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  The mage smiled warmly at her. “Bree has been coming here for a week or two, haven’t you, Bree?”

  Bree curtsied again. “If it pleases, Your Grace.”

  “You all know this girl?” The woman asked the crowd, “You recognize her as one of your own?”

  Some nods. One man—a friend of Bree’s father—shouted out that he would vouch for her.

  “Bree,” the mage said. “Show these people what you’ve learned.”

  Bree curtsied again as best as she could manage. Then she took the saddlebags from Gil and held them up for all to see. Then, she examined the runes etched into the leather—the Dweomeric enchantment that kept them closed.

  She forced her body to be loose, twiddled her fingers, and gathered the Fey energy in the room by focusing on that knot in her stomach, that fire in her heart, the anger she felt at the levy men, at Count Andluss, at the world in general. She spoke the words she had been taught, but remembered the mage’s advice: Fey spells are not known, at least not conventionally. They must be felt, practiced—they are more like physical exercises than precise recitations. Think of them like a dance performance—you might make mistakes, but grace and the ability to improvise can transform errors into advantages. Just remember this, whatever you do: once you start a Fey spell, don’t dare stop until it is done.

  The power flowed through her suddenly, like a burst of adrenaline, and Bree directed it at the enchantment. There was a soft pop and then the saddlebag sprang open with a whiff of brymmstone. Bree upended the saddlebag and a shower of copper coins hit the floor with a crash.

  The people cheered and dropped to their knees, gathering up as much money as they could. The Gray Lady smiled at them. “Take as much as you need—take it for your families, for your friends, for yourselves. But remember who gave it to you—not me, but one of your own.”

  Bree wrapped her arms around the mage’s stomach—she could feel the woman was strong, solid, tall. Like her father. She wept openly, her face buried in the green cloak.

  At length, the mage caught her by the chin and lifted her face to look at her. To her shock, Bree saw that the Gray Lady, too, had tears in her eyes. “The Fey is always so hard on the heart, isn’t it? I’m sorry, Bree. Maybe I should have asked Gil.”

  “It’s okay,” Bree said, sniffling. “Thank you, Magus.”

  The Gray Lady smiled. “Please,” she said, “call me Myreon.”

  Chapter 1

  Midnight in the House of Eddon

  Bored, rich Eretherian adolescents comprised a unique economic opportunity for certain entrepreneurs who had the resources and connections to entertain them. Though a few of the young lords and ladies liked to slum it among the commoners and guild members in city taprooms and bars, most preferred to visit a variety of private estates that clustered around the outskirts of the capital. These were private clubs and gaming houses of the highest quality, where the young and the adventurous could come and gamble their parents’ money among their own class with all the comforts they were seldom allowed at home and all the discretion their vast purses could afford. Chief among these “evening clubs” was the House of Eddon, the estate of Lady Hool and her mysterious brother-in-law, Waymar.

  The game that night was t’suul, but then again, the game was always t’suul in the House of Eddon. There, in a hall of dark wood, leather, and bearskin rugs, the air filled with the scent of wood smoke and fine tobacco, the sons of earls and nieces of viscounts slapped down ivory tiles into the wee hours of morning before the blazing fire of two massive hearths. The place was packed—every settee had a lady and every chair had a gentleman. Every table was crowded round by powdered wigs and lace-trimmed sleeves; the air hummed with conversation and the clack of the t’suul tiles.

  Artus drew a Rhondian cigarillo from a pewter case he kept in his sleeve pocket and lit it on a match in that effortlessly cool way he’d seen Tyvian do a thousand times—flicking the head off a ring so the flame flared up in front of his face and then cupping it so the cigarillo would light.

  He burned his hand. To his delight, nobody saw. He affected a confident swagger as he strode across the room, doing his level, sixteen-year-old best to look intimidating. In the presence of these coddled, highborn teens, it worked wonderfully. Where he walked, younger boys moved aside and the older ones—those who wore swords and knew how to use them—gave him polite nods. Artus of Eddon, concierge of the house Lady Hool built from nothing, rubbed his pencil-thin moustache and scanned the crowd.

  Sir Damon Pirenne, tall, wigless, and clad in a shade of gray that made him look like a rock seal, tapped Artus on the shoulder. “Pardon me, Sir Artus.”

  “Just Artus.”

  Sir Damon’s pate shone with perspiration in the crowded room. “Yes, of course—Artus. There are four gentlemen at the front door requesting entry.”

  More? Artus frowned. “House?”

  “Davram.”

  “We’re up to our bloody noses in Davram right now. I see so much green and gold, I’m starting to think Lady Hool was just made Countess.” Artus shook his head—too much of any one house, and the other houses would start to think the House of Eddon was starting to play politics, and Tyvian had been very specific that was never supposed to happen. “Did you suggest Madame Borgio’s?”

  Sir Damon nodded. “I did. I suggested Kasim’s as well, but they were insistent. They claim some relation to the Earl of Leventry.”

  Artus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Kroth-spawned rich boys, I swear. “You didn’t invite them in, did you?”

  Damon shook his head. “Of course not, milord.”

  “Artus,” Artus reminded him.

  Sir Damon blushed. “Yes. Sorry. Habit, you know.”

  “Look, if you didn’t invite them in, then they can’t pass by our wards, which means you can just slam the door in their faces and they’ll leave.”

  Sir Damon grimaced. “They are . . . well, they seem well connected. It doesn’t seem genteel of me to—”

  “Would you rather I get Lady Hool to do it?”

  The color drained from Sir Damon’s face. “I see your point, sir . . . errr . . . Artus. Door slamming it is.”

  The knight made an about-face and headed back toward the door. Artus watched him go and shook his head. He was a good sort, Sir Damon, but in his life before he’d acquired a sizable debt to Hool, he’d been a landless hedge knight who only ate on the sufferance of his betters. Talking back to the landed nobility did not come naturally to him, even if they were teenagers.

  There was a commotion at one of the tables. Artus wandered over to have a look at the action. Valen Hesswyn—grandson of Velia Hesswyn, the Countess Davram—was sliding a hand-high stack of gold marks in front of him. Artus took a glance at the table—a lot of gray tiles, a lot of stacks left afield. Somebody had been running up the tally, meaning they hoped to win big or lose bigger. Artus did his best not to shudder at the board. For the young nobility, the loss of thirty gold marks in a single clutch was barely enough to cause hurt feelings, but among the people who really knew how to play the game—dark-eyed Illini mercenaries and foulmouthed Verisi pirates—that kind of board meant somebody was about to get stabbed.

  As it stood, the current loser of the clutch—some thick-necked Vora squire—was looking fairly sore about the loss. “Burning the stack is bad form,” he growled.

  Valen Hesswyn’s eyes narrowed. One of his flunkies—a squat bruiser of a young knight named Ethick—put a hand on Valen’s shoulder. “You accusing His Lordship of something?”

  The Vora boy rose halfway from his seat. “I’m accusing him of having bad manners, that’s what.” The conversation at the table stopped. While nobody actually touched the hilt of a rapier, it was only a matter of time before someone did.

  Which, of course, was what Artus was here to prevent.

  He slid between a few spectators, slipped a dagger from his wrist sheath, and slammed it into the table. It got everyone’s attention. “No duels,
declared or fought. You gentlemen know the rules—want to stab each other, take it outside.”

  The Vora squire stuck out his bottom lip. “But he . . .”

  “Burned the stack on you, did he? Sore about that? Fine—nobody likes losing. But it’s not bad form.” Artus fished a tile out of the sakkidio—the bag in which the tiles were kept. “Do you know what dailiki is?”

  The Vora squire shook his head.

  Artus nodded. “Of course you don’t—dailiki is Verisi for ‘good form.’” Artus held up the tile, slipped a gold mark on top of it, and slapped it on the table with a sharp crack. “That is good dailiki. I’ve seen you and Lord Valen here play—you both have bad form.”

  The Vora squire sank back into his chair, his expression sour. The tension, though, had gone out of the table. At length, he looked at Valen Hesswyn and nodded.

  Valen Hesswyn, though, was looking at Artus. Not just looking at him, but making eye contact. And smiling. What the hell?

  “A game later!” Valen flashed his gleaming white teeth from behind his lips. “We must play, you and I!”

  Artus bowed, which hopefully concealed his confused expression. “Perhaps later, Your Lordship.”

  “Lordship?” Valen smiled and his flunkies smiled, too. “Don’t you mean cousin?”

  If someone had stuck Artus with a pin, he probably wouldn’t have flinched as much. The noble-born did not call him cousin by accident. “I . . . I beg your pardon?”

  Ethick laughed. “Don’t worry, milord—your secret’s safe with us.”

  Artus nodded, a smile pinned to his face. “Thanks.”

  Then he turned and got the hell out of there. Cousin? Secret?

  A rumor. Gotta be.

  Suddenly an avalanche of Tyvian’s old warnings about Eretherian politics came thundering into his thoughts. What was the rumor? Who could he ask without making things worse?

  He looked around for Brana—there, by the fireplace, entertaining a host of young ladies by cracking walnuts in his mouth and doing handstands. Artus grimaced.

  If they only knew . . .

  Of course none of them did—to the insular world that knew of their bizarre little “family,” Brana was merely Artus’s idiot brother. Tall, handsome, and guileless as a puppy, but most assuredly human. In reality, Brana (and his mother, Hool) were gnolls—great hairy beasts from the distant prairies of the Taqar. A kind of human/lion/dog creature—fierce nomadic hunters and warriors. Their appearance tended to, well, excite the more genteel at parties, hence the illusory shrouds that disguised them. Artus was endlessly thankful that truthlenses—magical devices that could see through illusions—were considered rude to use in public.

  Artus started in Brana’s direction, only to be intercepted by two young women, one of whom had the boldness to grab him by the sleeve. He froze. “Yes?”

  They were each about his age. One tall and graceful, but with cheekbones so sharp they could be bladed weapons; the other petite, with chestnut hair and amber eyes and burgundy lips . . .

  He abruptly realized he was staring. So he decided to bow, hoping it wasn’t too obvious a cover.

  The girls giggled. The petite one spoke first. “Sir Artus, is it?”

  Artus fought back a blush. “Just Artus, milady.”

  She pointed to the balcony that overlooked the gaming hall, where Tyvian sometimes stood to oversee things. The doors were currently closed and the curtains drawn. “We were wondering . . . does your father receive company?”

  “Master Waymar isn’t my father, milady—he’s my uncle. And no, he doesn’t.”

  “Told you,” the tall girl said. “See?”

  Artus looked from one to the other. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. My uncle is a private man, so he doesn’t—”

  The tall girl rolled her eyes. “Come now, Artus—everybody knows.”

  A shiver passed down Artus’s spine. Kroth—what’s the rumor? “I’m afraid you ladies got me at a disadvantage.”

  The tall girl crinkled her nose. “Got? Got?”

  The petite girl curtsied. “I am Lady Elora Carran and this is Lady Michelle Orly. Pleased to meet you.”

  Artus bowed again. “Nice to meet you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta . . .”

  Michelle snorted. “Gotta?” She gave Elora a significant glare. “See?”

  Elora offered Artus her hand. “I hope we’ll see you again tonight.”

  Artus, his mouth suddenly dry, took her hand and kissed it. She smelled like vanilla, and her hand was cold and soft in his own.

  “Oooh,” Elora said softly, “your hands are so warm.”

  Artus found himself grinning like an idiot and rooted to the spot. Elora and Michelle spotted some other friends and took their leave, but not before Elora gave him a long look over her shoulder that was about as powerful a sedative as any drink Artus had ever imbibed. It took Artus the better part of a minute to remember what he was trying to do.

  Right—Brana. Ask about the rumor.

  He moved more quickly, trying not to make eye contact. Even so, Artus knew that people were looking at him. A number of strategically placed fans concealed lips in midwhisper—what were they saying?

  Finally, Artus was at the end of the hall. The north fireplace was wide enough to admit four men standing abreast and it blazed with the most expensive firewood money could buy—enchanted to last all night and englamoured to smell more pleasant. Tyvian had insisted upon it, even though it cost one hundred times more than regular old logs. And even then it still burned up.

  Before the fire, Brana had his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he caught the walnut tossed to him by the gaggle of young ladies. Brana cracked it between his teeth and delivered the meat to the hand of some blushing young woman who, were all sense of propriety lost to her, would probably have her tongue hanging out as well. All of them were giggling entirely too much. Artus found the whole display perverse.

  He was about to interrupt when Sir Damon showed up again. “More at the door, milord.”

  Artus groaned and pulled Sir Damon aside. “Seriously? Who?”

  Sir Damon shrugged. “House Hadda this time.”

  Artus rubbed his moustache. He noticed that his cigarillo had gone missing. What had he done with it, anyway? “Hey, have you heard any rumors about me recently?”

  Sir Damon stiffened. “I do my best not to gossip, milord.”

  Artus rolled his eyes. “And I’m a griffon. Out with it. What did you tell people?”

  Sir Damon blinked. “Sir, I am offended—I hold the doings of this house in the utmost confidence.” He paused. “But I have heard something.”

  Artus looked around. People were watching. Lots of people. Well, too late to be subtle. “What did you hear?”

  Sir Damon shrugged. “Well, just that your uncle Waymar is the heir. Everybody’s talking about it. Been the talk for days.”

  Artus grabbed Damon by the arm. “Heir to what?”

  Sir Damon frowned. “Why, the Falcon Throne. The heir to all the counties of Eretheria.”

  Artus’s mouth fell open. As rumors went, that was a big one. A really, really big one. “Nobody . . . I mean, nobody believes it, right?”

  Sir Damon’s own mouth fell open as he read the shock on Artus’s face. “Well . . . I mean, it’s certainly possible. Your uncle and your mother are rather mysterious, wouldn’t you say? And wealthy. And nobody knows where you came from. So . . .”

  Artus backed away from Pirenne and looked once more through the hall. Again, he found himself meeting the gaze of a dozen other young peers, most of them female. They smiled or waved or beckoned him closer—these people who, just a few nights ago, wouldn’t have given him more than a passing glance. The realization struck him like a slap: They think I’m a prince. Great gods, they think Tyvian is secretly king.

  Moving quickly, Artus grabbed Brana by the collar and yanked him from his admirers. “Where’s Tyvian?”

  Brana grinned. “Wanna walnut?” He held out
his hand. “No drool on it. Promise.”

  Artus slapped his hand away. “Tyvian! Where is he?”

  Brana snorted. “His rooms. Locked the doors. Nobody’s supposed to bother him. You go up there, he’ll get mad.”

  “Trust me—he’s going to want to hear this.”

  Chapter 2

  How to Entertain a Killer

  Over the years, Tyvian Reldamar had developed a sort of sixth sense about whether or not somebody was planning to kill him. Though he could not express how this worked exactly, he could always tell, much in the same way he could tell when it was going to rain or whether a particular pastry was going to be tasty or not.

  It was a very useful skill to have. Especially now, as the woman across the table from him was plotting to kill him. No doubt about it.

  Her name was Adatha Voth. She was petite, with delicate bone structure and porcelain skin. Midnight curls fell on either side of her cherubic face, her lips were heart-shaped and luscious pink in color, and her left eye was a warm, chocolate brown. Her right eye was blind—milky white—the effect, no doubt, of whatever bladed instrument had left the dark scar running down her face from her temple to her cheekbone. The scar was a reminder to all who looked: this woman was no stranger to violence. Still, she affected an air of daintiness.

  It was a ruse.

  Voth’s apparent delicacy was only skin-deep. Tyvian had noted the muscles in her forearms—taut, cable-thick—that bespoke someone who worked with her hands. What threw him, though, was that her hands were manicured, refined. They were not the hands of a laborer or a craftswoman, where thick calluses would be evident and nails would be chipped. What kind of person had forearms like those, but hands relatively unblemished?

  A killer, that was who—somebody who did a lot of strangling or, perhaps, fenced with gauntlets on.

  Tyvian found her intoxicating.

  She smiled at him. Tyvian smiled back, wondering just who was paying her and what the angle was. This was their third meeting and Voth was getting progressively friendlier. That inclined him to suspect poison. She was learning his habits, his mannerisms. She was enticing him closer. Even now, she toyed with a lace of her shirt with one burgundy-lacquered fingernail, just above her cleavage—drawing the eye.