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Authors: Julie E. Czerneda
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of the Haven, Barac sud Sarc.
“I showed her to the best table, Lord Warlock,” Hastho’tha greeted his employer moments later, noting with barely disguised contempt that the being had used the lift from the apartment above instead of appearing in midair as had the true witch. “She said only that she wanted the owner of the Haven.”
Barac took more notice of the squat, overweight Poculan, something he’d tried to avoid until now owing to the truly repulsive elongation of the protuberances over Hastho’tha’s joints. Some of the pale, wiggling things were almost long enough to wave with the Poculan’s gestures, and stood out against his mustard-toned skin. Barac didn’t know if these were considered attractive or not—and didn’t really want to find out. What he did know was that Hastho’tha must be one of the group of employees Sira had aptly labeled as predictable. A hard worker only when certain of the superiority of his employer. Hastho’tha would have been horrified to know how plain his emotions—including his hope that the lady in question meant trouble for Barac—were to the Clansman. “Take me to her,” Barac ordered, voice deliberately bored.
Barac’s assumed boredom vanished as they approached the table. “A bottle of the best Denebian wine, Hastho’tha,” he ordered, his hands echoing an elaborate gesture the veiled woman was quick to offer him. Hastho’tha’s surly scowl returned, and he managed to cuff Krat as he passed by on the errand, muttering about the unfairness of it all. Krat nodded mute agreement.
“Rael,” Barac said softly, dropping into a seat beside her. Although her features were concealed behind a high-fashion veil, the Clanswoman had made no other attempt to hide herself. Barac half-closed his eyes as her power explored the edges of his own in delicate reacquaintance.
“Well met, Cousin,” Rael nodded regally, though her voice was warm. “Though an unanticipated pleasure.”
Barac, despite a conscious effort, could not keep the bitterness from his voice. “You expected to find your sister, of course. The mighty Sira.”
Rael became still, a more than superficial motionlessness. When she spoke, her voice was sharp, driven, yet a whisper. “Why do you speak of her so, feel so? What has happened between you?”
“Not here,” Barac cautioned, shaken by Rael’s quick perception. Hastho’tha had come with the wine. Barac took it absently. “We are not to be disturbed,” he said to the head server, eyes fixed on Rael. “Empty the tavern and send the staff home, including yourself.”
Hastho’tha’s brown-rimmed eyes blinked in astonishment. “Close the Haven, Master? It’s never been closed—”
Barac turned swiftly, allowing his power to swell into a pain-filled emphasis that made the Poculan cower. “Close, lackwit. It may be permanently. Tell the staff to return only when I call on them.”
“As you command, Lord Warlock,” Hastho’tha stumbled back, black tears streaming from his eyes, a healthy new respect for his employer in his thoughts.
What has been happening, Barac? Rael sent mind-to-mind. Barac’s quick wince told her much. She switched considerately to verbal communication. “You are damaged. How did it happen? Is Sira all right?”
“Sira!”
The name, spoken with all of Barac’s resentment, told her enough. Rael raised her veil with two fingers, reaching with elaborate casualness for the wine. “You were wise to close this place, Barac,” she ventured, voice as silken as the strangely mobile locks of blue-black hair revealed under her loose hood. “I think you and I have a lot to discuss tonight.”
Chapter 6
“I COULD almost believe in magic, like the silly Drapsk.” Full of dreamy contentment and more than my share of delicious white-fleshed fowl stuffed with grains and fruit, I leaned back against Morgan’s strong shoulder, wishing time could stand still a while longer.
“Aie,” he agreed quietly, arm opening to
“I showed her to the best table, Lord Warlock,” Hastho’tha greeted his employer moments later, noting with barely disguised contempt that the being had used the lift from the apartment above instead of appearing in midair as had the true witch. “She said only that she wanted the owner of the Haven.”
Barac took more notice of the squat, overweight Poculan, something he’d tried to avoid until now owing to the truly repulsive elongation of the protuberances over Hastho’tha’s joints. Some of the pale, wiggling things were almost long enough to wave with the Poculan’s gestures, and stood out against his mustard-toned skin. Barac didn’t know if these were considered attractive or not—and didn’t really want to find out. What he did know was that Hastho’tha must be one of the group of employees Sira had aptly labeled as predictable. A hard worker only when certain of the superiority of his employer. Hastho’tha would have been horrified to know how plain his emotions—including his hope that the lady in question meant trouble for Barac—were to the Clansman. “Take me to her,” Barac ordered, voice deliberately bored.
Barac’s assumed boredom vanished as they approached the table. “A bottle of the best Denebian wine, Hastho’tha,” he ordered, his hands echoing an elaborate gesture the veiled woman was quick to offer him. Hastho’tha’s surly scowl returned, and he managed to cuff Krat as he passed by on the errand, muttering about the unfairness of it all. Krat nodded mute agreement.
“Rael,” Barac said softly, dropping into a seat beside her. Although her features were concealed behind a high-fashion veil, the Clanswoman had made no other attempt to hide herself. Barac half-closed his eyes as her power explored the edges of his own in delicate reacquaintance.
“Well met, Cousin,” Rael nodded regally, though her voice was warm. “Though an unanticipated pleasure.”
Barac, despite a conscious effort, could not keep the bitterness from his voice. “You expected to find your sister, of course. The mighty Sira.”
Rael became still, a more than superficial motionlessness. When she spoke, her voice was sharp, driven, yet a whisper. “Why do you speak of her so, feel so? What has happened between you?”
“Not here,” Barac cautioned, shaken by Rael’s quick perception. Hastho’tha had come with the wine. Barac took it absently. “We are not to be disturbed,” he said to the head server, eyes fixed on Rael. “Empty the tavern and send the staff home, including yourself.”
Hastho’tha’s brown-rimmed eyes blinked in astonishment. “Close the Haven, Master? It’s never been closed—”
Barac turned swiftly, allowing his power to swell into a pain-filled emphasis that made the Poculan cower. “Close, lackwit. It may be permanently. Tell the staff to return only when I call on them.”
“As you command, Lord Warlock,” Hastho’tha stumbled back, black tears streaming from his eyes, a healthy new respect for his employer in his thoughts.
What has been happening, Barac? Rael sent mind-to-mind. Barac’s quick wince told her much. She switched considerately to verbal communication. “You are damaged. How did it happen? Is Sira all right?”
“Sira!”
The name, spoken with all of Barac’s resentment, told her enough. Rael raised her veil with two fingers, reaching with elaborate casualness for the wine. “You were wise to close this place, Barac,” she ventured, voice as silken as the strangely mobile locks of blue-black hair revealed under her loose hood. “I think you and I have a lot to discuss tonight.”
Chapter 6
“I COULD almost believe in magic, like the silly Drapsk.” Full of dreamy contentment and more than my share of delicious white-fleshed fowl stuffed with grains and fruit, I leaned back against Morgan’s strong shoulder, wishing time could stand still a while longer.
“Aie,” he agreed quietly, arm opening to
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