow!” Qown screamed. “That means something. I’m especially not going to take advantage of velvets—”

“Oh, live a little. Maybe you’ll even pull the stick out of your ass,” Galen growled. He’d absolutely stopped smiling.

Qown clenched his fists at his sides. He didn’t know a great deal about Velvet Town—it wasn’t a place he visited if at all possible—but he knew enough. Most of the prostitutes who worked there were slaves, or desperate, or some combination therein. Very few had any real choice in the matter. And for all that House D’Talus had a temple of Caless set up inside their walls, Qown rather doubted the velvets in the Lower Circle were treated like they had value, intrinsic worth.

Although it did seem odd, that Caless connection. Qown felt as if he were staring at something, but just not quite at the right angle to really see it.

Anyway, Qown had taken a vow. It meant something, damn it. It did. Even if the Vishai faith was … fiction.

“I’m quite comfortable with my stick—” Qown paused. “I’m fine. I’m just not a good liar. I’ll only give your plan away.”

Galen walked up to Qown. Rather too close, and it was an unsubtle reminder that yes, the man was uncomfortably tall. “You don’t know what my plan is. You never asked.” Then he walked past Qown, clearly headed for the door.

Qown almost let him go, but he couldn’t rein in his curiosity. “Fine. What’s your plan?”

Galen gave him a wry smile just before he walked out the door. “I’m going to steal wagonloads of slaves from the Octagon and set them free. Enjoy your breakfast.”

Qown stared after the man for a span of breathless heartbeats. He wasn’t completely certain what the answer he’d been expecting would have looked like, but he knew it would have borne absolutely no resemblance to the one Galen had just given him. House D’Erinwa was in absolute chaos, Galen had said. And this was probably just a bit of interhouse warfare, kicking a house when, as Galen himself had said, they were already on the floor, but—

Oh, it was insane. It was insane and magical, and if it worked, it would make Qown so happy he’d just about burst. Because it would feel so good—so amazingly good—to actually be able to do something he knew for a fact was in the right. There wasn’t much moral gray area to slavery. It was bad. End of debate.

“Damn it all to Hell.” Qown scrambled to find his agolé and then ran out the door to catch up to Galen.

Sheloran’s memory

It was a reasonably quiet morning at the velvet house. Some idiot was apparently making an ass of himself and being thrown out, but it looked like Raorin had that well in hand. Clarea—the velvet girl who presumably had lodged the complaint—looked like she was about five seconds from knifing the man if he caused any trouble. Which he wouldn’t, if he had even the slightest idea what was good for him. It was one of the principal rules of the Shattered Veil Club that all the men and women who worked there had absolute and inviolate authority over who they would or would not take as customers, what acts they would or would not perform with those customers, and for how much.

No one who tried to force any of those issues was ever welcomed back.

Sheloran was contemplating her odds of sneaking off and grabbing something to eat before Galen returned. Much as it was hilarious to roam around in veils and make mysterious statements, it did make it rather difficult to eat in public. It was fine; honestly, she had so much work to do, there was little time left over for food, anyway.

Mostly, she faced a problem: Darzin D’Mon had died too soon.

Sheloran controlled more businesses in the Lower Circle than anyone but her parents or husband realized. Blue Houses. Orphanages. Kilin. Gambling dens. Too many velvet houses. But what she didn’t fully control—not yet—was the Shadowdancers. That plan had required at least another year and the grooming of a replacement for Scabbard willing to accept orders from a woman. They’d made great progress in shifting the Shadowdancers into a more useful organization for Sheloran’s purposes, but Scabbard still thought he took orders from a man.

And there was no way he would calmly accept transferring that fealty to a nineteen-year-old princess.

So that was a problem. One she still didn’t know how to solve.

She played with the edges of her veil and wished she had her fan, but it was too distinctive. Still, she always thought better when she had something to do with her hands. She opened one of the folders in front of her and studied the papers inside. Perhaps looking at them in public wasn’t the wisest course of action, but she had two guards standing a respectful distance away to make sure no one interrupted her. And even if they did, a velvet house madam looking at slave ownership papers was hardly a unique occurrence. It’s just that these papers were fake.

Galen entered then, looking like he’d just spilled coffee on his favorite misha. When he crossed to her table, she said, “So I assume the talk with our new friend went well.”

“He’s infuriating,” Galen said in a way that suggested he meant the opposite.

“This was your idea.” Sheloran returned to looking at the papers. Scabbard had done an excellent job. If she didn’t know better, she’d think them genuine.

“We don’t need him,” Galen muttered, never moving his eyes from the courtyard door.

“Need has nothing to do with it,” Sheloran said.

Galen looked at her.

“Do you think just because I prefer flowers, I can’t judge the quality of a sword?” Sheloran teased. “Mother did an excellent job cleaning him up. Oh yes, and he loves your poetry.”

Galen sat down next to her and pretended to busy himself looking over the papers. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” Sheloran raised her eyes to meet her husband’s. “Don’t let him distract you too much. We’re in a precarious position right now, and there’s very little he can do to improve it. He can’t really help us, and you’ve always been too trusting.” She sighed to herself. She might as well be telling the clouds to stay away from the sky. She honestly had no idea where he got it from, considering his parents.

Galen shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter. He wants nothing to do with this.”

“Hmm.” But then she saw how Galen’s eyes brightened, and she turned in the direction he was facing.

Qown had entered the room.

Galen’s memory

Galen hadn’t really expected Qown to follow him into the main room of the Shattered Veil Club after he’d dropped that teasing exit line about freeing slaves. He’d hoped Qown would, but that wasn’t the same thing. Galen’s goals could be accomplished without the Vishai priest’s help—what kind of fool would he be if he’d hung all his plans on a man he barely knew?—but he didn’t deny Qown’s cooperation would make it easier.

That’s why he waited a few seconds after leaving. So Qown would have a chance to see him entering the main hall of the Shattered Veil if the Vishai priest chose to follow.

When Qown entered, his eyes were so wide when they finally grew accustomed to the lighting levels in the room that Galen took pity on the poor man. He’d probably never even stepped foot inside a brothel in his entire life. And Galen had some sympathy. The first time Sheloran had taken him to one, Galen had been reasonably certain he was going to literally die from embarrassment. Then Galen and Sheloran had had one of their very few fights, because Galen had been incensed by the idea that—even after he’d told her about his father’s slaves—she’d thought he’d want to imitate Darzin in any way. But the house she’d taken him to didn’t use slaves; the men and women who worked there considered their work a holy rite. And it turned out that the shame was something he was welcome to kick to the side along with the clothing.

The Shattered Veil Club had been a present from his mother-in-law, because he had once complained he had nothing of Kihrin’s to remember him by. As to how she’d known that this was the particular velvet house where Kihrin had been raised … Ah well, Lessoral had her ways, evidently.² He’d spoken to enough of the staff he’d coaxed back to work there to confirm her sources had been correct.

Anlyr left the shadows as Qown entered, sticking to the man’s side as though he were assigned to guard Qown and not Galen.

Galen left Sheloran’s table to go stand at Qown’s elbow. “Ah, I’m sorry, my lord. I’m sure your head must still be hurting you terribly. Come sit over here and shield your eyes from the light. I’ll fetch you tea.” He guided Qown over to their table, along with a very bemused Anlyr. He was just a touch too professional to ask questions, but clearly a thousand of them lurked under his bitten tongue.

Qown leaned over toward Galen and whispered, “I hate you.”

Galen laughed in spite of himself. “Do you, though? I wonder.”

They returned to the table with Sheloran. The pot of tea was already there, set up next to a tray of fruit and nuts. The papers Sheloran had been working through were stacked to the side, as well as several crow quills and a bottle of ink. Galen would transcribe them later; Sheloran had atrocious handwriting.

Qown nodded to the guard. “Anlyr, how are you feeling?” The question sounded diagnostic. Any lingering pain? Did the wound heal completely?

The guard smiled. “A little … uh … This is not how I thought my week would go.”

“Why a velvet house?” Qown whispered to Galen and Sheloran. “There are plenty of other places to hide.”

Galen raised an eyebrow. “Are there?”

Because there really weren’t. Any royal would stand out like a bonfire against the night sky at any tavern in the Lower Circle. Maybe the Temple of Caless, since Sheloran’s mother had maintained her ties with the church, but there were multiple reasons Galen would really rather just not. And also, how exactly would that differ from a velvet house?

Galen poured tea for his “lord” and set the cup in front of Qown. “Velvet houses are wonderful,” he explained softly. “People are always coming and going. It’s impolite to ask anyone’s name. You can rent a room all to yourself, no questions asked. The food is remarkably good. What’s not to love?”

Qown reached over and plucked up one of Sheloran’s pieces of paper before she could stop him. He gazed at the document critically. “It’s indecent,” he grumbled under his breath.

Sheloran audibly sighed.

“Truly obscene, yes, the idea someone might enjoy themselves without judgment,” Galen replied. He kept the smile on his face but knew it probably didn’t reach his eyes. “How dare we be so lewd.”

“That’s not—” Qown turned red and stared down at the page again. “Why are you doing this?”

Galen wasn’t about to answer that question.

Qown moved on. “And is this how you’re going to do it? Just walk over to the Octagon and present this?” He set the forged slave certificate back on the stack.

“Yes,” Galen said. “It’s risky, though, so it would be better if the person handing over the documents was unquestionably House D’Erinwa. They’re less likely to ask the wrong questions that way.”

“It would be better still if these were good forgeries,” Qown muttered under his breath.

Galen saw Sheloran freeze and knew he had as well. It was certainly … interesting that Qown had immediately spotted that the documents weren’t genuine. Galen had been under the impression that they were excellent counterfeits.

Galen blinked and leaned back, not sure if he was insulted or amused. “And what would you know about D’Erinwa ownership papers?”

Qown bit his lip and looked way. Instead of answering, he took a minute to drink his tea. “Would one of you answer my question? Why are you doing this?”

Galen leaned back into the alcove. His back was to the wall, and there were no rooms behind him. It didn’t prevent eavesdropping—magic still existed. Hell, lipreading still existed. But it was a sensible first step. “Ever seen the hostile succession of a Royal House? Those times when it doesn’t go smoothly, when different sides are fighting for the title?”

Qown swallowed and shook his head. Sheloran didn’t say anything; she was going to let Galen handle this. Anlyr just watched.

“Me neither, but I’ve read about it,” Galen said. “And most of the time, when there are factions, the winner will do away with any members of the loser’s faction. That means family members may end up killed, slaves sold off, servants turned into slaves and then sold off. The sorcerers themselves are usually too valuable and difficult to replace to be treated so, but everyone else is fair game. It gives the new lord a little stockpile of cash they’ll need and makes sure that they don’t have to worry about disgruntled servants of their dead enemies sneaking in a quick bit of revenge along with the after-dinner tea. But in a case like Tishenya and Gerisea, where neither has lived in the Capital City in decades, well … everyone in the Blue Palace is, effectively, ‘the other faction.’”

Qown’s eyes widened. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes. They’re selling off the whole house. Not the healers, of course. But everyone else. Whether they used to be a slave or not.”

Anlyr leaned forward, suddenly interested. “Wait, everyone—?”

Galen gave his guard a wistful look. “You’re luckier than you know to be here, Anlyr, and not reporting back for duty.”

Anlyr gulped visibly.

“No, but—” Qown was starting to sputter in outrage, his eyes wide.

Galen put his hand on the priest’s leg, under the table. “Remember where you are.”

Qown flushed red and inhaled. “How could they do that? Those people didn’t commit a crime. You can’t just snatch someone up and declare them a slave.”

Sheloran’s laughter was mocking. “Why not? The empire does it all the time. Do you think anyone pays attention to the people screaming that they’ve been unjustly enslaved?”

“If a Royal House says you deserved it,” Galen added, “then you must have done something, yes?”

The Vishai priest—who had probably never looked less like a Vishai priest in his entire life—scrubbed a hand over his face and closed his eyes. Then he started fishing under his misha, until he pulled out a tumbled stone held in an elegant gold clasp and necklace. He frowned at the chain. “Did your mother-in-law do this? I used to keep this thing tied up with twine.”

“I’m sure she felt that twine wasn’t befitting a royal prince…” Galen frowned. “I’m surprised you can even stand up straight if you’re running around with that thing pulling at your neck all the time. It looks heavy.”

Anlyr also frowned at the rock, and at Qown, but he didn’t say anything.

It was a pretty rock, Galen thought, even if it wasn’t precisely what he might call a gem. It was a bit like an agate, he supposed, but the raw exposed center of the stone transitioned through different shades of red, orange, and yellow, twinkling to the point where it seemed like a flame burned in the center.

Honestly, it was the most House D’Talus piece of jewelry Galen thought he’d ever seen.

Without looking at him, Qown said, “If you try to do this after they’ve already been sold, you’ll have both House D’Erinwa and whoever won the bid to contend with, yes? The best way to handle this is before they go up on the auction block. Make it so they never do because House D’Erinwa thinks the slaves have already been sold. Then you can just have someone … collect them.”

Galen studied Qown for a moment. “I’m afraid you misunderstand. I don’t have enough metal—not nearly enough metal—to buy even a fraction of them. And that’s not even counting the fact that cost would be at least double if I tried to do so at a privileged sale.”

“I realize that,” Qown said. “I-I can fix that.”

Sheloran laughed.

Galen raised both eyebrows. “And how, exactly, would you manage that? Please don’t try to tell me that a man in your … situation … has that sort of metal lying around?”

Qown started to look nervous. “No, of course not. But they’ll think those slaves have been sold, and they’ll set them aside. If you move quickly, you can leave with them before they have any idea otherwise. I-I can do this. I’ll just alter the order books.”

Both Galen and Sheloran turned to face Qown fully then.

Galen wasn’t sure what bothered him more, the idea that this man was this naïve about the way the Quuros slave trade worked or that a fucking Vishai priest was actually being serious about what he could do. “If altering the order books were easy to do, I’d have asked my in-laws to do it yesterday when I figured out what was going to happen. But it’s not. The order books are kept in a sealed, magically protected vault that is trapped to the stars and buried under a hundred feet of alternating-material strata, as well as being protected by several dozen guards and half a dozen witch-hunters. The paper is enchanted so only a very specific kind of magical ink can even be used to write on its pages. And you think you can alter the order books? I’d like to know how.”

Qown swallowed. “This was a bad idea. Never mind. I’ll just—”

Sheloran grabbed the priest’s hand before he could make a serious effort at standing. “Explain yourself. Now.”

Qown started to say something, stopped, then opened his mouth again. Galen sympathized. Sheloran was using that tone of voice she’d clearly learned from her mother, the one that never raised to the level of a shout but implied all kinds of horrifying ends to anyone who crossed her. It made for an appalling contrast when compared to her normally sweet tones.

“It’s the stone,” Qown finally said, scratching at the edges of it with a thumbnail. “I can use it to see things at a distance. Affect things at a distance. They’ll never see me, and their wards can’t stop me. I can…” Qown stopped and sipped his tea, collected himself. Then he whispered, “I can spy on anyone.”

Galen didn’t say anything for a span. He watched the room. Nobody seemed to be paying attention.

“Is that a Cornerstone?” Sheloran softly asked.

“Worldhearth,” Qown answered.

Galen felt stunned. He didn’t know much about Cornerstones, but he knew a little. He couldn’t help but learn a little after what had happened. The Vishai healer was carrying around an artifact. Sure. Naturally.

“And you think you can do this?” Galen asked softly.

Qown nodded. He took a deep breath. “I have before.”

“You’ve forged purchase orders? With slaves?” Galen leaned forward, lowered his voice again.

“Not exactly. It was a different Royal House.”

Galen stared at the man a little harder. He didn’t seem like the type to be a particularly good liar, and what would be his motivation besides? Galen would want to test it, after all. And if he was serious about what that magic rock could do, Qown was taking an enormous risk by telling Galen.

As big a risk as Galen was taking by telling Qown about his plans in the first place.

“Which house?” Sheloran asked carefully, like it didn’t matter.

“Yours,” Qown answered, his voice very small. “I mean … D’Talus. It was House D’Talus.”

Galen blinked. Forging orders for House D’Talus would in fact be harder than House D’Erinwa. House D’Erinwa didn’t have Varik and Lessoral running things. And whatever else could be said about Varik and Lessoral, they were stunningly competent. And if they hadn’t caught Qown …

 … this might work.

“I take it back,” Sheloran told Galen. “I suppose he can help us, after all.”