Patricia Briggs - Masques

He rubbed his chest, pressing into his skin the charm he wore on a thong. A gift from a friend, another mage, it was supposed to be able to dispel magic aimed at its wearer. It dated from sometime around the old Wizard Wars and, his friend had told him, was unlikely to still have the power to block a spell directed specifically at him. It had been given as a curiosity—from one collector to another.

He still wasn’t absolutely sure it worked, but he’d been wearing it day and night for the past few months. So far he seemed to be immune to the odd fervor that had taken most of the usually sensible people he reported to when he chose. He patted his chest again and worried, though his ma had taught him that worry did no one any good.

If Aralorn’s footsteps were quiet, it was out of habit rather than intent: She was deep in thought as she wandered down the cobbled street. She absently waved at acquaintances but didn’t stop to talk. She shivered a little, though it was warm enough out. Why was Ren acting as if he’d never had a suspicious thought about the ae’Magi? Ren was suspicious of everybody .

More by chance than design, she found the dormitory where she stored her few possessions, and retreated through the halls to her room.

It was musty after her prolonged absence and in desperate need of dusting. There were only a few pieces of worn furniture placed here and there, but the room was small enough that it still seemed cluttered. She spent so little time in it that size and clutter didn’t matter.

Aralorn sneezed once, then, ignoring the much-abused chair, she sat on the rough stone floor that was unrelieved by carpet or fur.

Never before had Ren seemed worried about where he sent her to spy. He cared little for politics, leaving that to the statesmen to whom he gave selected bits of information. Instead, he thirsted for knowledge the way that some men thirst for food or sex. It was from him that she had gleaned many of the folkstories she collected.

He was no respecter of persons, not ever. When she had protested her assignment with the ae’Magi, he had laughed at her and quoted her his favorite saying: “He who does no wrong need not fear perusal.” He used it so often and said it with such pride that she suspected that he had made it up himself.

When he sent her to the castle, he’d made it clear that although nominally she was investigating the “assassination attempt,” her main objective would be to gather information on Geoffrey ae’Magi. Why else would he send her when a simple note of warning would have done the same thing? She had, even at the time, suspected that there was no assassination plot except in the Mouse’s busy labyrinthian mind.

All of which led her back to her original question: Why was Ren troubled about her spying on the ae’Magi? Had the ae’Magi bespelled Ren? If so, why? And worse, who else had he taken?

Aralorn sat for a while and came to no brilliant conclusions. It was better than worrying about the wolf—though she did that as well. Fretting about one was about as useful as fretting about the other—so she, being a believer in using her resources properly, gave equal time to each.

Finally, tired in mind and body, she stripped off her clothes and threw them on the floor. She stretched out carefully, slowly working each muscle until it was relatively limber. She pulled off the top covering of her cot, careful to leave most of the dust on it. Then she collapsed onto the bed and slept.

The nightmare came back—it wasn’t as bad as it had been the first few days, but it was bad enough. She was only half-awake when she touched the wall that her cot sat against and thought for a minute that she was back in the cage.

She rolled away from it quickly and landed with a thump, fully awake and surrounded by a cloud of dust from the blanket on the floor.

She sneezed several times, swore, and wiped her watering eyes. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to get any more sleep for a while, so she lit a small lamp and dressed, pulling on her practice garments—knee-length leather boots, loose breeches, and tunic.

Night had fallen, but the nice thing about being home in Sianim was that even in the busy summer season, there were always people in the practice arenas willing to go a few rounds; mercenaries tended to keep strange hours. She strapped on sword and daggers and slipped out the window and onto the narrow ledge just below.

Gingerly, she traversed the narrow pathway until it was possible to drop onto the roof of the building next door. From there it was only a short jump to the ground. It would have been easier to exit by normal means, but she took opportunities to practice wherever she could get them.

Outside, the street torches were already lit for the night, but people were still wandering around. There was a friendly brawl going on at one of the pubs, with bystanders betting on the outcome.

She inhaled deeply. The smell of Sianim was a fusion of sweat, horse, dust, and . . . freedom.

Aralorn had grown up stifled by the restraints placed on women of the high aristocracy, even bastards like her. Reth might have outlawed slavery, but women of high estate were surrounded by a wall of rules strong enough to confine any drudge. If it hadn’t been for her father, she might have been forced into a traditional role.

When the Lyon of Lambshold’s illegitimate daughter came to him and stated her objections to the constant needlepoint and etiquette lessons that his wife imposed on his daughters, he’d laughed—then taught her to ride like a man. He also taught her to fight with sword and staff. When she left home, he sent her off with his favorite warhorse.

She had tried Jetaine but found that the women there were enslaved to their hatred of men. Aralorn had never hated men, she just hadn’t wanted to sit and sew all her life. She’d often wondered what it would have been like for her if she’d been born a merchant’s daughter, or someone who had to work for a living, instead of an aristocrat, who was expected to be decorative.

The thought of herself as decoration was absurd. Even before she’d become battle-scarred, she’d been short, plain, and too willing to speak her own mind.

Two big men in the rough, hooded garb favored by the farmers who serviced the town had been following her for the past few blocks, and now they were getting close enough to be worth paying attention to. Sianim might be used to women in its ranks, but outsiders could be bothersome, expecting a woman wearing pants and a sword to be a woman of loose morals who would sleep with any man who asked. A simple refusal could end in a nasty fight.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the pair slink behind a cart she’d just passed. Her left hand went automatically to her sword. Her right already held a dagger. One of the thugs said to the other in a stage whisper meant to carry to her, “Squelch you, Talor, you lumbering ox. She saw us again. I told you to change those shoes. They make too much noise.”

She laughed and spun around to face them, her dagger tucked invisibly back into her sleeve sheath. “You’re getting better, though. This time I honestly thought that you were just a couple of outsiders looking for prey.”

The second one pushed the first sideways with a playful punch. “See, Kai? I told you that we’d do better blending in with the environment. Who pays attention to a couple of hog lovers in this place?”

Kai twitched one eyebrow upward, managing, despite the dirt on his clothes, to look aristocratic. “However, if you had worn the shoes I told you to . . .” He let his voice trail off and flashed the wicked grin he shared with his twin brother.

With practiced ease, he slipped out of his assumed character and flung an arm around Aralorn’s neck. “Well, my dear, it looks like I have you at my mercy.” Or at least that’s what he meant to say. Actually, thought Aralorn, the last word sounded more like “eyah” than “mercy.”