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
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
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