Mickey Reichert - The lost Dragons of Barakhai

Ialin had never entered the massive edifice through the door before and never in human guise. He toed the line between gawking and giving enough of his mind to his surroundings to memorize them while still holding his constant drive to move at bay. He also kept his attention on the guards, watching for evidence of suspicion, anything that might suggest a need to switch to his second plan. He dared not rely on Collins, certain the blundering fool would foul up the rescue, just as he had his last mission, the one that ended in Zylas' capture. True, the Other-worlder had managed to bring them the crystal that enhanced Prinivere's fading magic, but he had nearly died in the process and had made innumerable mistakes along the way. Including cannibalism. Ialin still found the crime unforgivable and wondered how his friends managed to work so comfortably with a murderer. Other renegades had killed, when necessary, but they had never struck down innocents. The realization that Collins had slaughtered, butchered, and eaten a sweet elderly woman whose only crime was that she happened to have a rabbit switch-form sent a shudder through Ialin.

"Cold?" the female guard asked as she led Ialin up the spiraling staircase.

Though that was not the case, thanks to his racing metabolism, Ialin had no better explanation for his shivering. "A bit. That draft howling down the stairway bothers me every time I come. You'd think I'd have gotten used to it by now."

One of the men grumbled, "Never noticed it, myself."

"Really?" said a third, the only other woman. "It creeps into my bones, even when the hearth's going and it's warm air washing over me."

That started a casual discussion that Ialin appreciated, as it allowed him to fall back into silence. Slow plans frustrated him, especially with his switch time approaching.

He would certainly find Zylas downstairs in the dungeon, yet he dared not even look in that direction yet. He allowed the group to usher him upward, past the kitchen/artisan level, past the dining hall/library level, and to the third landing. Ialin naturally turned south; but one of the guards opened the left-hand, northern door and gestured for him to enter the meeting room.

It was not standard procedure. Ialin swallowed his discomfort and forced a tense smile, concentrating on the need to hide his concern. Nothing this day had proceeded in its regular fashion, and that seemed to have more to do with the king's paranoia than any specific suspicions about him.

Ialin stepped around the guards to peek inside the small room, its only furniture a scarred wooden table surrounded by chairs. A colorful tapestry of patternless design filled most of one wall. Another wall supported a narrowing window that overlooked the courtyards, thin enough at its innermost dimension to thwart anything larger than an insect. From experience, Ialin knew he could wriggle through it in switch-form, and that gave him a guilty sense of security. If all else failed, at least he could escape, though it would mean abandoning his companions. A silver flagon of wine and three matching goblets sat on a lace napkin in the middle of the table. Two doors led out of opposite walls: the one he had entered by and another headed deeper into the castle to servant's quarters and more guest rooms.

Ialin froze on the lintel, uncertain and wondering if he faced another test. "Excuse me, but my 'usual quarters' are the other way." He made a motion toward the south door.

The familiar woman took Ialin's arm again and ushered him inside the meeting room with an apologetic look. "The chamberlain will be with you shortly."

The chamberlain? Ialin's heart skipped a beat, shaken by the idea of facing a chief officer in the king's household. Assuming she meant Jarvid, the chamberlain who oversaw the visiting merchants, Eshwyn had a close, long-term relationship with him. The renegade agents hidden among the servants managed only spotty information when it came to the specifics of conversations and personal interactions, Ialin would have to play things carefully and mostly by ear. He steeled his resolve, lifting his chin, and guessed at the best response. "Don't I even get a chance to settle in first?"

The woman laughed. "Don't you ever get tired of questioning the inscrutable motives of royals, Eshwyn?"

Ialin appreciated the reminder. It never hurt to remember that the upper echelons of the king's staff, and his family's personal assistants and aides, mostly consisted of trusted aunts, uncles, and cousins. Terrin relied on those few nonswitchers who could enter the rooms on the top two floors for everything from tidying up to strategizing. "I'm just hoping Jarvid gets tired of meeting with rumpled, exhausted, travel-filthy merchants after just this one time."

Ialin knew the actual business of trading and negotiation would occur in the courtroom, in the presence of nobles, litigants, diplomats, and whoever else had come to deal with the kingdom. Few were accorded the honor of meeting directly with any official before the proceedings. Likely, this was to be a friendly conference, only tangentially related to trading; and that realization only heightened Ialin's discomfort. Bartering he understood. He dreaded the thought of exchanging pleasantries with a stranger while feigning an extensive friendship.

The guard loosed another salvo of laughter. "I'll let him know you're here. Anything you want?"

Prinivere's mind reading would be nice. "No. Thank you." Eshwyn had a known penchant for gruff, sometimes crude, humor, so Ialin added sarcastically, "Who needs a warm bath or a nap on clean linens when he can sit in rock-hard, ass-pinching chairs?"

The woman raised her brows, but a few of the men smiled this time. They all exited, closing the door behind them.

For the first time, Ialin allowed himself to pace in a swift, short oval, dispelling some of the pent up energy he had held in check for too long. He glanced down at formal pantaloons that hid a carefully manufactured scar on his right ankle. Road dust had settled into the cuffs, further marring silks that already had a tear at the knee. It was the best garb he could find in Vernon's cottage, castoffs from some wealthy baron or merchant who could afford not to bother patching his clothing. Or, perhaps, a servant, tailor, or washerwoman had swiped the garment from a man with enough wealth not to notice one item missing, then donated it to the rebels' cause. It was even possible that someone of means had taken refuge with Vernon, leaving the silks in exchange for something less noticeable so that another could use them in future operations. Vernon had a kind heart that attracted strays and runaways of many stripes. His home had become a sanctuary, scouted by most of the durithrin, the wild folk. Fugitives had a way of disappearing once they reached Vernon, but even the constabularies rarely bothered him. They, or a loved one, might one day need his help.

When the door handle creaked, Ialin stiffened, pretending to stare out the window at the brightening sky and its vast array of puffy clouds etched against azure. Then, the door wrenched open to reveal Jarvid flanked by two elite guardsmen. The king's second cousin bore little resemblance to him. Aqua and white satin, tailored for the burly forms of the king and his brother, hung loose on Jarvid's slender frame. Unlike them, be wore no beard over his wide, dimpled chin. His cheekbones perched higher, and his cheeks were chapped and windburned. He had the same keen, brown eyes, however; and their classic wheaten ringlets fell around his ears, held in place with perfumed oil. He gave Ialin a friendly smile and made a gesture of greeting before the door had fully closed.

Ialin bowed, waiting for the other man to speak first. He knew little of the intricacies of court protocol but enough to treat a king's chamberlain with utmost respect. Caught off guard, Aisa squabbled to maintain her position on his shoulder.