small barred peephole in the embrace of two bronze godlets. “Who is it?”
“A messenger.” Haught put on his most cultivated voice. “My mistress sends to
your master with an invitation.”
Silence from the other side. It was a message fraught with ambiguities that
might well make a nobleman’s nightwarder think twice about asking what
invitation and what lady. The little door snapped shut and off went the porter
to more consultation.
“What are they doing?” Stilcho asked-not a frequenter of uptown houses, or one
who had dealt with nobility in life or death. “Haught, if they-“
“Hush,” said Haught, once and sharply, because more steps were coming back.
The peephole opened again. “It’s an odd hour for invitations.”
“My mistress prefers it.”
A pause. “Is there a token?”
“My mistress’ word is her token. She asks your master to attend tomorrow night
at eight, at a formal dinner in the former Peles house; dinner at sundown. Tell
Lord Tasfalen that my lady will make herself known there. And he will want to
see her, by a token he will know.” He reached up and handed a black feather
toward the entry, a flight-feather of one of Sanctuary’s greater birds. “Tell
him wear this. Tell him my lady will be greatly pleased with him.”
“Her name?”
“She is someone he will know. I will not compromise her. But this for taking my
message-” He handed up a gold coin. “You see my lady is not ungenerous.”
A profound pause. “I’ll tell my lord in the morning.”
“Tell him then. You needn’t mention the gold, of course. Good rest to you,
porter.”