The Queen's Bastard Part 5

Belinda shook him off with a kick that missed clipping his temple by a scant inch or two. Then she found laughter bubbling up inside her chest, pressing against her breastbone, and after a moment she let it free. Her singing voice might shame a crowing c.o.c.k, but her laugh was bright and warm.

"Oh, so that's that's how you do it," Ana said with a knowledgeable and approving nod. Belinda leered at her, flung her own head back, and began to sing the raunchiest song she knew. how you do it," Ana said with a knowledgeable and approving nod. Belinda leered at her, flung her own head back, and began to sing the raunchiest song she knew.

Howls of approving laughter roared up to the rafters, while stomping feet shook the floor as the pub patrons kept time. She couldn't, perhaps, sing, but she could keep a beat, and now she was caught up by it, consequences be d.a.m.ned. As if sensing her abandonment, even the men who had shouted her down earlier courted her for more now. Torches twitched with exuberance, hopping in their nests and sending puffs of black smoke up to the ceiling. Ana grabbed her arm again and Belinda swung her around the table, slipping in spilled beer. The aroma splashed upward, hops mixing with wood smoke in a rich thick scent that made one part of her mind sleepy even as she reveled in the raw country life of it. Her circ.u.mstances allowed her few opportunities for unconstrained play, and her temperament fewer yet. It was a chance, rare in a lifetime of duty, to forget who and what she was, and why. Most of all, why. Belinda drank it in, letting the raucous music she made settle all the way down to her bones, where it might leave an impression. A memory for another time, when she would not be able to allow herself the freedom she had tonight.

Stolen freedom. The thought flickered through her mind and she banished it again. The coin from the bridge was a common signal from her father's men. That it had this time been happenstance leading to rough decadence was...not her fault would be too strong. Belinda had chosen her path for tonight, chosen to deliberately misinterpret and forget. Her voice broke on a high note and she laughed with everyone else, dropping into a deeper register to try the remainder of the verse. would be too strong. Belinda had chosen her path for tonight, chosen to deliberately misinterpret and forget. Her voice broke on a high note and she laughed with everyone else, dropping into a deeper register to try the remainder of the verse.

Her corsets pressed into her ribs too tightly in the thick air; her throat felt constricted, though her gown was fashioned with neither collar nor hat-ribbon wrapped around her neck. Her hair had been up earlier in the day. Now it tumbled around her shoulders and down her back, sticking with sweat. If she took too shallow a breath she could smell herself, and so she breathed more deeply, drowning out her own sharpness with the woody scent of spilled beer. The dress would be forever in the cleaning, peac.o.c.k blue fabric stained not just with sweat but with beer and the invading scent of the wood smoke. Belinda wondered if she could procure a sausage, and spill its grease on herself, just to irretrievably mar the gown.

Calling out, midsong, for a sausage, was an error in judgment. More than one man leapt to his feet, scrambling to undo his trousers, while others cupped their codpieces and swore it was all real. Ana laughed so hard she wept, and Belinda's dance ended as she leaned on the courtesan, gasping back laughter herself.

In the stillness brought upon by laughter, emotion swept through Belinda like fire. Not her own: that she recognized, even as rare as tonight's outburst was. No. It came from somewhere else-everywhere else, as burning and uncomfortable as the sickness she'd felt while standing in the dawn watching Dmitri ride away. It ate at her, feeling larger than she was, reaching inside her so it could claw its way out. else, as burning and uncomfortable as the sickness she'd felt while standing in the dawn watching Dmitri ride away. It ate at her, feeling larger than she was, reaching inside her so it could claw its way out.

From Ana, her nose all but buried in Belinda's bosom as she tried to keep her feet while she laughed. Beneath the laughter there were tears, forced back by the night's gaiety. They were buried deep within her, tearing her soul apart. It was only through outrageousness that the dark-haired courtesan was able to keep them at bay.

From the man who'd grabbed her ankle, a fierce and abiding l.u.s.t, not for the women dancing above him, but for the harpy-voiced wife he'd left at home. He would go back to her soon, trusting she'd be as happy to make a nest for his p.r.i.c.k as he was to find one.

From the courtesans surrounding the table upon which Belinda and Ana danced came a pragmatic and determined approach to beauty, youth, and brains. As a unit, they stood together rather than apart simply because there were so few of them, and they needed what sisterhood they could get. Jealousies, petty and profound, were put aside for the few hours of shared companionship that had no guinea price on it.

And from the pub at large: desire and laughter, pleasure and pain. It rolled over Belinda in waves, tickling her in secret places, and discomfort broke as if rising emotion found welcome in the most private parts of her being. She gasped with it, knotting one hand in Ana's hair. Ana, still mirthful, lifted her head: she knew that tightness in Belinda's grasp as well as Belinda herself did, a precursor to violence and pa.s.sion. They met gazes, both aware of their bodies crushed together, both aware of the hard straight lines of corsets that pressed against curves better explored in a more secluded room. Ana's lips parted and she wet them. Belinda felt her own mouth curve in an avaricious grin. Like a shock wave, those closest to them felt it, the sudden pound of desire that had, for one rare and sweet moment, nothing to do with commerce.

Then rage crashed through Belinda's belly, smashing need before its strength. She fell back; she saw Ana's eyes shutter, disappointment hidden away inside an instant. She wanted to speak, to explain, but the fury that beat its way through her only brought a film of blood to her lip as she bit into it. She fell back another step, staggering under the onslaught of unfamiliar anger, and caught the edge of the table with her heel. Her arms pinwheeled as she toppled, knowing she couldn't catch herself, hoping her new acquaintances might. Knowing, too, that they would not: she had slighted one of theirs, pink-cheeked Ana who had already gone back to dancing as if nothing had pa.s.sed between her and Belinda.

Strong hands, big hands, clasped her around the waist, and the tang of fury ballooned in her so strongly that blackness swept up through her vision, and silence fell.

She did not want to waken.

She did not want to waken for a host of reasons, the first and least comfortable being that someone was carrying her, rudely, over his shoulder. Her nose smacked against the small of his back and she forced herself to let her arms dangle, instead of searching for the small dagger nested beneath her corset. Even if she could s.n.a.t.c.h it before she was noticed-unlikely-there was the second reason not to. The second reason she didn't want to awaken: she knew who carried her, and his anger would be great.

The third reason she would have preferred the oblivion of unconsciousness was that dangling like this, the uncounted number of beers she'd partaken of were eager to spill on the cobblestones. Belinda coughed and choked, then twisted as she heaved, trying to get away, less for worry of the man's clothes than to alleviate her own discomfort. He swore and dumped her on her hands and knees, holding on by her waist, while she cramped and vomited more liquid than she thought she'd drunk. Bright orange bits of carrot and chunks of half-digested meat mixed in with the runny bile. Belinda groaned, pushing up to her knees and wiping a hand across her mouth. Her captor swore again and grabbed her wrist, hauling her to her feet. She'd barely caught her balance before he flung a short door open and shoved her through it, in front of him. She tripped, stumbling to catch herself, and he caught her upper arm, hauling her around and throwing her against the wall. Belinda hit hard enough to lose her breath, and stood with her head turned, eyes downcast as she panted for air.

"Are you mad? Are you eager for the ruin of us all? I've been waiting since noon, girl!"

"Father," Belinda said in a low voice. She didn't want to look at him yet, to see the dark eyebrows beetled down in anger. She didn't want the moment of surprise she always felt when she saw how well the years had treated him: she could imagine, without looking, the well-trimmed dark hair with no more grey at the temples than he had borne when she was a child. The dark eyes that would now be clouded with fury, with a crow's nest of wrinkles around them that seemed to have more to do with eternity than age. If he held as well for another few years as he had the last ten, Belinda would appear to be his sister, not his daughter at all. She had faith that he would, for all that he was already old, nearly forty-five. His still-youthful appearance helped keep him dear to Lorraine, who wore more cosmetics now than she had in earlier years, re-creating the blush of youth. If her darling Robert aged so little, certainly she, too, must be clinging to a more tender age than a loyal populace could believe.

"Have you no answer? Look at me, girl!"

Belinda lifted her chin and her gaze, meeting Robert's eyes. "How did you find me?" she wondered, feeling as though the question came from a distant place inside her. Robert snorted and caught her arm again, pushing her up the stone steps that began barely a yard inside the door.

"The gondola boy, not that I needed him."

d.a.m.n! The force of the curse startled Belinda, making her clench her hands in her skirts. She ought to have paid the child off, sent him on his way instead of telling him to linger an hour and wait on her return. "How long did he wait before going to you?"

"Until the dinner bells rang," Robert spat. Belinda allowed herself a faintly curved smile, well-hidden from the man who followed her up the stairs. At least the boy had allowed her a few hours of freedom, instead of leaving the moment her back was turned. By dinner she and Ana were well away from the ca.n.a.l where Belinda had left the boy, stretching Robert's search out that much longer. She should have expected that the child would find the man who'd paid him, but hope and naivete had won out. It had been a badly played hand.

"Someone threw a coin." Belinda offered the words as explanation, not excuse. There was no point in making excuses, not with Robert. Another man might be seduced out of his anger, but her father held as stubbornly to outrage as another man might to money. "I thought it was my sign, and only too late realised I was mistaken." Robert's hand moved past her head, pushing open a door at the head of the stairs. Fire's heat swept over Belinda. She lifted a hand against it, protecting her face as she stepped into the room.

It was well-appointed, if not extravagant. A fire burned higher than necessary for a summer night, throwing warm and wavering shadows about the room. It brought out the gold in a brocaded armchair a few feet from it; the rug that lay between chair and fire had burns from embers popping free and sizzling there. A footstool to match the chair sat opposite it. Belinda glanced around for another chair and found one lacking: it would be she who sat on the footstool, and Robert in the fine upholstered chair. Her mouth twisted a little, memories of childhood spoiling coming back to her, and she sighed as she gathered her skirts and went to the footstool.

She pa.s.sed the bed, the only other piece of furniture worth noting in the room. It was a renter's room, without a kitchen or visiting area. Windows looked over a ca.n.a.l, but nearly every window in Aria Magli did; a room without a ca.n.a.l view could be far more dear than those with. The surfeit of noise from traffic that never ceased, day or night, was sometimes worth the cost. Belinda smoothed her skirts over her thighs as she sat, watching Robert move through the fire-cast shadows.

There was something in warm orange light that brought depth out in his handsome, craggy features. All the things she had remembered before looking at him were still true: he was aged enough to be sober and trustworthy, young enough to be playful and charming, but in firelight he looked dangerous as well. And he was-more dangerous than most antic.i.p.ated. Lorraine's court granted him a measure of power, because he was beloved to the queen, but few of them regarded him as personally ambitious or worthy of note. Only his oft-discussed romantic liaison with Lorraine made him interesting.

Belinda knew better. Her father was Lorraine's secret spymaster, and had been for as long as she herself had lived, maybe longer. Cortes, a showier man, thin and clipped and rude, was Robert's disguise: he held the t.i.tle Controller of Intelligence, and had a network that extended from n.o.bles to playwrights and into the common populace. Behind Cortes's shadow, Robert worked, answering threats to Her Majesty in a brutal, efficient manner that could never be traced back to the queen or even her notorious spymaster. And of those secret spies, Belinda was the best-hidden of all.

"You know Sandalia," Robert said abruptly, coming out of shadow to take his seat by the fire. Belinda lifted her eyebrows a telling fraction, mildly offended by the question even though she understood it as rhetoric.

"Rodrigo's sister, who sits as regent in Gallin," she answered, keeping her tone patient. This, too, harkened to childhood ritual, Robert testing and quizzing her on whatever sprang to his mind. Things she ought to have studied, and usually had. Belinda had not been caught out by his unexpected questions since her fifteenth birthday, and had no intention of letting Robert take the upper hand in their little game now. She went on, voice lilting as if she lectured a child.

"Wed and widowed twice before she was eighteen, Sandalia and her son, Javier, stand heir to three thrones: Lanyarch, left to her by Charles, who, by the by, would have been Lorraine's heir should he have lived and should she never marry. Then there's Gallin's throne by way of her second husband, and finally Essandia's, should her brother, Rodrigo, produce no heir." Javier would have to be a strong leader indeed, when Rodrigo pa.s.sed on, to hold the thrones of Essandia and Gallin both, much less add Lanyarch to the mix. If he managed, it would be through the strength of those religious ties, and a fair amount of luck besides. Luck arranged, perhaps, by Sandalia de Costa. "I do not," Belinda added, "know her personally."

Robert gave her a black look. Belinda lifted an eyebrow again. Her father subsided, pushing away her snip, and any acknowledgment that his question had been foolish, with a wave of his hand. "When were you last in court, Belinda? In Lorraine's court."

"Eight years and some. After du Roz, but not long after." Belinda watched her father warily, uncertain of where his question led. "Not since I was a child. You know this, Robert." Calling him "Father," as she had at the foot of the stairs, was a bladed luxury Belinda indulged herself in once each time she saw him. Someday she thought it would sting when she used that weapon, but in the ten years since she'd learned the truths he and Lorraine Walter hid, he had not yet flinched. She wondered, sometimes, if he did not realise what she knew; if to him the change from "Papa" to "Father" and "Robert" was nothing more than a sign that Belinda had become an adult and put away childish things. They had none of them confessed the circ.u.mstances of Belinda's birth and heritage, and certainly Lorraine never would. It seemed impossible that Robert could not know that Belinda had, since the day she became the queen's a.s.sa.s.sin, also known that she was her mother's weapon.

But then, memory did not stretch so far back, and a babe still wet with birthing blood should not recall a narrow, regal face and t.i.tian curls spilling over pale skin. That was a recollection Belinda kept close to her heart, and had never spoken of to her father. It seemed impossible that he could not know, but perhaps it was even more improbable that she could.

"I do. And I wonder if there are any who might know you."

"In the Aulunian court? A few, perhaps. More who would claim to," Belinda began, but Robert lifted his hand again, stopping her words.

"In Gallin. In the regent's court at Lutetia." Robert brushed his hand over his eyes. "It is a risk." The words were low, spoken more to himself than to Belinda. "The straits are not so wide, but the G.o.dly gulf is deep. And ten years might be ten decades in this place."

"My lord?"

Robert's gaze snapped up again and he shook his head. "Forgive an old man's ramblings."

Belinda snorted, loud and undignified. Robert looked chagrined, then laughed, bringing his hands together in a solid clap. "Which is it you'll claim? Not old, or not rambling?"

"Not either, my lord," Belinda said, smiling. "Your every word falls like a precious gem on my listening ears. I have not been placed somewhere so high as a regent's court, Robert, and you have not come to see me yourself in a long time. D-" She broke off, remembering abruptly that her childhood memories were supposed to be asleep. Dmitri had not given her his name, in the Khazarian north. She ought not know him or his name. "-the man who came to me in Khazar-"

"It was nicely done with the count," Robert interrupted. "What did you slip him to bring on that conveniently bad summer cold? The symptoms were unexpected."

Belinda held her mouth in a long moue, hiding a fluttering heartbeat behind a wry examination of her father before she lowered her gaze with a smile. "That would be telling, sir, and a lady never tells."

But only because there was no answer that would satisfy. The one she wanted to offer was a.r.s.enic, but uncertainty lay beneath it. She hadn't let herself linger on Gregori's death; it had been achieved, and that was all that mattered. For the second time that evening she remembered the alien emotion pounding through her. In Khazar she had trusted it must be her own; at the Magalian pub she had been certain that the emotion she'd known belonged to those around her. It tasted of witchery.

No. Belinda clamped down on a shudder, unwilling to release her control even-especially-in her father's presence. She would not show fear, would not give in to the power of childhood stories. Illness was brought on by a.r.s.enic, not wishes, no matter the desire she'd held in her heart to bring Gregori low, for Lorraine and for the bruises Belinda herself carried from his hand. Pretty, bitter Ilyana was superst.i.tious and jealous, her accusations of witchcraft the creation of a small, frightened mind. It could not be otherwise. Belinda clamped down on a shudder, unwilling to release her control even-especially-in her father's presence. She would not show fear, would not give in to the power of childhood stories. Illness was brought on by a.r.s.enic, not wishes, no matter the desire she'd held in her heart to bring Gregori low, for Lorraine and for the bruises Belinda herself carried from his hand. Pretty, bitter Ilyana was superst.i.tious and jealous, her accusations of witchcraft the creation of a small, frightened mind. It could not be otherwise.

p.r.i.c.kles of cold washed over Belinda's skin in spite of the fire's heat, and she set the discomfiting thoughts aside as her father laughed again. "A lady never does," he mocked her. "A gentleman never tells."

"You know far fewer ladies than I do, then, sir," Belinda said drily. "Not that I would wish to malign the reputations of any of the fine women I know." She thought, briefly, of Ana, swinging her around on the table, and let herself smile. The stolen afternoon and evening had been worth Robert's anger, which seemed to have fled quickly enough once she was back in...custody? she wondered. It was not a term she was accustomed to using for herself. "The man who came to me in Khazar said time was of importance. What's stirring in Gallin?"

Robert's expression blackened for a few seconds. "If time is so much of an essence, and you are aware of that, what excuse do you have for dallying away your day today?"

Belinda exhaled a quiet long breath. "Even the queen takes holidays, my lord. If one day is so desperate a difference, you ought have sent me to Gallin straight away rather than coming here as we always do."

Robert steepled his fingers and pressed his lips against them, frowning at her. "Yes," he said abruptly, eventually. "Yes, you have the right of it there. d.a.m.n you, anyway. Who taught you cleverness?"

"My nurse, my lord." Belinda lowered her eyes demurely, remembering the staid old woman, then peeked up with an arched eyebrow, not bothering to hide her amus.e.m.e.nt. Robert guffawed and came to his feet, catching Belinda's hands in his own. He pulled her to standing and into a rough hug.

"My la.s.s. There's my girl. Outwitting the old man. Soon enough there'll be no place for me."

"Robert," Belinda began, but he shook his head and put her back from himself, holding her shoulders.

"Not yet. This old dragon has a few flames left in him yet. There is rumour of insurrection from Gallin, Belinda."

"Who? Against Sandalia? Or the boy? Javier?"

"He's your age, la.s.s, not such a boy at all. Twenty-two years old and holding back from claiming the throne out of respect for his mother, that's what they say."

"Or out of a fear he'll never see another day that belongs to his own self and isn't owed to another."

Robert's eyes darkened again, this time with thought. "That may be some of it, too. No, no. Sandalia visits with her brother Rodrigo in Essandia, and my people warn that their cloistered discussions say she chafes at her boundaries and eyes Lanyarch and Aulun. You named the threads that link her to Aulun's throne yourself. Sandalia may think a pretender's crown would look well upon her head. You will not let that happen."

Belinda closed her eyes, absorbing Robert's orders along with the decade-old ritual that set them into place. This is how it shall go, Primrose. Heed me well. This is how it shall go, Primrose. Heed me well.

When he was done she opened her eyes again, all but swaying with the music of his words. "It's a chess game you're playing, my lord, one where the black queen is not yet even on the board. Why send me to Lutetia and not Isidro in Essandia?" She pa.s.sed off the question with a wave of her hand even as she asked it. Pa.s.sed off, too, the chiding, flat-mouthed glance her father gave her; she went to Lutetia because Sandalia was not not there, and that gave Belinda s.p.a.ce to insinuate herself in society before the queen's return. "Does it matter to you how I become close enough to the throne to watch it and judge its actions?" there, and that gave Belinda s.p.a.ce to insinuate herself in society before the queen's return. "Does it matter to you how I become close enough to the throne to watch it and judge its actions?"

"Has it ever?" Robert asked lightly enough. It had not; not from the night he'd murmured Belinda's duty to her, and set her on du Roz. All she had known was the man's death must be accomplished, and even at not quite twelve, that it should look like an accident seemed obvious. Robert had been astounded at the swiftness of her actions, and at the method of du Roz's death. Belinda recalled with exquisite clarity the brief admiring expression on her father's face as she'd swooned and trembled in a guard's arms during the aftermath of sudden, dreadful death. No, if even then she had accepted her tasks and determined her own path to achieving them, Robert would not likely now commanded her walk a road of his choosing.

"Find a way to shove Gallin from the parapets; that's all we need," he said, as though following her thoughts of du Roz. "Sandalia has never had Lorraine's caution, and an ill-advised word spoken to an ear we we can trust is what we need. Find that weakness, Primrose. Find that ambition, and exploit it. We cannot allow Aulun to fall into Ec.u.menic hands again." can trust is what we need. Find that weakness, Primrose. Find that ambition, and exploit it. We cannot allow Aulun to fall into Ec.u.menic hands again."

Belinda widened her eyes in a mockery of innocence, a hand placed against her breastbone. "Why, my lord, do you say that you trust me so very much, then?"

Sudden unexpected fondness deepened Robert's eyes, and Belinda glanced away. "You are a good girl, loyal and true," her father said, as if from a distance, "and I would trust no other beyond you."

Belinda stood, gathering her soiled skirts, and dipped a curtsey of unnecessary depth. "Then I'm away to Gallin in the morning, my lord, to prove your faith in me."

ANA DI MEO, COURTESAN

17 July 1587 Aria Magli, Parna

A door opens, almost soundless, breaching the s.p.a.ce between rooms more thoroughly than a handful of spy holes can do. A man enters, long strides eating the s.p.a.ce in small rooms. His voice, his question, is abrupt with unusual uncertainty: "And?"

Ana taps a fingertip against the arm of her chair, a soft thump of flesh rather than the rat-tat of longer nails. She leans on the other elbow, one knuckle pressed over her lips as she watches Drake pace in front of the fire. In another man such action might speak of nervous energy. In Robert, it has more of the predator to it, heavy solid movements that threaten to back quarry into position for the kill. He is the only man who has ever refused to pay her in coin.

He is the only man she can imagine permitting that refusal.

"She is lonely, my lord."

Robert turns in astonishment. "That hardly matters."

Ana tilts her head, eyebrows drawn down. "On the contrary. Almost nothing else does matter. Women will do things to ease loneliness as men will do them to ease the pangs of love."

"Not Rosa." Robert makes a sharp gesture, dismissive. "No more than I." Silence falls before he makes another gesture, still sharp, now demanding. "What might she do?"

"Besides ignore your summonings for hours on end?" Ana's eyebrows arch with challenge. "Robert, emotion is not a predictable thing that follows step to reasonable step."

He arches an eyebrow back, and Ana laughs. "All right, maybe for you, my lord, but those of us who are merely human are made of weaker stuff." She gets to her feet and comes forward to slip her arms around his waist, smiling up at him. "My lord Drake. Do you know that 'drake' means 'dragon,' Robert?"

He frowns at her with good humour, the lines of his short-cropped beard making the expression all the more dramatic. "Aulunian isn't your native tongue, Ana. How do you know that?"

"Neither is Reinnish, Robert, and that's where the word comes from. I do have some education."

"Yes." He cups her cheek wonderingly, shaking his head. "The loveliest women, trained for bedding pleasure and stimulating conversation. I will never understand Aria Magli."

"Aulunian reserve," Ana says, "will never understand the rest of Echon at all. Do you know there are people who believe you Aulunian are all knitted out of the fog that haunts your island? All so cool and pale and emotionless."

"And what do you believe?"

Ana smiles. "That you're unlike most Aulunian men I've met."

"Then I believe I'm flattered." Robert shakes his head again. "But you're not here to flatter me. Tell me how Rosa will jump."

Ana sighs and steps back, brushing her knuckles across her own mouth. It had been easy, in the moment, to believe that the young woman might have forgotten her duties to spend the night in the arms of another who shared similar duties. But then she'd drawn back, repulsed and panicked, and had fallen into a swoon. Ana keeps her eyes lowered until she's certain her expression won't betray the hurt she felt at Rosa's rejection, until the pulse in her throat has slowed a little. It's only a few seconds before she lifts her gaze to meet Robert's eyes. "She is bound to you, Robert. She won't betray you."

"And I can trust that?"

Ana snorts, all semblance of delicacy left behind as she turns away. "You can trust there's not a much better judge of character than a wh.o.r.e. What are you afraid of with her?"

Robert holds his tongue so long she finally looks over her shoulder. "It is my experience," he says with the delicacy she's abandoned, "that females are far more pragmatic than males. I did not mean to question you quite so...rudely." The deference in his voice is astonishing, his gaze lowered and shoulders rolled as he tries to make himself smaller. They've been lovers on and off for sixteen years; it isn't the first time Robert has questioned her judgment and abased himself at her snappish replies. It never ceases to amaze her. "It's unlike her to abandon her duty as she did today. I must be certain of her loyalty." His voice remains soft, apologetic.

"No wonder your queen is so fond of you." Ana comes back to him, touching his chin to make him lift his head. "I'd like to meet the mother who trained such deference to women into you."

Robert smiles, thin. "No," he says, "you wouldn't. Now there there was a dragon." More humour lights his eyes and he shakes his head. "I need you to do something for me, Ana." was a dragon." More humour lights his eyes and he shakes his head. "I need you to do something for me, Ana."

"Will I get a lot of money for it?" Impishness prompts the question and she's rewarded by Robert throwing his head back and laughing aloud.

"Expenses. I won't pay more than that, you know that."

"I do." Ana holds her breath a moment before plunging into a question that's plagued her for years: "Why is that, my lord?"

Robert's heavy eyebrows lift. "Because in my world, a woman chooses her lovers. A man might woo, but it is an honour to be chosen. To offer coin would be...a killing offense."

"That," Ana says drolly, "is hardly the Aulun I've heard of. Perhaps you n.o.bles are more genteel than the fog can bear news of. Maybe I should visit there, or even stay. That sounds much more pleasant than spreading my legs at the drop of a coin."

"Not all Aulunian men," Robert murmurs, "dance on the whim of their queen."