Chapter 7:
The Heart of the Matter
I
From the second floor windows of Izivar’s harbor office, Hanuvar gazed out past the fishing boats and yachts anchored by the docks. The sunset threw coppery-red beams and little glittering highlights across the bay’s dark waters.
Tiny praetorians strutted along the deck of the distant toy-sized bireme flying purple flags while anchored at the harbor’s longest pier, near the small fortress. The white horsehair helmet crests of the emperor’s finest stood out stiffly as they patrolled the deck to impress the townsfolk swinging by to ogle the ship.
Hanuvar wasn’t interested in any of them as individuals, but he contemplated the power they represented. A dozen of their fellows had been posted along the outer walls of the Lenereva estate when he’d departed it earlier in the day. The emperor himself might still be making the requisite tour of the magistrate’s villa and offices along the central square. Regardless, Izivar’s home would remain under imperial watch, for those were to be Enarius’ quarters during his brief visit.
Enarius had claimed not to wish to disrupt the normal pattern of Izivar’s household, not realizing his arrival would always be an imposition, and unaware that Izivar’s entire household had been bustling to ready for his visit since news of it came last week. Even though the meal was planned to be a relatively intimate one, it had to be prepared to the finest standards, and thus the cooks had been at work for the last two days.
While he’d left the harbor window open, Hanuvar had shuttered the ones overlooking the deck, so he could not be observed. As a result, he could not see who now climbed the wooden stairs. The tread was light, but certain. Probably a woman, then, and not a child. His visitor rapped the door with her sandaled foot.
“We’re closed,” he announced.
A familiar female voice addressed him with mock gravity. “But I’m a poor widow woman, in dire need of a good book. Old classics in verse are my favorites, truth be told.”
Hanuvar winced. Aleria, not so subtly announcing that she was not only aware of the famous Sidyline scrolls Enarius had brought with him, but Hanuvar’s own whereabouts. More complications. As if it wasn’t difficult enough at the moment to hide a smuggling operation orchestrated by the empire’s most hated enemy.
Hanuvar massaged his forehead, moved out from behind the desk, and opened the door.
Aleria waited just past the threshold, wisps of her brunette hair highlighted by the sinking sun. She was disguised as a patrician woman, though no slave accompanied her. With her fine features she could manage a variety of styles, one of them the coquettish beauty before him this evening. Her eyes brushed Hanuvar’s as he looked back soberly. “What, no hello? We should have a book talk.”
He stepped aside so that she could slide through the doorway and lower herself onto the visitors’ red-cushioned couch. She pretended to adjust her dress. Hanuvar wasn’t distracted by the flash of cleavage but he appreciated her effort.
“What can I do for you, Aleria?”
She placed a hand upon her bosom, presumably to further draw attention there. “My name is Cassandra. I’m a recent widow vacationing from Derva, making the rounds to homes of my class—as we women folk do to distract ourselves from the tedium of our lives.” She affected patrician hauteur by flapping her eyelids.
“I’m sorry your life is dreary. Should I express condolences for the loss of your newest imaginary husband?”
“Speaking of imagination, imagine my surprise when I came calling at the home of Izivar Lenereva yesterday and glimpsed her security adjutant crossing the garden.”
Hanuvar groaned inwardly. He’d known Izivar was entertaining a house guest, but had been told the visitor was just another of the bored patrician women Aleria now feigned to be. It seemed he could never be too careful.
“You weren’t visiting,” Hanuvar said. “You were scouting.”
“You impugn my motives, Helsa. Or should I say Decius. Did the Lady, at last, reveal your real name to me? You don’t look like a Decius,” she added.
“I do for now. If you were scouting well, then you know it’s mad to try for something tonight. Not only are Izivar’s people in place, the Praetorian Guards have the villa surrounded. And a whole lot of the emperor’s staff are on the inside.”
“You’re more clever than that, Helsa.” Aleria settled into the couch cushions as if she planned to stay awhile. “And besides, the Lady Izivar invited me to dinner this evening. I’m an interior-design expert, did you know? I gather the emperor needs help planning his villa remodel. And here I am, suddenly in the neighborhood.” She eyed Hanuvar. “I bet you’re a delight at parties. Do you juggle?”
He answered only with silence.
“I know you can be far more fun than this. You’re quite sour this evening, and I assume it’s because you’re afraid I’m going to intrude in some kind of play you’re making. It must be a long game, because I gather the arrival of the Sidyline books and the emperor was a surprise to Izivar. Were you surprised too?”
“I’m surprised.”
“I can’t tell by looking. If you’re after something, we can work together. Or are you only here for the pretty Volani woman? She seems a bit staid for you, but she’s wealthy and has nice taste. I think you could do better, of course.”
“I’m touched by your concern.”
She leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You do know that the emperor is sweet on her, don’t you? I’d imagine it would be risky to get in between the two of them. She’s the one you freed those singers for, isn’t she? Have you been running other sorts of errands for her?”
“You’re enjoying yourself too much.”
She smiled. “It’s just fun to see you on your back foot, Helsa.” She clucked in feigned disappointment. “Again so unprepared. Are you slipping?”
Her interference could jeopardize not only his carefully laid plans but a great number of lives, including his own. “Don’t try for the books.” He cast around in his mind for better ways to discourage rather than intrigue her.
“It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, you know. There will never be a better chance to lay hands on them. Those scrolls are worth a fortune. Once they’re stored away in the temple of Jovren, it would be a lot harder to get at them, even if I know you’re up to planning it. Why go to all that trouble?”
“They’re probably not real,” Hanuvar pointed out. “Sidyl burned the first six day by day while negotiating with King Tarqus. What are the chances these secret copies were really hidden in Greater Herrenia?”
“You’re worried too much about the facts. People don’t care about those. Not when they’ve already invested so much emotional energy. People want to think these books are real, so they’ll pay through the nose for them. Any number of foreign kings could set me up pretty nicely for the promise of knowing Derva’s future. Or . . .” Her deep brown eyes met his own. “They could pay us. You could walk right into that vault tonight and slide away with the books—real or not—and then we can sail away and live happily ever after. With lots of gold.”
“I have a few years on you.”
“Like that’s ever bothered a man. You’re not at all bad looking, and you’re dependable, which is remarkably rare, as I’m sure you’ve noted. And you’re not always on the prowl or trying to get me to take care of you or boring me with stories about how impressive you are. As a matter of fact, you’re downright silent most of the time. A woman could get used to that. But we don’t have to stay together after we split the gold.”
“Aleria, it’s not going to happen. And I am working on something else. There’s a way I could use you for it. But it requires staying on the good side of the Lady Izivar, and not getting killed by praetorians or foreign potentates.”
“What kind of something else?” Aleria was suddenly more focused than a hunting dog at point.
Hanuvar had long contemplated a return to the Volani Isles of the Dead. Between himself and Izivar they knew the locations of a number of additional tombs that could be looted. He had not planned upon Aleria’s involvement, but her experience and cunning could certainly prove useful in distracting the current landholders, and it would be better to have her working with them than against. “It involves jewelry.”
“Jewelry,” she mused. “How much?”
“More than you’re likely to imagine.”
“I thought by now you’d know just how imaginative I can be. Would you care to share the details?”
“The details rest with the favor of Lady Izivar. Whose future may not be so bright if something goes wrong with the Sidyline books while they’re in her care.”
“You do like her.”
“I like you, too. Don’t chance it, Aleria. Those scrolls going missing would light a blaze to destroy more certain riches only a little further on, even if they don’t manage to incinerate us all.”
Her expression was meditative. “So . . . no details?”
“Only after the emperor leaves.”
“Hmm. Well, you can’t blame a woman for trying.” She climbed to her feet. “Will I be seeing you at dinner?”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
He hoped to avoid a meeting with Metellus, Enarius, or any of the Praetorian Guards. Now that Metellus was working veteran centurions into their ranks, there was a chance one of them might have encountered Hanuvar in the field.
“I need to catch up on my reading,” Hanuvar answered at last.
“I know you could lie better if you really wanted. Women like a man who puts in effort.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” Hanuvar moved to indicate the door.
She smiled with her eyes. “A shame. I’m off then. It’s not very often I get to rub shoulders with an emperor. Does he fancy brunettes?”
“You could wrap that young man around your finger.”
She laughed. “I have a few years on him. But I gather he likes that. Or maybe it’s just the exotic Volani thing.”
“He likes the Lady Izivar because she’s kind.”
“I can be very kind, when properly motivated.” Aleria put her hand to the latch. “I look forward to hearing all about these jewels.” She started out, and paused on the threshold. “Oh, just so you know—the emperor’s two architects turned up while I was passing just now. If they’re renowned builders I’m a Ceori chiefess.”
“What makes you say that?”
“They’re two old confidence men. One of them’s a half-assed sorcerer to boot. You might want to keep your eyes on them.” She left, delicately shutting the door behind her. He heard her light steps on the stairs and then the sound of her departure was lost among the cry of seagulls and sounds of the harbor. He exhaled the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
He needed to warn Izivar not just about Aleria, but the architects as well. He would have to hazard a trip back inside.
II
Serliva knew that her feelings for Metellus were faintly absurd. She was too mature to drown in romantic poetry, and she’d never been one to moon about the perfect household or all the children she’d fill it with. And yet in the year since she’d first met the praetorian, he was in her thoughts more regularly than was sensible.
It wasn’t just that he had carried her to safety, holding himself together to get them past horrors until he collapsed from his terrible injuries, although that had certainly been heroic. It was his ongoing, stalwart defense of Enarius, of whom she herself was fond. She’d heard how Metellus had gotten himself even more grievously wounded fighting off another band of assassins attacking the nice man she still struggled to think of as the ruler of all the empire. And beyond his unquestioned bravery, Metellus somehow remained humble. The chroniclers of his life emphasized how difficult it had been to get Metellus talking about his most famous exploits. Perhaps it was his background. Serliva had learned that he was the third son of a provincial patrician and hadn’t been expected to rise very far or very fast. He’d probably never anticipated the heights he’d achieve in his life.
Serliva understood completely. Her parents had planned on her taking over their tailoring shop and marrying someone to help. She’d never been particularly interested in either option. She’d been delighted when a first cousin stepped up as a proper apprentice to her parents, and soon after accepted a job as a lady’s maid because it offered travel, discovering herself tolerably good in the profession. She hadn’t planned to remain in it for so long, but then she’d been taken prisoner on a ship docked in Ostra at the outbreak of the war, and, like many of the first wave of captured Volani, treated reasonably well. She recalled the anxiety of those days with some chagrin because certainly her own trials had been nothing like those endured by the survivors of the sack of Volanus itself. Compared to the horror stories she’d heard from those recently freed, her own imprisonment had been nothing but a minor inconvenience, especially as she was purchased and liberated by the most powerful Volani woman left free inside the Dervan Empire.
Just like Metellus, she surmised, she wasn’t sure what she was meant to do next, apart from continuing in service to the best employer and mentor she could possibly have been hired by. Sometimes she still imagined sailing off to see the Eight Wonders, and could not square that with the much more practical plan of joining Izivar in New Volanus. Though curious about the last gathering of true Volani, it would surely feel like an isolated frontier village for at least a generation or two, and that really didn’t excite her.
Mostly she lived day to day, assisting Izivar with clothing and organization and occasional advice, whether requested or not. No matter that Izivar’s activities and even location were different week to week, Serliva’s duties were fairly similar each day, and when she’d learned Metellus would be visiting along with Enarius she had determined to finally have the proper meeting that their schedules had so far precluded.
Her best assets were too well hidden within a conservative Dervan stola, so she had donned her finest Volani garments. She wore a close-fit blue top with a low neckline and long, flounced skirt of red and blue and gold that swept to her calves. Wrists and ankles alike were graced by inexpensive but pretty jewelry ornamented with tiny bells. Ear pendants dangled nearly to her shoulders, and her dark hair hung in ringlets. Carefully drawn outlines of kohl enhanced her eyes. As a final touch she had skillfully applied diluted honey and lavender fragrances in the places experience had taught her were of greatest utility.
Then, like the most practiced of hunters, she entered the domain of her quarry and selected a vantage point from which to await his coming.
Serliva had asked the other serving girls to cover her absence and kept Izivar from her scheme. Normally she would have taken her mistress into her confidence, but Izivar seemed somehow immune to the gallant Metellus’ attractions.
She supposed it might have helped if Izivar actually read the little scrolls about him sold by book vendors throughout Tyvol, but she couldn’t bring herself to share her collection. While some of the tales seemed clearly exaggerated, if not downright fabricated, she herself could attest to the truth of the most popular account, for Metellus had certainly endured the three parallel wounds the evening he had rescued the emperor, and those scars had inspired his noble epithet: Bravescar. Not Clawface, as jealous praetorians were rumored to call him behind his back.
Serliva smiled indulgently at memory of finding herself mentioned within that particular scroll. Not by name, of course, but as the “chaste maid of peerless beauty, carried from jeopardy in tireless arms.” The writer claimed to have conferred with Metellus on multiple instances so that his account could be relayed with the utmost veracity, and that meant Metellus himself must have described her loveliness, for the writer had certainly never talked with her. It was charming that he assumed her chaste.
Metellus had shown no open interest in her since that day, but then their encounters had by necessity been brief. Perhaps he was shy about matters of the heart. Upon his arrival at the villa today, well ahead of Enarius, Metellus had not taken the opportunity to interact with her and instead headed immediately for the kitchens. Her fellow servants had told her he seemed chiefly interested in food, by which she understood Metellus was probably concerned about the threat of poison to the Emperor.
Come evening he had advanced alone into the garden, announcing he meant to patrol the outer wall for potential weak points. And so she had followed, ensconcing herself in the arched grotto to Jovren that Izivar’s father had erected to curry favor with Dervan visitors. The concrete shrine suited her purposes perfectly, for it stood on a rise slightly above the rest of the garden and provided a fair vantage from which to watch comings and goings. Moreover, its dark interior was secluded. She herself sat just inside, the better to be caught by the waning sunbeams.
She rather wished he’d hurry up and walk past so he could see her, because she was running out of light.
The scrape of timber against tile was so startling Serliva nearly jumped. Izivar had showed her the hidden exit from the garden, but she’d been so preoccupied she’d forgotten it lay behind a panel in the cave-like shrine’s rear wall. She stared into the darkness, realizing after only a moment that she should not have been surprised to see Hanuvar emerge from the gloom behind the frowning statue of the bearded sky god.
Hanuvar met her eyes, considered the villa opening onto the garden, then the sky. Evening blues were purpling on toward night and the shadows were long. In the gardens distant servants were finishing supper preparations, although they had been told to slow the process, for the emperor had wandered out on a goodwill tour and was late in returning. Crickets filled the air with their susurrations, accompanied by a chorus of frogs.
“You gave me a scare,” Serliva said.
“I’m sorry. I’d hoped to see Izivar, but giving the message to you will be simpler. Do you have a moment?”
“Um. I . . . Yes.” She didn’t want to miss her opportunity so thought to get rid of him quickly by hastening his communication.
But he didn’t seem as much in a hurry as she’d like. Hanuvar sat down upon the north facing wooden bench, glancing down as the old wood wobbled beneath him. He froze a moment to make sure it would remain steady. The ominous statue, one hand upraised in a fist and the other gripping a jagged lightning bolt, was just visible in the gloom behind him. He addressed her quietly. “How is Izivar?”
“She’s hiding all of her worries. But she’s nervous, I can tell. She’s worried about you, and, well, everything. Why are you here? I thought you were staying away.”
“I’ve learned three of her dinner guests will need especial monitoring.”
“What kind of monitoring?” She hoped it wouldn’t require her to seek Izivar’s ear immediately. Surely Hanuvar would go back to his hiding spot as soon as whatever he wanted was relayed, and if the matter could wait until dinner she’d still have time to complete her own mission, or at least make a good start. Serliva grew conscious of a tickle along her leg and reached down to brush whatever it was away, only to touch fingertips to a moving creeper with too many legs. She let out a cry that rose into a shriek when she glanced down to find a huge black spider had plopped from her calf to the top of her sandal. She kicked it free as she shot upright so quickly that she swayed on her other leg, lost balance, and collapsed into Hanuvar.
He caught her, but the sudden introduction of her weight with his own was too much for the old bench. Their end sank beneath them and sent both sliding to the ground. The legs on the far end slammed back against the stone floor with a loud smack. The next thing she knew she was lying face down in front of Jovren’s foot. Hanuvar sprawled beneath her, hidden by her dress, his head beneath her pelvis. His hands felt for her waist to lift her away.
“What’s going on here?” The right voice at the wrong time demanded sternly behind them, and she felt her heart speed almost to bursting. Metellus.
A lantern played into the dark space, and she was conscious that most of her right leg was bare to the light as she swung off of Hanuvar.
She recognized Metellus’ silhouette in the opening. Beside her, Hanuvar propped himself up on his elbow.
And Metellus burst into laughter. He lowered the lantern. “I thought some girl was under assault until I saw you underneath her!” Still chuckling, he shook his head. “You must be Decius. You look just like your sons.”
By this Serliva knew Metellus believed the fiction that earlier encounters with Hanuvar when he was magically de-aged had been with sons of “Decius.” Again Metellus laughed. “I halfway thought you’d be after the older Volani, but here you are at the maid. Nicely done.”
Serliva’s spirit fell. “It’s not like that,” she protested.
Metellus ignored her and addressed Hanuvar. “It’s nice to see an older guy can still get some action.” He laughed in a sort of smug comradeship.
“He’s not my lover,” Serliva insisted. “There was a spider on my leg, and I jumped and fell onto him.”
Metellus snorted.
Hanuvar got his feet beneath him.
Serliva searched quickly for an explanation that sounded reasonable and that wouldn’t put Hanuvar in danger. “He doesn’t even like women.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Metellus sneered.
“It’s true,” Serliva asserted, ignoring the questioning look from Hanuvar. “He was here to ask advice about a man he’s interested in. I really did shriek when I saw a spider and he was so awkward in catching me when I jumped that we fell over.”
“Is this true, Decius?”
“I can’t argue.”
Metellus wagged a finger at her. “He has children.”
“He fulfilled his obligation to the family,” Serliva said.
The praetorian grunted skeptically. “I still don’t see why he was alone, in the dark. With you.”
“He wanted to ask my advice about that handsome architect who turned up.”
“The one who smiles too much?” Metellus surveyed Hanuvar. “Well, well. Are you a pitcher or a catcher, Decius?”
“Your pardon,” Hanuvar said. “I think I’ll excuse myself. I’ve other matters to tend to.”
“Don’t leave on my account,” Metellus said with a grin, then laughed. Hanuvar headed through the twilight for the villa doors.
Serliva congratulated herself on her quick thinking. Her pulse thrummed as Metellus turned to admire her. She could just make out the bright, cheerful spark in his remaining eye. He was really quite striking, no matter his terrible scars.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you for months,” she said, tentatively touching his arm. “But this isn’t how I’d hoped it would happen.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
The question was so direct she wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. She cleared her throat and brushed hair from her forehead. “To thank you. For your bravery. For saving me, and for doing so much for our emperor. I’m very fond of him myself.”
“It’s my duty to watch out for him,” Metellus said carelessly.
She drew infinitesimally closer, and detected the strong scent of the oil he used to clean his weapons. “I’ve read some of your accounts. And I know that those have a lot of nonsense in them, but it’s pretty clear where the truth lies.”
“Is it?” He sounded almost wary.
“I understand how it is. You just want to have fun, but you get pushed into greater responsibilities and you do your best to make it work and the next thing you know you’re involved in all kinds of things.”
“Sure.” Her words must have reassured him, for he sounded relaxed and casual. “Thanks for cluing me in about Decius. That bit of information’s going to come in handy.” He reached behind her and swatted her on the butt cheek so forcefully the sound startled the nearby insects into silence.
She let out a yelp and jumped.
He chuckled. “I usually like breasts so big I can hide my face in them, but if I get time later, I’ll give you a tumble. Do you know how much longer it’ll be until they serve supper?”
“I . . . I’m not sure,” she stammered, but managed to pull herself together. “I think my Lady’s determined to wait on the emperor.”
“Everyone’s always waiting on that boy for something,” he said, sighing, then wandered off into the darkness without so much as a farewell.
She rubbed her backside and stared after him in astonishment mingled with rising anger.
III
Hanuvar asked one of Izivar’s servants to retrieve her and waited in a back corridor. Through an arched opening he observed the cooks and assistants in the tented outside kitchen, overseeing preparations on grills and in brick ovens. The combined scents of cooking fowl and fish and boar and various sauces were distracting. Two be-ringed observers from the emperor’s household monitored everything; one stared at Hanuvar for a time before apparently deciding he was too far from the food to be planning a poisoning.
Izivar reached him with fair speed. She didn’t waste time asking why he had changed plans, and motioned him to follow her to her sitting room. Lanterns glowed dully in the outer hall but nothing gave light in her private retreat, apart from the distant scarlet of the cookfires visible through the slats overlooking the garden. She closed the door and then impulsively came into his arms, granting him the sort of passionate kiss usually reserved for men returned from war.
But Izivar often greeted him thus, and he had come to realize she feared for him deeply whenever they parted.
Finally she pulled away, though she remained very close. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just thinking about how unfortunate it is that I prefer the company of men.”
“What?” She pulled further back from him, trying to see his face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. Serliva’s spilled the story to Metellus when he thought her my lover.”
“Why would he think that?”
“He found us in the dark.” Hanuvar paused to select his next words with care. “In the shrine to Jovren. Serliva startled, leapt into me, and knocked both of us down. Metellus heard her shriek, discovered me underneath her, and assumed her noises had been amorous. She was desperate to clarify she was available to him.”
Izivar had no concerns about Hanuvar’s fidelity; her scoffing sound had everything to do with Serliva’s taste in men. “Metellus? I can’t believe she’s still interested in him.”
“She was so clearly embarrassed, and her pleas so heartfelt, her half-baked story sounded almost convincing.”
“What did you say?”
“Not much. I didn’t want to get him suspicious or accuse her of lying. And so here I am, although I can’t imagine why any man would talk about Metellus while holding you.”
“Perhaps you fancy him.”
He heard the smile in her voice, and squeezed her tenderly. “How are things here?”
“There have been a lot of complications, of course, but everything’s in place. Metellus himself inspected the vault and couldn’t spot a thing wrong with it. He even complimented me on the fresh paint. He supervised the placement of the chest with the Sidyline books, and another chest he says will be famous very soon. I thought he was wanting me to beg for details, so I played along, but he just became quiet and looked awfully pleased with himself.”
“Antires can clear that up.”
“I’m sure he heard everything. If I know him, that will be the first thing he accesses.”
Hanuvar suspected she was right. “You mentioned complications.”
“Minor issues, all dealt with. The architects are a trial. They kept trying to bribe me to look at the books, if you can imagine.” She pecked him. “Did you really sneak in just to see me?”
“Alas, no. Enarius still isn’t here?”
“He sent a messenger to say his meeting with the magistrates was running late and to start without him. Naturally we have not. I foresee nursing a great deal of soup in our near future. But you won’t be joining, will you?”
“No. There are two situations I’ve learned about. First, the woman Cassandra isn’t who you think she is.”
“No?”
“Her real name’s Aleria, and she’s a very clever thief. I’ve worked with her a few times, but she doesn’t know who I really am, or what our aims are. She was scouting your villa to decide whether or not she would make a try for the books.”
“A thief?” Izivar laid a hand to her throat and drew back. On stage it might have appeared affected, but with her it seemed as though she clutched protectively toward something deep within. “She’s just arrived. Should I have her thrown out?”
“No. I’ve convinced her we’ve another job I’d like her for.”
Someone rapped on the door, and the voice of Izivar’s chief steward announced: “The emperor’s carriage just turned the corner, my Lady.”
Izivar addressed the closed door. “Thank you, Destrin. I’ll be along presently. Send word for the first course to be set out.”
Destrin confirmed her orders and departed. Even in the dusk Hanuvar felt her eyes upon him. “You trust her?”
“Only to some extent. Time’s short. Where are the architects?”
“In their quarters.”
“What’s your impression of them?”
“They like to talk about arches and floor plans, as you’d expect. The younger of the two is an absurd flirt.”
“They may be fakes. Aleria says she’s met them before. I think she’s telling the truth, but she may simply be trying to cause trouble. Keep an eye on them. All of them.”
From somewhere in the villa a trumpet sounded; the start of a fanfare, which then sputtered to a stop. An odd, repetitive noise followed on its heels, something like an impossibly high-pitched bark.
“I must go,” Izivar said. “Stay out of sight.” She squeezed his fingers affectionately, then collected herself and left the room. For a brief moment distant sounds of chatter and the clatter of plates filled the air, dulling the instant the door was pulled to. He was left alone in the dark with nothing to keep him company but the after scent of her perfume.
IV
Enarius knew that it was love. He hadn’t stopped thinking about the moment he would reach Izivar’s villa for the last two weeks and now that the carriage approached it in the twilight his heart fluttered like a dove. He was so nervous as the horses clomped to a stop that he wished he’d taken the edge off with Ludmilla on the yacht this morning, then remembered how annoying her nasally moan was.
One of the slaves hopped down to open the door for him, and then another appeared with the essential little white dog. It was a small flat-faced thing with fluffy straight fur and immense black eyes.
“I brushed it again just now, sire,” the slave said reassuringly. “And gave him a new bow. He kept working the other one loose.”
“Well he looks wonderful,” Enarius said, admiring the silky red ribbon about the furry neck. “Nicely done.”
“Thank you, sire. I’m sure the Lady will like him.”
That was good to hear, even if the man couldn’t possibly know, because he worried about that. “Do you really think so?”
“Oh, I’m certain, sire.”
The pup yipped excitedly as if in agreement, then squirmed in his arms and licked his chin.
Metellus made a habit of appearing unexpectedly, almost as though he were some spirit called forth out of the gloom. With his eye patch and scars he had certainly grown much more sinister looking over the last year. But he grinned at Enarius as the slave stepped aside. “Did your visit with the magistrate go well, sire?”
“Yes, yes.” It had been tedious, and he’d been forced to smile through a whole onslaught of speeches and gifts and silly compliments and carefully couched requests for favors. “Are the architects here?”
“Oh yes, and eager to talk about your new seaside palace. The books are secure. The villa’s secure. And here’s the best part. I know you thought there might be a rival here. Decius’ children look just like him, incidentally, especially the older one named after him. You can see the resemblance across a room. Anyway, there’s no rival, and your field is clear—I got all the details from that skinny maid.”
“Serliva?”
“That’s the one. She couldn’t keep her hands off of me. Decius probably wouldn’t touch Izivar if he were paid to. He wants to score one of the architects.”
“He does?” The dog scrabbled at his chest and ruffed at Metellus.
“Decius is one of those who did his duty for the family. Just goes to show you how you never can tell.”
“No,” Enarius said. “I suppose not. Hush, pup.” The animal ceased its growling and squirmed, yipping at something in a nearby bush. Or possibly it found the bush itself suspicious. “I hope you weren’t too intrusive about your inquiries.”
“I was the soul of discretion, sire. No one seems to think Izivar’s involved with anyone.”
“Well. I like the sound of that.”
“They’ve been holding supper for you. I hope you’re ready. I’m starved.”
“I ate at the magistrate’s, and sent word here to start without me. I should have known no one would. The last thing I want to do is annoy Izivar.” Enarius wanted her to be in a fine mood tonight. “I shall have to eat some of the food. I’d hate to disappoint her. But I do wish I could talk to her first.”
“Of course. She’ll be thrilled by that dog. Women love stupid little things like that. Do you have the poem?”
“In my pouch with the ring.”
“Well, get to the courting, sire!” Metellus smiled and gestured for his emperor to precede him.
Enarius took a breath to calm his nerves, adjusted the shifting ball of fur in his arms, and started forward.
The two white-armored praetorians posted outside opened the door for him. His uniformed trumpeter in the atrium raised his instrument and sounded a fanfare that twined about the dog’s yipping even as Enarius shouted at them to stop. The trumpeter did, but the dog continued, as though it had been affronted by the instrument.
Enarius jostled the dog in his arms, shushing it and petting its tiny head. It gave up yapping and shifted to growling when Izivar’s servants bustled forth, including a steward who looked familiar, all smiles and welcome, and an attractive brown-haired woman in a fine red dress. Before she could advance, two men practically ran her down to present themselves with multiple bows. One was a tall distinguished fellow in his early forties, the other a fading charmer with a smile that suggested he was vain. Both wore a sort of bland white tunic with leaves on its edges, belted at the waist. They said their names and something about their important building projects but were so busy talking over one another, and the dog was so noisy, Enarius couldn’t make out much. The tall one thrust out a hand holding an intricately filigreed ring.
“Ah,” said Enarius. “Thank you.” While many Dervan patricians wore rings on every finger, Enarius bore only two on each hand. He tried passing the dog off to Metellus, who happened to be looking the other way. He then gave it to the steward, who received the shifting bundle of white noise with the delight of someone presented a soiled loincloth. The pup barked throughout.
At least Enarius could finally hear the tall architect. But he wasn’t saying anything about the floor plans Enarius had sent him. He was still going on about the ring. “You should wear it, sire. A good luck charm from one of our inspirational trips.”
Enarius glanced down, seeing a pretty green stone in a rectangular setting framed by some of the little animal letters Hadirans imagined was a workable alphabet. The gold work was quite good. He was used to receiving gifts and smiled blandly as the tall one blathered on, but didn’t hear a word of what he said, for Izivar swept in, arresting in an elegant pink stola. He was disappointed that she’d not worn traditional Volani garb, which he had found most alluring, for he loved the way it flowed about her ankles. Her hair was enchanting this evening, though, its tight ringlets held high by a silvery circlet, then arranged so that they flowed down behind her ears to her shoulders. She welcomed him with a beautiful smile, ensuring him her home was his own.
The dog had not yet ceased its yipping.
“Sorry about all the commotion.” Enarius returned her smile. He took the animal and thrust it toward her. “This is for you. Straight from lands beyond Ilodonea. It’s very rare.”
“Oh!” Izivar’s smile looked forced. “What is it?”
“I think it’s a sort of noisy pillow,”15 the woman in the red dress said. She had somehow maneuvered to stand nearer to Izivar.
“It’s actually a very sweet dog,” Enarius assured her, and petted the creature’s head. “I’m told they’re prized for their affection and loyalty.”
“Really? Where are its ears?”
“Under the fur. It does have them.” Seeing that Izivar appeared uninclined to receive the animal, he bent and put it to the tiled floor. Its legs were so low to the ground that its carefully brushed fur concealed them completely. “Go to your new mistress now,” he urged it encouragingly.
The creature darted left past the architects and shot into an adjoining chamber. Its barks echoed through the halls as it passed more and more swiftly into remote regions of the villa.
“It should be easy to keep track of,” the woman in the red dress remarked.
In a low, menacing voice, Metellus dispatched the trumpeter to find the dog, and the musician tucked his instrument under his arm and hurried off.
Enarius tried a smile. “Well. I’m sorry to have kept everyone waiting for the food. I know it will be delicious. You always set a fine table.” He then noticed someone missing. “Where’s Julivar?”
“She’s staying with a friend this week,”16 Izivar answered.
He had always been fond of Izivar’s little sister, and was a little sorry he wouldn’t be able to visit with her. “Is she still practicing her martial moves?”
“She is.”
Metellus’ answering chuckle was an irritant.
“Those who laughed at the idea of women warriors didn’t laugh long after encountering Eltyr,” Enarius reminded him.
The praetorian legate raised his hands in surrender. “I certainly did not mean to impugn the fighting mettle of the Eltyr. Praise Jovren they can trouble us no further. But given Julivar’s size, this indulgence . . . well, I mean no offense.”
“Cubs will one day be lions,” Enarius said. “Or lionesses, as the case may be. I’m told the female lions are more dangerous even than the males.”
“I see that you’ve met the architects.” Izivar took his elbow and steered him forward. “And Cassandra is a local designer of curtain and cushion patterns.”
At mention of their profession, the two men bowed deeply, like westerners, who had been abasing themselves before god kings for generations. “Your excellency!” they said as one. The tall one said something again about the luck charm, but Enarius waved that away. He’d already tucked the ring into a belt pouch. He motioned them to rise.
Izivar suggested they sit down for supper, and gestured them toward the triclinium.
Enarius found his courage. “If you don’t mind, my Lady, I was hoping to speak to you privately.” His voice sounded absurdly loud to him.
Her smile was very sweet. “If you wish, Enarius. But I would hate to keep our guests waiting much longer.”
“Oh, we’ll just start in,” Metellus said with a grin.
The praetorian was even more difficult when he was hungry. “That’s quite right,” Enarius said. “You people should have at. Izivar and I will be along shortly.”
“Thank you, sire,” Metellus said with a head bow, then addressed the steward. “Show us the way then, will you?”
Izivar inclined her head ever so briefly to the steward, who led them off. Somewhere far away the dog still barked.
Enarius followed his one true love. From somewhere came the sound of chairs scraping and platters being set on tables as Izivar’s course led to the nearby lovely exterior walled garden, just visible in the twilight. Some of his praetorians were on watch beyond, he knew, but it seemed an abandoned oasis. Only a few paper lanterns hung under the roofed walkway beside the villa. Izivar arrived at a door and pushed it open. A tidy office was revealed.
“Where is Decius?” he asked. “I had hoped to meet him.”
“I’m not entirely sure. He’s probably making the rounds.”
“I’ve heard he’s very vigilant.”17
She opened the office door and turned up a lamp burning low on a hook. She herself gestured to the cushioned chair behind the desk but he shook his head and settled on one of the two stools facing it. She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Oh—I meant to give this to you. It’s a key to the vault.” So saying, she undid a clasp from around her slender neck and pulled a key from her bosom.
Her eyes were warm as she pressed the key to his palm and he gulped, as though he’d never been touched by a woman before.
“You’re so well prepared.” His voice was admiring.
“Well, I’ve been managing a household for a while,” she said with a laugh. She always emphasized their difference in ages, even though fifteen years didn’t make her seem that much older.
As she retreated to the desk chair he glanced about the white-walled space and the ordered cubbies with correspondence and scrolls. He complimented her on that as well, and then found the subject he was after incredibly hard to voice, fearing it would not go over well.
“I wonder . . . I had hoped . . . there’s something important I’d like to speak to you about,” he said.
She sat down. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes. I think so.” He wondered why he was sweating so much. “Izivar . . . the throne is heavy.”
“I hope you haven’t been trying to lift it on your own,” she said with a playful smile.
“Uh, no.” He’d meant to say his rule was a heavy burden. His throat tightened, and he felt as though he could scarcely breathe. Before he had even given it further consideration, he blurted out: “You should marry me.”
She blinked in consternation.
That hadn’t been at all how he meant to bring that up, either, but he decided to simply forge ahead. He fumbled with the pouch at his waist and put fingers around the ring he meant to give her, though he did not bring it out. “Father’s dead. His opinion doesn’t matter anymore. And . . . I’m surrounded by things I barely understand and people I barely know. I don’t trust them. I keep getting thrust into daughters and granddaughters—I mean—they keep getting pushed into me. Ah.” His face reddened. “What I mean is that rich men want me to marry into their families. Some of them are very pretty—the women I mean, heh, but they’re young and vapid and . . . And you’re wonderful, and I want to be with you.”
“Oh, Enarius.” The sad tone in her voice did not inspire a great deal of hope.
He pulled the ring out, set it on the desk, and pushed it toward her. “It’s not just for me,” he said. “It’s for the empire. The marriage, I mean, not the ring.” His words sounded stupid now, even though they hadn’t sounded stupid when he’d rehearsed them. “You would be one of my most trusted advisors. With you at my side, the entire empire would benefit.”
“Enarius . . .” Her hand, with its silver bracelet, went involuntarily to the black mourning band almost hidden in her dark curls, and he thought to hear her demur by mentioning the deaths of her brother and father. “You know that I love you,” she said finally. “But as a brother.”
“The Hadiran kings sleep with their sisters,” Enarius said. “I mean, they marry them. Um.” Everyone in the world thought that was a terrible idea, apart from the Hadirans, and certainly including him. He had no idea how that had popped out of his mouth. It was as though his tongue was trying to make him sound as ridiculous as possible.
“It is a lovely ring,” Izivar said, blessedly changing topic to something less idiotic.
“You should try it on. It would look lovelier on you.”
She considered it. “It’s Hadiran,” she said. “Is that a message?”
Hadiran? He’d picked out a brilliant sapphire said to come from south of Nuvara. But somehow the ring the architects had given him had ended up in his hand.
“It matches my favorite hair band.”
“Ah. Yes. I didn’t mean it to say anything about. Um. Incest.”
“You don’t need to be so nervous. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course! And I swore to your brother to protect you, Izivar. I could protect you so much better if you were with me.” This was going horribly. Suddenly he remembered Metellus’ counsel, and dug around in his pouch. He touched on the face of the real ring, debated giving it as another gift, then came to the paper he’d folded up and pulled it free. “I’ve set down my thoughts in a poem I’ve written. Bear with me.”
He had not recalled putting quite so many folds in the papyrus, and cleared his throat as she waited patiently. Finally, it was there in his hands, and he was reading out loud. “Sturdy were his marble thews and mighty was his blade”—that wasn’t right, but in his nervousness he persevered, his brain trying to puzzle out what had gone wrong—“and stinking was the pool of blood his fallen foes had made—oh, Izivar, this is the wrong poem.” He put down the paper and hiked up one hip to better access the bottom of his belt pouch.
In the silence, somewhere out there in the garden, the dog’s almost rhythmic yapping drew closer and then swiftly dwindled, followed some moments later by the plod of feet and the panting of an exhausted man.
Finally Enarius gave up the poetry search. “That’s a poem Metellus has been working on,” he explained, “and we must have gotten our pages confused. I didn’t mean to talk about people’s thighs. But about empresses. I would make you an empress. I could quite literally give you the finest things in the whole of the world.”
“I’m probably too old to give you children.”
“Many women as old as you get pregnant,” he said. “Not that you’re old,” he added quickly. “You’re stunning, and look half your age—”
“I’m not sure that I want children, now.”
He’d anticipated that argument as well. “Who needs them? We could adopt, like my um . . . like my father.” He had never truly gotten used to referring to Uncle Gaius as his father, even after the official adoption.
“Enarius, in ten years I shall be old, and you will still be in the prime of life.”
“That’s in the far future. We should be happy, now.”
“A good ruler must watch for what is to come. Both for himself, and his people.”
He cut her off before she arrived at whatever point she was trying to reach. “Is there someone else?”
“What if there was?” she asked. “You would want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?”
“Your happiness is the most important thing in the world,” he said, though inside his heart ached.
“I want you to be happy, too. And to succeed. But I’m not right for you. Deep in your heart you know this, or you wouldn’t be so nervous.”
“Men are always nervous around the women they love.” He leaned forward and gently took her hand. She eyed him doubtfully. “Just try it on, and think about it.” She flinched as he slid the lovely band onto her finger.
“Don’t say anything,” he said. “Just . . . wear it tonight, and think about what it would be like to wear it always. To be with me, always.”
She said nothing. Her expression, in fact, was rather blank, and suddenly he felt incredibly foolish. She didn’t want him, or the ring, but he was too embarrassed to take it back. Probably she was shocked that he had been so insistent. “All right,” he said softly. Still she said nothing. “I’ll just wander out into the garden and gather my thoughts. I’ll be in to join you for dinner in a little while. You can . . . you can take the ring off if you’d like.”
Her gaze was stony with disapproval.
He took the lamp because it was fully dark outside now and wandered slump shouldered into the garden. He hoped she’d call him back, but she said nothing, and soon he could not have heard her, for the frogs were out in force, their chirrup a pulse beat of the wild.
Enarius passed a drizzling fountain with one of those stupid smiling cupids from Herrenia everyone seemed to have—except possibly for the Herrenians, from whom they’d all been looted—and then passed a pair of young lovers in stone, holding hands and looking toward the east. He envied the statues their apparent happiness. He was about to ask them why he, the most powerful man in the world, couldn’t find happiness, but he heard sniffling.
He turned with the light, bypassed a piney hedge, and spotted a slim figure huddled up in the corner of a wooden bench near another decorative pond. Serliva shaded her eyes against the light beam, then wiped tears from them.
“Serliva,” he said. “What’s happened? Why are you crying?” He set down the lamp and drew up beside her, his own unhappiness forgotten. Izivar’s maid hadn’t been a central part of the household for long, but he’d come to like her and the protective way that she watched out for her mistress. She’d even called him out on occasional points of etiquette in Izivar’s presence, something most servants wouldn’t have dared, and he approved.
He slid in beside her. He could not help appreciating the colorful, layered Volani skirt she wore, or a slender ankle with glittering baubles upon it.
“It’s nothing, En. . . . sire.”
“Enarius will do. There’s no court here.”
She sniffled.
“You can tell me. I daresay the emperor can probably help straighten it out.” He said the last with bravado even though he felt more powerless than usual tonight.
“Can you make men be less terrible?” she asked, and sniffed again.
“Has someone hurt you?”
“I can’t believe how I’m reacting.” She hesitated a moment, then demanded of him: “Do you think I’m too skinny?”
She was certainly on the lean side, but he’d always thought her rather fetching in a long-limbed, long-chinned way, and tonight, well. Tonight she was practically radiant, apart from those tear-streaked eyes and a bit of black makeup that had run along one cheek. For whatever reason, a woman in Volani garb was especially appealing.
“The gods made all different kinds of beauty. Dark and pale and thick and thin and tall and short . . .” Her eyes were on him questioningly and he understood he’d best get to the point. “You’re beautiful, and any man who can’t see it is a dullard. Who told you that? You want me to exile him?”
“I wouldn’t mind. It’s Metellus.”
“Metellus?” He repeated the name in stunned horror. “You were having an affair with Metellus?”
“No!” Her voice rose in abject horror. “I was simply trying to get him talking and he pretty much told me I was too flat chested to bother with!”
He couldn’t help laughing, although seeing the stricken look on her face he quickly quieted, and extended his arms. The next thing he knew, he was enfolding her and stroking the back of her head. He was aware of the press of her breasts, and a scent of lavender and honey that was almost intoxicating. “Oh, Serliva. You’re far too sweet for him.”
“I thought he would be kind and thoughtful but he’s so . . . mean.”
“Well . . . he’s a soldier. He’s seen some awful things.”
“You’ve seen awful things, but you’re not mean.” She looked up at him through long lashes and pushed hair back from her forehead. “You’re always kind. To everyone. Even servants.”
“Well . . .” Something in the way she regarded him made him even more conscious of her proximity, and the soft parts of her body that were pressed close to his own. “If we can’t be kind to the people who’re working hardest for us, uh, then we’re not really um.” More and more he was aware of the beat of his heart.
“That’s why you’re an exceptional emperor,” she said bracingly. “Everyone knows that you actually care.”
“I care,” he said. “But me being emperor is just happenstance. Look at me.” He raised the hand that wasn’t still wrapped about her back—her warm back—and let it flop back to his side. “Three years ago I’d decided my big goal was to tour the empire and visit all of its greatest boxing rings. I mean, that’s still something I want to do, but . . . I guess what I mean is . . .” He had never noticed how pretty her eyes were. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he confessed. “I want to be a good emperor. But I’m surrounded by people who are after something all the time. It feels like everyone’s running some kind of racket. Do you know I’m going to have to pass a law to make it illegal to drop waste into streams that feed into Derva’s aqueducts?”
“There isn’t a law against that already?”
“No.” He shook his head in disgust, though he did not fully take his gaze from those enticing eyes. “And why should there be? Even the dumbest barbarian knows you don’t crap upstream from your village. But there were some silver miners dumping things into a river and it was making people sick in Derva. And they didn’t care! The mine owners, I mean. It would have inconvenienced them to move their trash further.” His mouth twisted in contempt.
“You could just decree it.”
“I want the laws to outlive me. We should be a people of laws, a just people. You wouldn’t believe the stupid excuses they made for dumping into the stream. No one would give me a straight answer, or tell me the truth.”
“People should be honest with each other,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I remember when you’d come in with poor Indar trying to court Izivar and I’d see how hurt you were that she wouldn’t take you seriously. You’d turn away, and your brow would be creased.” Her fingers against his forehead were cool, which was nice, because he himself felt increasingly warm. “And I’d wish I could make you feel better. I’d wish I could tell you how sweet you were.”
“You can tell me now,” he suggested.
“You’re the kindest man I’ve ever met,” she said breathlessly.
It was the most natural thing then that they should lean forward into one another. He thought it the sweetest kiss he’d ever felt. Her lips were smooth and yielding and it seemed a freely given offering rather than an obligation or a performance. His heart hammered as they pulled apart. She smiled shyly at him, and they leaned into one another for a longer meeting of lips, she bringing her trim body against his own.
V
Plautus completed another circuit through the little blue-walled guest room, turned at the hall door, and headed straight past the closed exit to the garden and for the table between their beds where the candle stood. His classically handsome features were twisted in worry.
Terrence, sitting against the headboard, scratched his beard. He’d grown it for this role and regretted it by the third day. He watched Plautus reach the door, turn, and pace back between the beds. “You need to relax,” he said.
Plautus threw up his arms. “How can I relax? He’s not wearing the ring! It’s not going to work if he’s not wearing the ring!”
His old friend tended toward the histrionic, but he was right, and Terrence wasn’t sure what to do, which is why he’d suggested they retreat to their guest room to think after making professional-sounding excuses to leave with a few plates of food.
Probably the scarred praetorian and the pretty female guest were wondering why they’d both withdrawn, and the steward seemed disgruntled, but Terrence didn’t care about that.
“If you can’t figure out what to do, we’re going to have to run for it,” Plautus continued.
“Aminius is going to have our hides if we lose his ring and the scrolls.”
Plautus’ face screwed up in dismay and he stepped close, his voice an angry whisper.
“He told us not to say his name!”
Terrence rolled his eyes and spoke in a conversational tone. “Aminius. Aminius, Aminius, Aminius. He’s not here to disapprove. And no one’s listening in.”
“You don’t know that!”
“If they’re listening in, we’re already done for.” Terrence rapped the headboard behind him. “Hey, anyone listening in, we’re frauds. Senator Aminius sent us here and is paying us a lot of money to use a magic artifact on Enarius.”
Plautus gaped. “I can’t believe you did that.”
Terrence shook his head in disgust. “No one’s coming. The entire household is catering to the emperor now.”
“Who’s got the ring in his belt pouch,” Plautus all but jeered. “How can you possibly get it to work if it’s not on his finger?”
“I’m thinking,” Terrence said. “Silence.”
Plautus seemed to believe his eye roll and his mocking repetition of “I’m thinking” went unnoticed.
Terrence looked to the table beside him where the brassy old crown sat. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to try. He picked it up and stepped to the shuttered window. For all that he’d chided Plautus for worrying about someone overhearing, he wanted to ensure no one was in earshot before he dared magic. Nothing lay close by apart from the window flowerbed, recently stuffed with blooming daisies, and one of those new wheelbarrow things beside it, left by some slave after transporting the flowers.
“The ring’s not going to work if he’s not wearing it,” Plautus reminded him.
“We won’t know for sure unless we try.” He slipped the crown over his head. It was tight. From memory he whispered the Hadiran words, so ancient that the sounds he intoned would not have been understood by men and women walking the sun blasted streets of the river kingdom today.
Somewhere far away, his senses stretched to perceive an environment of darkness, but could neither see nor hear. He supposed he was detecting the stupid emperor’s stupid belt pouch.
Plautus was going on about the danger they were in, for Aminius was famously vicious when men failed him. Not for the first time Terrence wondered just how much they could get if they simply sold off the crown and the ring, and remembered again the dire threat Aminius had made—if they did not return the Hadiran artifact he would spare no expense to see them perish as painfully as possible.
Aminius had also warned that the magic could only work for a short period of time. Less than an hour, he had said. Further rituals required to make it work longer were apparently cumbersome and expensive.
He had just about decided it wasn’t going to work when it felt as though someone had slapped a skewer into his temple.
He sucked in a breath and stiffened, stars showing in his vision at the same time as he perceived something else—a ghostly overlay of a room and a seated man with a hangdog expression. The emperor! Somehow he was looking at the emperor! Then who was wearing the ring?
He could also make out some words, although it was hard to hear over Plautus demanding to know what was wrong.
Terrence held up a hand to him and closed his eyes.
Now the ghostly overlay resolved into an image. He was actually watching through someone else’s eyes! And hearing with someone else’s ears! It was remarkable, and impressive, even if the view was very dull and washed out, as if seen through fog. The hearing, too, was muffled.
“What’s happening?” Terrence demanded.
“It’s the woman,” Plautus said in wonder. “The Lenereva woman is wearing the ring!”
“Why?”
“Obviously I don’t know! Shut up so I can hear what the emperor’s telling her!”
It didn’t take long for him to understand the emperor was a lovesick young fool pleading for the woman’s hand. Plautus was still babbling, saying that the woman could get the scrolls, which was absolutely true, but Terrence told him to shut up.
“Can you take control of her?” Plautus demanded.
“I already am! She’s frozen stiff and the emperor hasn’t noticed. He’s leaving—”
“Amin . . . our benefactor said it has limited magic,” he warned. “You should—”
“Gods, the emperor is a sad sack,” Terrence gloated. “He’s going off to sulk.”
“Take control of her!”
Plautus’ voice betrayed the dual pulls of terror and eagerness. Seeing that the emperor had disappeared with his lantern into the garden, Terrence put his hand to the square gem housed in the crown at his temple, grasped its beveled edge, and turned.
This time it was not him alone who felt the pain, but the woman, who doubled over. When the pain faded and he stood upright, she straightened with him.
“Did it work?” Plautus asked.
“Yes,” said Terrence, and startled himself, for the woman spoke as well. He then addressed Plautus in a whisper, and heard her speak with him. “I have her,” he said. “But she’s saying everything I say.”
“That’s amazing!”
And the first hint of the challenge of controlling her, as it turned out. He couldn’t feel much of what she felt. And the emperor had left her in the dark, so there was only a slim strand of lighter darkness from the courtyard to see by, owing to the partly open door. Walking proved laborious, because he had to mime walking forward to get her moving, then suspend control for a half heartbeat to turn and keep walking in the same direction, or she would turn with him. Anyone who saw her moving was going to immediately be suspicious. Izivar Lenereva was a woman of refinement but he suspected he maneuvered her like a drunken arthritic. He halted, puzzled for a moment about how to push the door open, then reached out and sensed her fingers touch it even as his own brushed air. The door swung wide, and he got her heading along the courtyard walk.
He had to stop once more when he neared the hallway into the courtyard.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s hard to turn without being right next to the wall,” Terrence whispered.
“I don’t see why this hasn’t been used to get assassins to kill people, and all kinds of things,” Plautus said, a gleam in his eye.
He was an idiot. It was just possible you could kill someone by puppeting their assassin with this magic, but they’d see their killer coming from a long ways off. The victim would have to be insensate or asleep. And maybe you could take possession of someone and walk them off a ledge or into a river, but then you’d lose the ring, and aside from that, Aminius had said life-threatening shocks might let the real person wrest control back. “And using it to seduce women is a tremendous disappointment,” the senator had added, his thick lips twisting, “unless you’ve a friend to run her, and you fancy making love to statues who turn into shrieking harpies when they’re half disrobed.”
Terrence would never have guessed a man as wealthy as senator Aminius needed magic to get women to bed, but had kept his surprise to himself. He walked slowly, trying to add a little bit of a sway, the way a woman might, and Izivar headed down the hall. If she was conscious and aware of his actions, he couldn’t feel it.
A few dull lights burned ahead, and he faintly heard the sound of the banquet. He didn’t want to interact with that, at all, but fortunately some other rooms opened up to him, and he turned through them. They were dark, and he almost walked into a table, but he made it past, and beyond another doorway. Other hall lanterns showed him the way forward, and soon he would be closing on the meeting room where the woman had told them the vault lay.
Before he reached it, though, a tall stranger interposed himself, a well-built fellow with gray-streaked hair.
“Izivar?” he asked questioningly. “Is there something wrong?”
This must be the head of her security they’d heard about. Terrence put a stern note in her voice. “It is none of your business,” he said, and heard Izivar mouth the same lines. “Return to your duties.”
“I see,” the man said. “Very well.” He stepped aside, and Terrence maneuvered Izivar onward down the hall. “Starting to get the hang of this,” he whispered, pleased with himself, not minding that Izivar softly said the same thing. Then he thought of something else. “Damn. I’m probably going to have to find her a lantern.”
VI
Aleria didn’t think the two architects had recognized her. But then they’d both been so nervous they hadn’t seemed to notice much of anything. They departed without even once sitting down, announcing with comic ineptness that they had undefined work to be done and added that they were experiencing stomach pains.
It must have been clear to Metellus that there was something odd about them, but he gave them only a baleful warning look before he took a seat, complaining to Aleria about having to sit upright like commoners, for the meal was to be served Volani style.
The first course came, and the praetorian tore into the duck with gusto.
Aleria thought about making conversation with him, but his manner repulsed her. She listened for the approach of either Enarius or Izivar. Hearing neither, and deciding against pursuing engagement with her lone companion, she excused herself for a wash area, assured a servant she could find her own way, and proceeded into the darkness.
The halls seemed empty until another serving girl appeared to ask if she needed directions. Aleria told her that she did not, but then had to actually walk with the servant to the very threshold of the wash room before she was rid of her. Once Aleria emerged, only moments after she had heard the girl’s receding footsteps, she headed once more toward her goal, only to encounter, as if by chance, a second serving girl. When this one asked what she desired Aleria feigned interest in an elaborate baked dessert she had once seen at a senator’s party, ticked off the ingredients she supposed it contained, and with her best pampered patrician manner insisted the young lady scurry off to request the cook look into making it, or something like it.
Only then did she turn toward the rooms that led to the vault. Aleria had no interest in interacting with the guard outside it. Instead, she hurried into a side hall, halting before a door she’d noted during her tour of the villa. From her calculations it lay directly beside the room with the vault. It was locked, naturally, but even a stiff lock like this was little challenge to someone with her skills, and she was through it soon and into the black little room beyond.
It seemed nothing more than a storage area cluttered with some old couches, piled one upon another so that the topmost furniture had its legs pointing upward. There was also a cabinet with a sagging hinge, two small storage shelves, and a row of tall amphora. Just beyond the shelves, against the wall opposite the door, she spied a third empty shelf unit. Unless she missed her guess, the wall it stood against would offer direct entry into the vault.
She hadn’t failed to notice that many of the internal walls were plastered over wattle. All an enterprising woman would need to make her own door was a good blade, one of which she just happened to have strapped to her thigh.
Aleria climbed carefully over the broken furniture, finding it fortunate that there was such a wide space between the clutter toward the room’s front and this back wall. Moving the empty cupboard aside would be ever so simple.
She put her hands to the furniture, readying to tilt the shelf unit out so that she could carefully drag it to one side. When it came forward, for a brief moment she thought it was falling, and took in an anxious breath. Less than a heartbeat later she perceived the furniture was actually swinging. It apparently was fixed to the wall on a hidden hinge, and as it came open she perceived some clever person had already cut an aperture in the wall behind it, through which light dully shown.
“Who’s there?” A startled male voice whispered. And a moment later a bearded Herrene was crouching beneath the low door lintel and staring at her. It was the same man she’d seen in Helsa’s company before. Behind him was what was almost certainly the real side wall of the vault, upon which a handle was affixed. He himself was hidden in a narrow space with a small desk, lamps, and oil.
Upon the desk was a scroll that the Herrene had been writing, and another propped open on upright wooden dowels in front of it. On the instant she understood everything: Helsa hadn’t planned to steal the Sidyline books, but to copy them. This hidey hole allowed access both to the vault and the room beside it. That meant Izivar had to be in on the entire plan. Probably Aleria should have been irritated this rendered her own work fruitless, but she couldn’t help laughing at the enterprise’s audacity.
“What are you doing here?” the Herrene whispered.
She replied in the same quiet tone. “I was going to liberate the scrolls. Now I think I’m going to ask how much you’d charge for a copy.”
“How did you get that door open?” he asked softly. “We put in a rusty lock that takes a lot of effort to open.”
“I’m good with my hands. How are the scrolls? You learning secrets about the future?”
He snorted. “They’re ridiculous.”
“Are they?”
“Worthless. Obscure, and badly rhymed. These have to be fakes.”
There was no mistaking the sound of plodding footsteps nearby. The Herrene’s eyes widened in panic and he turned toward the far wall of his hideaway. Aleria slid through into the space after him, closing the chamber with a handle she discovered on the lower back of the book case.
The Herrene gave her a suspicious glance, then doused the light and adjusted something along the wall. A moment later she realized he’d opened a tiny aperture along the side, for lantern light shown through from the vault beyond. He stared, then drew his head back in obvious astonishment. He eyed her then with a kind of “why not” look, motioned her forward, then slid to one side.
The lantern showed her a well-ordered room little larger than a servant’s chamber and smelling of fresh paint. It contained a number of shelves with chests of varied sizes, some filigreed and some not. An old chest with black markings sat upon a pedestal in the room’s center, with a smaller chest boasting gold filigree atop it.
Izivar Cabera set the lantern on a shelf and considered two chests, studying them as if she had never seen them before. Her manner was uncharacteristically stiff, so that when the Herrene started to put his hand on the latch that would open the wall, Aleria restrained him.
The woman reached out with a peculiar, jerky movement, clasped the smaller chest to her breast, then turned awkwardly. She left the lantern behind her and moved on, her gait labored, her butt swaying ludicrously every second step, as though she were a prostitute on a field march. Finally, she pushed the door closed behind her.
Antires shut the peephole and turned up the lantern. The handsome Herrene’s brows were drawn in confusion.
“Why did she take the scrolls while you’re copying them?” she asked.
“She didn’t take the scrolls I was working on. She took Metellus’ lousy poem.”
“Poem?”
“A heroic epic about the chief praetorian, Metellus. When I read the first page I laughed so hard I was afraid someone would hear me. This doesn’t make any sense. She’s acting strange.”
“Maybe I should follow her.” Aleria put her hand to the bookshelf latch.
“I’m not sure I like that.”
“It’s a little late to worry about trusting me now, isn’t it?”
“You could run and tell someone.”
“I want a copy of this, remember? Your secret’s safe with me. You stay here and keep working and I’ll look into things.”
Before he could dither she was out the fake door and shutting it behind her.
VII
Hanuvar ignored his first instinct, which was to pull the ring from Izivar’s finger, for it seemed obvious the radiant jewelry had her ensorcelled. Experience had taught him an interrupted spell could have terrible consequences for those involved, and so he pretended to obey her orders to let her be, following at a distance as she advanced through the halls of her home to retrieve a lantern, sometimes shuffling and sometimes twitching her rear. Her movements would have been laughable if he weren’t afraid for her.
The guard stepped aside and then she entered the vault room. The Dervan legionary glanced suspiciously down the hall toward him, but Hanuvar raised a hand in acknowledgment and the soldier nodded after a moment.
He waited in the shadows, certain now someone had suborned Izivar’s will to hunt for treasures, almost surely the Sidyline books. He forced his hands out of their clench, suppressing a surge of rage.
It seemed a lifetime before she emerged cradling a small, sturdy chest. The guard had been told only the Lady Izivar or the emperor himself were permitted access to the treasure vault, but still stopped her to politely, softly, inquire what she did. Hanuvar didn’t hear the entirety of his question, although her reply, nearly shouted, could not be missed.
“I am retrieving this for the emperor! Keep up the good work!”
The soldier watched, befuddled, as she performed a wobbly turn and headed out through the back rooms, ignoring a confused glance from a servant hurrying by with a lantern and a basket of flowers.
Izivar took the long way on toward the guest quarters, and passed a stout male servant standing at a side table folding napkins. It was an odd place for the work and Hanuvar guessed that Izivar or her steward had given word to unobtrusively keep track of the guests.
Ignoring the napkin folder’s greeting, Izivar staggered through a door that opened before her. The door was shut before Hanuvar was close enough to see who lay beyond.
He was upon it in moments, ear pressed to the surface. The servant watched him in surprise.
“We’ve got it!” a male voice rejoiced. “We’ve actually got it! Now what?”
Another deeper voice answered. “I can’t just leave this expensive ring around her finger, can I? Aminius wants it back. But she’ll come around the instant I take it off her.”
“I thought you were the master planner,” the first voice responded acidly. “What were you going to do about the emperor wearing it?”
There was no answer.
“We’ll tie her up,” the deep voice said after a moment.
“With what?”
Hanuvar had heard enough. Satisfied that Izivar would be unharmed if the spell were interrupted, he was readying to push through when someone came up behind him.
Hanuvar discovered Metellus at his rear.
The praetorian’s voice was a mocking whisper. “Listening at doors, Decius?”
He neither liked nor trusted the praetorian, but might need assistance, and suspected Metellus would happily join in any head bashing. He rapped loudly on the door.
“Open up!” he called. “Release the woman!”
A male gasp of fear and a curse came from within, followed by the shout of someone saying “They’re onto us!” and then there was a clattering noise, a thump, cursing in pain, and the sound of an opening door and retreating footsteps. The two men had gone out through the garden door.
Hanuvar put shoulder to the door once, then put his foot to it. It sprang open with the second kick and swung violently inward. Izivar was nowhere in sight. A single candle burned on the side table between the two beds. The courtyard door hung open, and two figures could be seen running into the gloom, the tall one pushing a wheelbarrow with a limp figure slumped inside.
“They’ve got Izivar and the scrolls!” Hanuvar said, and followed on their heels. Metellus swore, and likely motivated by concern over the second part of the declamation, ran after Hanuvar into the courtyard.
The occasional lantern burning in the garden wasn’t enough to clearly see his quarry. The scholars were visible mostly as a deeper blackness in motion before the surroundings. They cut suddenly to the right; Metellus sprinted straight ahead past Hanuvar, perhaps thinking to cut them off, shouting for the guards. And then, quite suddenly, two figures near one of the few lights reared up from the grass at the same moment a small bundle broke into a growling yip and charged Metellus’ legs. He staggered and promptly fell sideways to land in an ornamental pond, striking with a resounding splash that sprayed water widely.
Hanuvar discerned Enarius himself climbing hastily to his feet, adjusting his tunic. His hair was mussed, his expression confused. Serliva pushed up from the grass, her skirt hiked up, her blouse pushed down. She hastily adjusted her hair while trying to cover up. A small dog dashed along the edge of the pond, yelping furiously at Metellus’ every splash.
Hanuvar dashed right, gaining quickly on the two phony architects, who had apparently noticed the pool that the one-eyed praetorian hadn’t. As they pushed on for the back wall, Hanuvar heard someone else on his heel; a lighter tread than Metellus’. In a moment Aleria was at his side.
“What are you doing here?”
“Long story,” she said.
The tall kidnapper looked over his shoulder as his companion reached the ivy-covered wall and leapt for its height. He let go the wheelbarrow then hurried after his companion.
Hanuvar halted to check upon Izivar.
She sprawled in the cart’s base, legs drooped overside, and was still and quiet, though she blinked, and the jade ring glowed dully from within. He lifted her hand, put thumb and finger to the ring, then carefully pulled it free, dropping it on the ground beside him. He smashed the stone with his heel, driving it into the ground. The tall architect reached the top of the wall, huffing, and dropped over the other side.
Izivar put a hand to her head. “What happened? Where am I?”
“I’ll explain soon. You’re all right?”
“I think so . . .”
Hanuvar rose and started for the wall.
Aleria cleared her throat. “If you’re worried about the scrolls, they didn’t get any. They’re still safe.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “The morons stole some poem Metellus’ wrote. By accident, one assumes.”
Hanuvar returned and looked down at Izivar. “They didn’t hurt you?”
“No. I’m just a little dizzy.” She sat up, and he helped her climb from the little cart. “I’m a bit vague on how I got here—”
“The architects rolled you here in a handcart.”
“What I don’t understand is why I don’t hear the praetorians chasing them—” Aleria asked, then fell silent at a sudden onrush of armed figures.
“Where are the thieves?” one of them shouted at the three of them, his manner menacing. Hanuvar and Aleria pointed at the wall.
“We were chasing them!” Aleria added. “They’d kidnapped Izivar Lenereva, but we just got her back!”
The lead soldier seemed to recognize Izivar as Hanuvar steadied her rise. “It’s true,” she said.
The soldier pointed others deeper into the garden, presumably just in case these civilians had the details wrong, then led the rest over the wall in pursuit. The two sets of running feet receded in opposite directions.
Izivar let out a sigh and faced Aleria. “What’s your place in all this?”
“I couldn’t resist a look at what you were doing,” she said. “Very clever. I expect you to sell me a copy. Your man says it’s worthless, but, well, simpletons pay a lot for ridiculous things, don’t they?”
“They do,” Izivar mused.
Aleria shifted her attention to Hanuvar. “Next time I’ll wait for you.” Then she smiled slyly. “If you ever get tired of her, look me up. She’s charming, but I’d wager you and I would have more fun.”
She left them then, jogging into the darkness of the garden.
“How well do you know her?” Izivar asked, a hint of sharpness in her voice.
“Not at all in the way you’re thinking,” he replied. “You sure you’re all right?”
“I think so. The dizziness has passed.”
From deeper in the garden came a shout from Metellus, calling for the guards. Hanuvar frowned. “You’re going to tell Metellus where the architects went. I’d like to stay clear of Enarius and any interrogating officials. You can tell him I’m off searching beyond the grounds.”
“Will you be?”
“No. Let the praetorians handle it. The less I’m seen, the better.” He pointed to the ruined ring. “Show him that.” He traded a light kiss with her, then headed for the shrine to Jovren.
VIII
Enarius thought it prudent to leave before breakfast the next morning. Accomplished hostess that she was, however, Izivar presented herself outside his quarters while the slaves were still arranging his belongings.
He managed a shy smile and watched her face, wondering if he’d see disgust there, or even disappointment, but she held herself completely normally, as though he hadn’t declared his love for her only to lie down with another, her own maid no less, in the next hour, as though he hadn’t sent for impostors who had broken into her house after state secrets and used a spell to take control of her body. She was dressed demurely as usual in an ankle-length green stola. She didn’t even appear especially tired.
He returned her wish of good morning, told her she looked well rested, then quickly adopted a new line of conversation. “I wonder what’s happened to the real architects. I shall have to send word.”
“I hope they’re all right.”
“Yes. Um. I don’t want you to think that my . . . feelings for you were feigned in any way. I . . .”
“I know that your feelings for me are real. But you know I’m not the right woman for you. You need someone your own age. Someone you can trust.”
She always managed to get right to the heart of a matter. “Those are few and far between.”
“Perhaps. But Serliva has been fond of you since she first met you, because you are kind and charming and handsome. She used those terms to try to persuade me about you many times, and she used them last night when she tearfully relayed all that happened. Not that household gossip hadn’t already gotten to me.”
He grimaced.
“I’m not saying that a single night’s tryst is the basis for everlasting love, but there’s surely more than desperation involved for both of you.”
He did like Serliva, very much. “But if I were to take a . . . maid to be my . . . lover . . . or wife . . .”
“So you’re willing to risk the gossip about marrying an older woman of the wrong people, but not for a younger one who could give you heirs?”
She’d discovered an interesting flaw in his reasoning. He blinked at thought of it. Then he sought to correct one of her implied points. “You’re not beyond childbearing age. And you’re of higher social status.”
She made a scoffing noise. “I’m not trying to push her on you, I’m just saying that you shouldn’t allow others to make this decision for you. Even though you need to look ahead to anticipate problems, you also have to take care of your own needs. And you need somebody who likes you for you are, not what you are. Aren’t you the one who used to tell me I should learn to please myself and let others envy my happiness?”
“You are always so smart,” he said, because she was.
“It’s called wisdom, and it’s taken years to acquire.”
“Well, I’m just glad that the books are safe. I hope that they shall guide me.”
“Let your heart and mind and councilors guide you, not some dusty old couplets any soothsayer could twist to mean they need more coins thrown their way.”
He didn’t understand why she was being so skeptical about the scrolls, although they were rather hard to make any sense from. “You don’t know that’s what they are.”
“I just surmise, knowing how convenient it is that these were found just now, when a young ruler might be searching for guidance.”
“You’re right again.” Her insight never failed to impress him. “I wonder . . . would it be . . . would you mind if I spoke with Serliva? Perhaps . . . do you think you might spare her?”
“If she wishes to go, I will miss her terribly. But I think she is fond of you and would like to see more of the world than I am likely to show her. At the very least you two should talk before you depart.”
She was right. That would be proper. It wasn’t just that they had been lonely; there really was a connection there. And Serliva did like him for who he really was, not for his title. She had known him before that. “I think I will.”
Izivar bowed her head. “I’ll guide you to her room.”
He fell in step beside her. How different the hallways were by light of day.
“I’m sorry that Metellus lost his poem,” she said.
“Yes, I don’t know how those fellows managed to escape the Praetorian Guard. Metellus is furious. He told me he’d planned on hiring someone to pretty it up a bit once he had the basics down and now he’ll have to start over.”
Izivar stopped shy of a door. On its other side came a series of yips, and a woman’s baby-voiced plea to quiet down.
“You must tell me,” he said. “Be honest. Is there something between you and Decius? Metellus said he thought he was only interested in men, but—”
“Should it bother you if there was?” There was a challenging note in her voice. “If you love me, wouldn’t you want my happiness?”
His chest felt tight. “Yes, yes, I do. And you have suffered so much, you and your family. He is a man of nearly your age, from what I hear. And a good father, judging by his children. So are you? In love with him?”
“My next husband will be of my own choice, no matter who he is.”
“Quite right.” He sought her eyes. Here in the daylight he noted the little signs of age upon her. They still didn’t matter. But he made careful note of her resolve, and thought of her words. He bowed his head to her.
“If I can ever be of service to you, in any way, I am ready to help.”
“I know.” She indicated the doors. “Serliva was breakfasting in there. I’ll warn you, she’s tearful and confused and probably not at her best because she was embarrassed about last night.”
Enarius himself had been embarrassed, and more so now, realizing that of course Serliva had been. She must have felt terrible to have been caught in the middle of all this, and lonely as well, for she’d probably expected she would be abandoned. He straightened and rapped his foot against the door. At Serliva’s hushed inquiry about who it was, he said “It’s me,” and opened the door.
Serliva waited on a low bed, her head pressed to the furred body of the little white flat-faced dog. It yipped and wagged its stubby tail enthusiastically.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you,” she said, her lips quivering. “And you’ve come for little Fluffers, haven’t you? Does he have a name?” She rubbed his head, her voice dropping to baby talk. “I named him Fluffers because heesh sho fluffy.”
“It’s a perfect name.”
“I will miss him,” she said.
“Why, are you leaving him here?”
She sniffed, wiped one eye and gazed blankly at him.
“How would you like to come with me?” he asked.
Her slowly spreading smile looked as though it might light the world.
So began the romance between Enarius and a former maid that was the summer scandal. Dervan matrons lifted noses and chins in disdain and sternly proclaimed they would have no stepped-up foreign slaves on their guest list, and then found themselves removed from any palace invitations. Gossips painted Serliva as a scheming harpy who’d enslaved the emperor with decadent Volani bedroom secrets. The truth seemed to be that they were two sweet young people of about the same age and intellect, lonely for company and fond of one another.
For all his affability, Enarius proved intractable once he had made up his mind about a subject, especially when he was opposed, which might have been part of the reason he stuck by Serliva.
You probably wonder about the Sidyline books. Hanuvar had expected them to be folly, but had not passed up the opportunity to examine them for any hints as to future challenges to his own goals. Most were devoted to events from ancient Dervan history that had already happened, written by someone who obviously knew what the outcome would be. Another was vaguely worded nonsense about the future of the Cornelian dynasty and the many sons who would follow from Enarius, which, of course, is not how things fell out at all. Occasionally the phrasing had a little grandeur, but, speaking from experience, the writing had been a rush job, not divinely inspired prophecy.
As for that poem featuring Metellus, you’ve probably heard what happened there. I can’t speak as to Aminius’ state of mind, but his lackeys must have made it all the way back to him without his rare ring, perhaps thinking the controlling crown part plus the chest they’d liberated would appease him. They were never seen again. Still harboring a long held dislike of Metellus, the senator turned the praetorian’s hagiographic poem into a comic gold mine. He altered the name of the hero from Metellus to Scarellus, changed a few key words here and there, and then just left the rest of it alone, because the rough draft was hilariously bad.
Rather than a popular book amongst the masses to raise Metellus’ standing, it was a thinly veiled satire whose subject was blatantly obvious. It bolstered the praetorian’s fame, but not as he would have liked, and made booksellers a tidy sum. Probably Aminius himself could have cashed in on the success, but he sponsored the whole thing anonymously, which was fortunate, for Metellus went into a rage when a copy fell into his hands. He set the Praetorian Guard to hunt down the men behind its publication until overruled by Enarius, who said no one would trust a government without a sense of humor. The young emperor had quaint ideas about how governments normally ran.
Metellus eventually learned about Aminius’ role, of course, and it remained just one more point of contention between the two.
At this remove I recall very little of the text, apart from the opening lines:
Whenever evil threatens
the sacred Dervan throne;
whenever men have got their backs
against the walls of stone;
whenever witches scheme and spell
and plot for our defeat,
up strides brave Scarellus
on his big heroic feet.
—Sosilos, Book Fifteen
15. The dog is actually known as a catuli, and had been, indeed, beloved by the Ilodonean aristocracy for long centuries. They are found in a variety of shades, including a red-brown, black, white, and a light-gray color known as “blue” so highly prized that dogs of that color were kept only in the household of the Ilodonean emperor and his favorites.—Silenus
16. While Julivar was in truth staying with friends, they were Volani youths, who she had decided to help settle into their new temporary quarters in Selanto, in her first official mission on behalf of her people.—Sosilos
17. Enarius had first heard of the assumed Decius identity through his adoptive father, whose life had once been saved by Hanuvar in the guise of one of Izivar’s security personnel. Enarius had met the de-aged Hanuvar twice and been convinced he was seeing two brothers, one several years older than the first.—Sosilos