Patricia Briggs - Masques

She slipped through the worn door without knocking—if the Spymaster had wanted privacy, the door would have been locked. She closed the door, sat on a ratty-looking chair, and waited patiently for Ren, known semiaffectionately as the Mouse, to acknowledge her.

He was perched on top of his battered-but-sturdy desk, leaning back against a bookshelf and reading aloud from a collection of poems by Thyre. He was only a little older than Aralorn, but he appeared as though someone had put him out to dry and forgotten to take him back in again.

His hair had faded and thinned until it no longer concealed the scalp beneath. His hands were ink-stained and soft, free of calluses, though she knew he was an excellent swordsman and for a time, before he came to Sianim, had made a living as a duelist in several of the Alliance cities. Only his sharp eyes distracted from the impression of vagueness, and at that moment they were hidden from her as he kept his attention on the lines he read.

Thyre wasn’t one of her favorites; he reached too hard for his rhyme. Usually, she would have fished out a book from Ren’s impressive library and read until he decided to question her; but today she just sat quietly, listening, finally stretching out on the padded bench and closing her eyes. Since Thyre was notoriously long-winded, she had plenty of time to rest.

When Ren finished, she was snoozing peacefully, and the soft sound the book made as Ren stuffed it into one of the many bookcases made her jump to her feet. He offered her a glass he filled from the bottle on his desk.

Aralorn accepted it but sipped cautiously. Bottles on Ren’s desk could contain anything from water to Wyth, more affectionately known as Dragonslayer. This time it was fehlta juice, only a mildly alcoholic drink, but she set it down on the end of his desk. She had the rueful feeling that it would be a long time before she would take anything that could cloud her thoughts. She sat back down on the bench and waited . . . and waited.

When Ren finally spoke he sounded almost nervous to her sensitive ears. “I trust that everything went smoothly as usual, hmm? Got in, got out, came here.”

“Yes. I—” He cut her off before she could speak.

“Did you talk to him about the assassination attempt?” Ren strolled around his desk and resumed his seat.

“No, the—”

“Good,” he said, breaking in once again before she could continue. “I would hate to have him upset with us, or think that we were spying on him—although I doubt that he would mind. I’m sure he would have understood that we gather information whenever we can. I trust that you were either able to put a halt to the assassins or discovered that the rumor I sent you to investigate was just a rumor.”

Aralorn tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair and contemplated Ren. His babbling didn’t bother her, he always talked like that. He once told her that it distracted people, and they said things that they wouldn’t normally have said—just to get him to shut up. She’d used the technique herself upon occasion and found it effective.

What did bother her was that he wasn’t listening. Usually, he listened carefully to everything she said, then quizzed her for hours about what she’d heard and seen. It just wasn’t like him to gloss over anything or stop anyone from speaking. He never, not ever, interrupted. The bright black, somewhat beady eyes shifted restlessly.

She had never seen him embarrassed before, so it took her a while to identify the emotion that brought a red tinge to his face. Ren was ashamed that he had sent her to spy on the ae’Magi—the same Ren who had once sent her to spy on his own brother.

None of her disquiet showed on her face. She didn’t want to heed the intuition that was hinting that something was awry. She wanted to give her report with no more than the usual lies: Not even Ren knew that she could alter her shape. Shapeshifters used wild magic—and this was a world that had learned to fear magic used without strict limits.

She wanted to ignore the insistent disquiet that the Mouse’s unusual reactions spawned, but she couldn’t. With visions of the docile people in the ae’Magi’s ballroom in her head, she bowed her head and waited.

She’d never heard anyone say anything against the ae’Magi—only Wolf. The people the ae’Magi had brought out to sacrifice to his magic had come willingly. Only Wolf knew what he was—and he hadn’t really told her until he was certain she knew what she’d gotten herself into.

While Ren talked, she carefully edited what she was going to tell him, waiting as he drifted from topic to topic until he got around to asking her about her mission.

Aralorn gave him a brief description of her method of entry, incorrect, of course. Someday Ren would find out just how poor she was at picking iron locks and would be deeply disappointed.

Ren needed to know about the ae’Magi, but somehow she found herself rattling on at length about the various heads of state at the dance the ae’Magi had held and obligingly going into as much detail as she could when Ren requested it. Evidently, he was only upset about her spying on the ae’Magi—otherwise, he wanted to know everything. He could pull surprising conclusions out of the smallest thing.

“Wearing a red cape?” he said, after she’d described what one of the Anthran demiprinces was wearing. “It was a gift from his sister’s husband—looks like peace talks between their territories might be on again. We’ll be able to pull those troops out and use them elsewhere.”

She hedged when he asked her about Myr, saying only that she’d seen him talk with the ae’Magi but hadn’t been near enough to hear what was said. Time enough to inform Ren of the young king’s interesting talent after she discovered what was making the Spymaster behave so out of character.

To distract him from Myr, Aralorn continued to the main reason for her mission and said with some caution, “I couldn’t find any information on an assassination attempt. If there is a plot, it doesn’t originate from within the castle. I did get the impression that if there was such an attempt, the ae’Magi would be perfectly capable of handling it without need for our aid.”

She paused, to give herself time to choose just the right words. “I left early, I know. But I felt so uncomfortable .” Uncomfortable was true, uncomfortable enough to curl into a quivering ball of jelly at the bottom of that cage. “I thought that I had better get out before he figured out who I was and took offense. If it were widely known that Sianim spied upon the ae’Magi, half the world would be angry at us.”

“Ah yes, I quite understand.” Ren nodded and picked up another book—his habitual method of dismissal.

If she needed confirmation that something was awry, she had it then. Ren would never, ever accept “uncomfortable” as a reason for leaving an assignment early without picking the vague term into pieces. Unhappy, and baffled by what to do about it, she exited the room.

Alone, Ren put his book down and rubbed his hands together with great satisfaction. If that performance didn’t cause Aralorn to start thinking, then nothing would. He needed her to be suspicious and questioning, but also cautious.

He’d had a feeling about her—she got out of too many situations that should have been fatal—and those eyes. He’d seen that color of eyes before. He had wizards who worked for him, but they’d have been useless. The office of ae’Magi existed to control them.

She’d come right to him, and she was well and truly spooked, he thought, though he flattered himself that no one else would have been able to read that in her.

He couldn’t afford to come out and warn her; the ae’Magi had his own ways of learning things . . . and if anyone would be subject to the Archmage’s watchful eye, it would be the Spymaster of Sianim.