Masques by Patricia Briggs Page B

highwayman—the more skilled and ruthless of his kind having left for richer pastures.
    The most monumental thing that had happened since Aralorn started there was when the daughter of the Head-man of Kestral ran off with somebody named Harold the Rat. When the highwayman came in next time looking more miserable than usual, accompanied by a female who was taller than he by a good six inches and harangued him from the time they sat down until they left, Aralorn concluded that he was the mysterious Harold and offered him her silent condolences.
    Normally, she’d have been relatively content with the assignment, especially since she’d added a few new tales to her collection of stories—courtesy of the few trappers she’d seen. But she had the doubtful privilege of knowing that the ae’Magi was striving to re-create the power the wizards had held before the Wizard Wars—and hold that power all by himself.
    She should be doing something, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what. If she left without orders or extreme necessity, being banished from Sianim was the very least of the punishments she was likely to suffer. It was more likely she’d be hung if they caught her.
    Tonight, her restlessness was particularly bad. It might have had something to do with the innkeeper’s wife being sick, leaving the innkeeper doing all of the cooking—rendering the food even less edible than it usually was. That led to more than the average number of customers getting sick on the floor—because the only thing left to do at the inn was drink, and the alcohol that they served was none of the best and quite probably mildly poisonous judging by the state of the poor fools who drank it.
    As the newest barmaid, the task of cleaning up fell to Aralorn. With the tools she’d been handed, this consisted mostly of moving the mess around until it blended with the rest of the grime on the floor. The lye in the water ate at the skin on her hands almost as badly as the smell of the inn ate at her nose.
    She dipped the foul-smelling mop into the fouler-smelling water in her bucket and occupied herself with the thought of what she would do to Ren the next time she saw him. As she was scrubbing—humming a merry accompaniment to her thoughts, a sudden hush fell into the room.
    Aralorn looked up to see the cause of the unusual quiet. Against the grime and darkness of the inn, the brilliant clothing of the two men in court attire was more than a little incongruous.
    Not nobles surely, but pages or messengers from the royal court. They were usually used to run messages from the court to a noble’s estate. What they were doing at this little pedestrian inn was anyone’s guess. Unobtrusively, Aralorn worked her way to a better observation post and watched the proceedings carefully.
    One of the messengers stayed near the door. The other walked to the center of the room. He spoke slowly so that his strange court accent wouldn’t keep the northerners from understanding his memorized message.
    “Greetings, people. We bring you tragic news. Two weeks ago—Myr, your king, overset by the deaths of his parents, attacked and killed several of his own palace guard. Overwrought by what he had done, His Majesty seized a horse and left the royal castle. Geoffrey ae’Magi has consented to the Assembly’s request to accept the Regency of Reth until such time as King Myr is found and restored to his senses. The ae’Magi has asked that the people of Reth look for their king so that a cure may be effected. As he is not right in his mind, it may, regrettably, be necessary to restrain the king by force. As this is a crime punishable by death, the Regent has issued a pardon. If the king can be brought to the ae’Magi, there is every possibility that he can be cured. As loyal subjects, it is your duty to find Myr.
    “It is understood that a journey to the royal castle will be a financial hardship, thus you will have just recompense for your service to your