Sianim 01 - Masques

ask him more? Do we expect them to come running in?”
    She pushed her way through—not hard once people realized where she was going.
    “It means that they aren’t his wards,” said Myr neutrally.
    The big nobleman who stood in front of him was used to getting his way—with money or intimidation.
    “Boy,” he boomed. “You don’t let that strippy bugger get away with half-assed answers. He’s not in charge here.”
    She couldn’t get there any faster without falling on her face, but . . . Myr hit him. A quick, decisive blow that dropped the ox like a stone.
    Aralorn pulled her sword and held it to the downed man’s throat, making sure he felt the sharp edge. A foot on his shoulder.
    The fear that had held her since she realized that it was too quiet made her testy, and she would have been quite happy to put the sword all the way through the blasted man’s neck and take care of the problem. But her father had been a canny politician when it suited him, and she could hear his voice in her ear.
    So instead of killing him, she said coolly, “Do you desire this man dead, my king? I assure you it would be a pleasure. We could display his body on a stake just outside for the crows to eat.”
    “And attract every scavenger in twenty leagues,” said Myr regretfully. “No. Not just yet.” She couldn’t read his voice and wouldn’t lift her eyes from her enemy to look at his face.
    She grimaced at the triumph in the eyes of the nobleman at her feet. He started to say something, then stopped. Maybe it was the weight of her heel on a nerve just in front of his shoulder, maybe it was that her arm dropped just a bit, letting the sword dig a little deeper.
    “Permission to deal with him as my father would?” she asked.
    “I recall the stake incident,” said Myr dryly. “My grandfather told me about it. No one disobeyed the Lyon’s orders for a few years afterward. Effective but extreme, you have to admit. We are a little short of numbers here—so I find myself reluctant to give you my unqualified permission.”
    The nobleman paled. “The Lyon?” he said.
    Aralorn bared her teeth at him, but continued to talk to Myr. “Your Majesty, if you please. Haris?”
    “Aye?”
    “Haris, I think that you’ve been working too hard. You need an assistant.”
    “Don’t need no nobleman to help me cook,” said Haris grumpily.
    “Haris,” said Myr in silky tones, “I have no intention of allowing this man to interfere with your efforts. However . . . skinning, turning the spit, or taking out the refuse—how much could he hurt?”
    “Oh aye,” said Haris, sounding remarkably happier. “That I’ll do, sire.”
    “Aralorn, let him up,” Myr said.
    She pulled her sword away after wiping the blood off on the idiot’s shirt.
    “Oras,” Myr said. “A week of helping Haris is a gift. Do not make me regret it.”
    The nobleman swallowed. Perhaps he recognized, as Aralorn did, the old king in his grandson’s face.
    Myr turned his attention to Aralorn then, ignoring the man on the ground. “I need you to go out and find Wolf. Is this an assault we need to prepare ourselves for—or can I take people off alert?”
    “What’s going on?” she asked, sheathing her sword.
    “The Uriah tried to come into the caves after our hunting party and were stopped by wards on the cave mouth. Wolf says they aren’t his wards and sent us all back here to cool our heels and guard the narrow entrance.”
    Aralorn looked at the opening Myr indicated, where daylight shone through.
    “Oras aside,” Myr said, “it would be useful to have a bit more information. I’d like an update, and you’re likely to get more information out of our wizard than anyone else.”

    Once in the tunnel to the outside, she drew her sword and held it in a fighter’s grip. Someone had painted signs on the walls of the tunnels to facilitate travel, and it was a simple matter to follow the arrows to the outside by the magelight she held cupped in one hand.
    The howls were louder as she turned into a cave marked “Door to Outside” over the top. She smiled at the awkward lettering even as the cold sweat of fear gathered on her forehead. Cautiously, she crept forward through the twisted narrow channel.
    The Uriah were there, howling with frustrated rage at the wall of flame that covered the entrance. Someone, Aralorn noted with absent approval, had set up the wood for a bonfire where the tunnel began to narrow—it sat unlit, a good ten feet