there by what I gather. And here-” he moved his foot aside, against Straton’s
leg. “Here’s Tempus’s own lieutenant. His chief interrogator. His gatherer of
secrets. I think we have something to discuss with him, you and I. Don’t we?”
Tasfalen’s nostrils flared. The face seemed hollowed. “I want a drink,” Roxane
said. “I’m parched.”
“Moria,” Haught said.
“I’m not your damned servant!”
“I’ll get it,” Stilcho said, and got up from beside the unconscious Stepson and
went for the drawing room.
“Moria,” Haught said. “Don’t be a total fool.” His hand caressed her shoulder
but he never looked her way. “Lover’s quarrel,” he said to Roxane.
“Who are you?” Roxane asked, and Haught stiffened; his hand stopped its motion
and Tasfalen’s face went hard and careful.
“Answer enough?” Haught asked. “You knew my father. We’re almost cousins.”
Roxane/Tasfalen said nothing to that. But the expression became thoughtful, and
then something else again, that sent a shiver up Moria’s Ilsigi spine. The face
of the man she had lately made love with began to take on different lines, flush
with lifelike color, and settle into expressions alien to its personality.
Stilcho brought the drink in a glass, from the carafe and service on the drawing
room sideboard. Tasfalen reached for it; Roxane took it and lifted it with a
lingering suspicion in the look she turned toward Haught. Then she sipped at it
carefully, and let go a small sigh.
“Better,” she said. “Better.” And finished the glass and gave it to Stilcho. She
put out her male hand in the next instant and stayed him in his departure, then