away. When he looked back to the house the door was open.
“I have often wished to meet you,” he greeted her, lifting her tiny hand to his
lips after the custom of Rankan gentlemen.
“That is a lie.”
“I have wished for many things I never truly wanted to have. My Lady.”
She laughed, a rich sound that surrounded and enlarged her, and led him into her
home.
Molin had prepared himself for many things since clasping the cloak around his
shoulders. He had met Stilcho’s one eye without flinching, but he swallowed when
he entered her seraglio. In candlelight the cacophony of color and texture was
shocking. Sunlight, if it ever reached this forsaken chamber, would have blinded
a fish-eyed Beysib. Ischade shoved aside a ransom’s worth of velvet, silk and
embroidery to reveal an unremarkable chair.
“You had something to tell me, in person?” Molin began, sitting uneasily.
“Perhaps I wished to meet you, as well?” she teased. Then, seeing that he did
not share her light-heartedness, spoke more seriously: “You have been seeking
the Stepson Mage, Randal.”
“He vanished more than a month ago. Stolen out of the Mageguild-as I suspect you
know.”
“Roxane holds him in thrall until he delivers her lover to her. He will die at
Mid-Winter if he fails.”
“What else-if he fails? One mage, or lover, more or less, could hardly matter to
you.”
“Let us say that regardless of who might fail-it is not to my interest that
Roxane succeed. Let us say that it is not to my interest that you should fail,
and fail you would if Roxane has her way.”