Nasaug did not respond.
The acolyte snarled and stepped up to Nasaug, put a hand on the Battle-master's shoulder, and began to repeat the question.
Nasaug turned his head to one side, jaws flashing, and in a single, vicious snap tore the hand from the end of the acolyte's arm, following it with a vicious kick that sent the other Cane sprawling, screaming in pain.
Nasaug reached up and took the acolyte's severed hand from his mouth and idly threw it at him without looking up from the board. "Do not interrupt your betters," he growled, also in Canish. Tavi could make out most of it. "You may tell Sari that had he wished an immediate attack, he should have given me time to recover my fallen from the Alerans. Tell him that I will attack when and where it suits me." The Battlemaster glanced at the acolyte, and snarled, "Move. Before you bleed to death."
The wounded Cane clutched the bleeding stump of his arm to his belly and retreated, making high-pitched whimpering noises in his throat.
"Apologies," Nasaug then said to Tavi. "For the distraction."
"No offense was given," Tavi replied, his tone thoughtful. "You have little love for the ritualists."
"Your eyes can see the sun at midday, Captain," Nasaug replied. He studied the board a moment later, and said, "Your strategy was sound. You know much of us."
"Some," Tavi replied.
"It took courage and intelligence to attempt it. For this, you have earned respect." Nasaug looked up at Tavi for the first time since the game began. "But however much I may despise Sari and those like him, my duty is clear. Sari and his ritualists are few, but they have the faith of the maker caste." He tilted an ear in a vague gesture at the enormous number of raiders. "They may be fools to believe in the ritualists, but I will not turn upon the makers or desert them. I have studied your forces. You cannot stop us."
"Perhaps," Tavi said. "Perhaps not."
Nasaug bared his teeth again. "Your men are half-trained. Your officers were slain, your Knights far weaker than they should be. There is little help to be had from the Alerans of the city." He pushed a ludus Lord forward, beginning his own attack. "You have not seen our caste in battle, but for the probe this morning. You will not repulse us again, Aleran. Before tomorrow's sunset, it will be over."
Tavi frowned. Nasaug wasn't posturing. There was neither threat nor anger nor enjoyment in the tone of his voice. He was simply stating a fact, attaching no emotion to it, no menace. It was far more disturbing than anything else he could have said.
But Nasaug was a warrior Cane. If he was anything like Varg, his words were like blood-never loosed unless necessary. And then as little as possible. "I wonder why you bother to speak of it."
"To offer you an alternative. Retreat and leave the bridge sound. Take your warriors, your people, your young. I will give you two days to travel, in which I will make sure no forces are sent after you."
Tavi regarded the board for a silent moment and altered the position of a single piece. "Generous. Why offer it?"
"I do not say we will destroy you without loss, Captain. It will save lives of my warriors and your own."
"Until we fight again another day?"
"Yes."
Tavi shook his head. "I cannot give you the bridge. It is my duty to hold it or destroy it."
Nasaug nodded once. "Your gesture to allow us to take back our fallen was a generous one. Especially given how Sari dealt with you. For that, I offered you what I could." The Cane began moving his pieces in earnest, and the rapid exchange began. It took him only three moves to see what Tavi had done, and he stopped, staring at the board.
Tavi's reckless assault had been nothing of the kind. He had spent a great deal of time thinking about Ambassador Varg's stratagem in their last game together, and he had adapted it to his own strengths as a player. The sacrifice of some of his lesser pieces earlier in the game had given the greater pieces a far more dominant position, and within the next two moves he would control the skyboard completely and have the positioning and power he would need to strike down Nasaug's First Lord. His pieces would take terrible losses to do it, but Nasaug had seen the trap a bare move too late, and he could not possibly escape it.
"Things," Tavi said quietly, "are not always as they seem."
The last of the fallen Canim had been found and borne back to the Canim camp by their unarmed fellows. A grizzled Cane nodded to Nasaug in passing.
Nasaug stared at Tavi, then tilted his head very slightly to one side in acknowledgment of the defeat. "No. Which is why my warriors will not be the first to enter the town."
Tavi's heart all but stopped in his chest.
Nasaug had figured out the trap. He might not yet know the details, but he knew it was there. Tavi kept all expression from his face and stared impassively at the Battlemaster.
Nasaug let out another rumbling chuckle and nodded at the board. "Where did you learn that strategy?"
Tavi regarded the Cane, then shrugged. "Varg."
Nasaug froze.
His ears came to quivering attention, pricked forward at Tavi.
"Varg," he growled, very low. "Varg lives?"
"Yes," Tavi replied. "Prisoner in Alera Imperia."
Nasaug narrowed his eyes, his ears twitching. Then he lifted a hand and beckoned.
The grizzled Cane returned, bearing a cloth bundle held upon his upraised palms. At a nod from Nasaug, the Cane set the bundle down on the ludus board and unfolded it. Tavi's gladius, the one he had cast aside that morning, lay within.
"You are dangerous, Aleran," Nasaug said.
Instinct told Tavi that the words were a high compliment. He kept his eyes steady, and said, "I thank you."
"Respect changes nothing. I will destroy you."
"Duty," Tavi said.
"Duty." The Battlemaster gestured at the sword. "This is yours."
"It is," Tavi replied. "You have my thanks."
"Die well, Aleran."
"Die well, Cane."
Nasaug and Tavi fractionally bared their throats to each other once more. Then Nasaug backed away several paces before turning and striding back toward his army. Tavi folded up the ludus board back into its case, recovered both of his blades, and made his own way back to the city. He slipped in through the gates just as deep drums began to rumble and Canim war horns began to blare.
Tavi spotted Valiar Marcus and called to him. "First Spear, get the men into position! This is it!"
"Very well," Lady Aquitaine said. She nodded to Odiana, and said, "Time we got into costume."
Odiana promptly opened a backpack and handed Amara her disguise.
Amara stared down at the scarlet silk in her hands, and said, "Where is the rest of it?"
Aldrick stood at the hostel's window, watching the street outside. The big swordsman glanced back at Amara, made a choking sound in his throat, and turned away.
Odiana exercised no such restraint. The lovely water witch threw back her head and let out a peal of laughter, a sound too loud for the room they had rented from a surly Kalaran innkeeper. "Oh, oh, my lord. She's blushing. Isn't she fetching?"
To her horror, Amara realized that Odiana was right. Her cheeks felt as though she could have heated water on them, and she had absolutely no idea what to do about it. It was not the sort of situation she had been trained to handle. She turned away from Lady Aquitaine and her retainers and held up her disguise.
It consisted of a simple sheath of red silk, held up by a pair of tiny silk straps. Neckline, such as it was, was alarmingly low-and in back, the garment would leave her naked almost to the waist. The little shift's hem would fall to the tops of her thighs if she was lucky.
"Now, now," Lady Aquitaine chided Odiana. "Show her the rest of it."
"Yes, Your Grace," Odiana said with a little curtsey. Then she drew out a pair of light sandals with straps that would wrap the leg to the knee, a pair of slender silver armbands wrought in the shapes of ivy vines, a beaded headdress that faintly resembled a chain coif and a plain, smooth metal band.
A discipline collar.
It was a slaver's device, furywrought to give control of whoever wore it to the slaver. It could incapacitate its wearer with pain-and, more insidiously, it could, at the slaver's option, provide the inverse of that sensation, and just as intensely. Discipline collars were sometimes used to restrain particularly dangerous furycrafters being held for trial in the legal system, though such cases were historically rare.
But in the past century or so, their manufacture and use had become far more widespread, as the institution of slavery deepened and darkened. Prolonged exposure to the collars could shatter the mind and will. Continually forced through agonies of torment and euphoria, victims were compelled to obey the slaver and forced to experience pleasure as they did so. Over time, often years, many such slaves were reduced to little more than animals, their humanity torn from them and replaced with the simple, irresistible compulsion of the collar. Chillingly, they were often deliriously happy to be that way.
More independent-minded individuals could often resist the extremes of dehumanization others faced-for a time, at least. But none of them survived it unscathed. Most went hopelessly mad.
"Blushing," Odiana singsonged, and spun on her toes in a little dance step. Her silk dress changed colors, shifting from pale blue to pink. "Just this color, Cursor."
"I'm not wearing a collar," Amara said quietly.
Lady Aquitaine arched an eyebrow. "Why on earth not?"
"I'm aware of how dangerous they can be, Your Grace," Amara said. "And I have certain reservations about the notion of closing one around my neck."
Odiana covered a titter with one hand, dark eyes shining as she stared at Amara. "You needn't be so afraid, Countess," she murmured. "Honestly. Once the collar is on, it's quite difficult to imagine living without it." She shivered, and licked her lips. "You scream all the time, but it's the inside kind. You scream and scream, but you can only hear it when you're asleep. Otherwise it's quite lovely." She gave Aldrick a somewhat petulant look. "My lord won't collar me. No matter how naughty I am."
"Peace, love," Aldrick rumbled. "It isn't good for you." He glanced at Amara and said, "the collars aren't genuine, Countess. I made them out of table knives this morning."
"It isn't the sort of pretend I like to play," Odiana sniffed. "He never lets me have my favorites." She turned away from Aldrick, passing a second costume like Amara's to Lady Aquitaine, and took a third for herself.
Lady Aquitaine regarded Amara thoughtfully, and said, "I've some cosmetics that should make your eyes look lovely, dear.'
"That won't be necessary," Amara said stiffly.
"Yes it will, Countess," Rook said quietly. The plain-looking young woman sat in a chair in the corner farthest from Aldrick and Odiana. Her eyes were sunken, strained, and worry lines crisscrossed her brow. "The pleasure slaves Kalarus imports for his retainers and personal guard in the citadel are a common sight. Kalarus's favored slave traders are always in competition with one another and spare no expense. The clothing, the cosmetics, the perfume. To do anything else will draw unwanted attention."
"Speaking of perfume," Lady Aquitaine murmured, "where is the good count Calderon? We all smell like folk who have been traveling for days."
A beat later, the room's door opened, and Bernard came in. "Bath's ready," he said quietly. "Other side of the hall, two doors down. There's only two tubs."
"I suppose it was too much to hope for a proper bath," Lady Aquitaine said. "We'll just have to go in turn. Amara, Rook, by all means go first."
Rook rose, gathering up her clothing-the same dark colors she'd been wearing when Amara had captured her. Amara pressed her lips into a firm line as she took her own costume and turned to the door.
Bernard leaned casually against the door and held up a hand. "I don't think so," he said. "I don't want you alone with her."
Amara arched a brow at him. "Why not?"
"Regardless of what she might or might not have to lose, she's the master assassin for a rebel High Lord. I'd prefer it if you weren't alone in the bath with her."
"Or perhaps," Odiana offered, "he wants to see what Mistress Bloodcrow looks like beneath her clothes. "
Bernard's nostrils flared, and he glared at Odiana. But instead of speaking he turned the look on Aldrick.
The big swordsman did nothing for several seconds. Then he exhaled slowly and said, to Odiana, "Love, hush now. Let them work this out in peace."
"I only want to help," Odiana said piously, moving to stand beside Aldrick. "It is hardly my fault if he is so-"
Aldrick slid an arm around Odiana, and placed one broad, scarred hand over her mouth, pulling her gently against him. The water witch subsided immediately, and Amara thought that there was something smug and self-satisfied in her eyes.
"I think," Amara said to Bernard, "that it would be wise to have a pair of eyes watching the hall in any case. Wait outside the door?"
"Thank you, Countess," Lady Aquitaine said. "Thank goodness someone in this room can be reasonable."
"I'll go first, Countess," Rook said quietly. She walked to the door, eyes lowered, and waited until Bernard grudgingly moved aside. "Thank you."
Amara slipped out after her, and Bernard followed close behind her. Rook went into the bathing room, and Amara began to follow her, when she felt Bernard's hand on her shoulder.
She stopped and glanced back at him.
"Crows take it, woman," he said quietly. "Is it so wrong for me to want to protect you?"
"Of course not," Amara said, though she couldn't keep a small smile off her face.
Bernard frowned down at her for a moment, then glanced back at the hotel room and rolled his eyes. "Bloody crows." He sighed. "You got me out of that room to protect me."
Amara patted his cheek with one hand, and said, "At least one person in that room is mad, Bernard. One has already run you through once. The other could kill you, have the body gone, and make up any tale she wanted by the time I got back from the bath."
Bernard scowled and shook his head. "Aldrick wouldn't do it. And he wouldn't hurt you."
Amara tilted her head, frowning. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I won't shoot him in the back or hurt Odiana."
"Talked about this, have the two of you?"
"Don't need to," Bernard said.
Amara shook her head. Then she lowered her voice, and said quietly, "You're too noble for this kind of work, Bernard. Too romantic. Aldrick is a professional killer, and he's loyal to the Aquitaines. If she pointed her finger, he'd kill you. Don't let yourself believe otherwise."
Bernard studied her face quietly for a moment. Then he smiled, and said, "Amara. Not everyone is like Gaius. Or the Aquitaines."
Amara sighed, frustrated, and at the same time felt a flush of warmth run through her at her husband's... faith, she supposed, that there was something noble in his fellow human beings-even those as cold-blooded and violent as the mercenary swordsman. At one time, she knew, she would have thought the same thing. But that time was a considerable distance behind her. It had ended the moment her mentor had betrayed her to the same man and woman now in the room with Lady Aquitaine.
"Promise me," she said quietly, "that you'll be careful. Understanding with Aldrick or no, be careful of turning your back on him. All right?"
Bernard grimaced, but gave her a reluctant nod and bent to place a light kiss on her mouth. He looked like he was about to say something else, but Amara's little scarlet shift caught his eye and he raised his eyebrows at her. "What's that?"
"My costume," Amara said.
Bernard's grin was not-quite-a leer. "Where's the rest of it?"
Amara gave him a very level look as she felt her cheeks warming, and she turned and walked firmly into the bathing room, shutting the door behind her.
Rook was already sitting in one of the small tubs, bathing briskly. She folded a modest arm across her breasts until the door was closed. Then she went back to bathing, while watching Amara obliquely.
"What are you looking at?" Amara asked quietly. The words came out far more belligerently than she had intended.
"A master assassin of the High Lord currently on the throne," Rook replied, her tone laced with only the barest trace of irony. "I'd prefer I wasn't alone in the bath with her."
Amara lifted her chin and gave Rook a cool look. "I am no assassin."
"Perspective, Countess. Can you say you have never killed in service to your lord?"
"Never with an arrow fired from ambush," Amara said.
Rook smiled, very slightly. "That's very noble." Then she frowned and tilted her head to one side. "But... no. Your training was unlike mine. Or you'd not blush quite so easily."
Amara frowned at Rook, and took a deep breath. There was no profit in bickering with the former bloodcrow. It would accomplish nothing but to waste time. Instead of replying sharply, thoughtlessly, she began to undress and to bathe herself briskly. "My education as a Cursor did not include... that sort of technique, no."
"There are no bedchamber spies among the Cursors?" Rook asked, her tone skeptical.
"There are some, " Amara said. "But every Cursor is evaluated and trained a bit differently. They intend us to play to our strengths. For some, it includes an education in seduction. My training was focused in other areas. "
"Interesting," Rook said, her tone detached, professionally clinical.
Amara tried to match her tone. "I take it your own training included how to seduce men?"
"To seduce and pleasure, men and women alike."
Amara dropped her soap into the bath in surprise.
Rook allowed herself the hint of a chuckle, but it died quickly as she frowned down at the bathwater. "Relax, Countess. None of it was by my choice. I... I don't think I would care to revisit that sort of situation at all if there was any way I could possibly avoid it."
Amara drew in a breath. "I see. Your daughter."
"A by-product of my training," Rook said quietly.
"Her father?"
"Could be one of ten or twelve men," Rook said, her voice cool. "The training was... intensive."
Amara shook her head. "I can't even imagine."
"No one should be able to imagine it," Rook said. "Rut Kalarus strongly favored that sort of training for his female agents."
"It gives him greater control over them," Amara said.
"Without resorting to the use of collars," Rook agreed, her voice bitter. She scrubbed at herself with a cloth, harshly, almost viciously. "Leaves their wits intact. Better able to serve him."
Amara shook her head. She couldn't even imagine. Her experience as a lover was hardly extensive, consisting of a single young man at the Academy who had dazzled her for three glorious months before dying in the fires that had first brought her to the attention of the First Lord-and Bernard. Who made her feel glorious and beautiful-and loved.
She couldn't even conceive what it might be like for such an act to be undertaken coldly, without the fires of love and desire to heat it. To be simply... used.
"I'm sorry," Amara said quietly.
"Nothing you did," Rook replied. She closed her eyes for a moment, then her facial features began to change. The alteration was neither swift nor dramatic, but when she looked up again, Amara would never have recognized her as the same person. She got out of the tub, dried, and began to dress in her dark clothing. "We're as safe here as anywhere in the city, Countess. The owner knows who I work for, and he's proven himself adept at being blind and deaf when necessary, but the sooner we can leave the better."
Amara nodded and finished bathing quickly, rising to dry off and take up her scarlet "clothing."
"Easier to step into it than draw it down," Rook provided. "I'd better help you with the sandals."
She did so, and when Amara had slipped the armbands around her biceps she looked down at herself and felt more than mildly ridiculous.
"All right," Rook said. "Let me see you walk."
"Excuse me?" Amara said.
"Walk," the spy said. "You've got to move correctly if I'm to pass you off as a new pleasure slave."
"Ah," Amara said. She paced to one side of the room and back.
Rook shook her head. "Again. Try to relax this time."
Amara did, growing more self-conscious by the step.
"Countess," Rook said, her tone frank, "you've got to move your hips. Your back. You've got to look like a slave so conditioned to her uses that she anticipates and enjoys them. You look like you're walking to market." Rook shook her head. "Watch me."
And with that, the spy paused, her stance shifting subtly. Then she slunk forward, eyes half-closed, mouth curled into a tiny, lazy smile. Her hips swayed languidly with each step, her shoulders drawn back, and her back arched slightly, her whole manner daring-or inviting-any man looking on to keep looking.
Rook turned on a heel, and said to Amara, "Like that."
The change in the woman was startling. One moment she'd looked like a courtesan in her private chambers with a young lord after half a bottle of aphrodin-laced wine. The next, she was a plainly attractive, businesslike young woman with serious eyes. "It's all about what you expect. Expect to draw every man's eye as you pass him, and you will."
Amara shook her head. "Even in"-she gestured vaguely-"this, I'm not the kind of woman men like to look at."
Rook rolled her eyes. "Men like to look at the kind who breathes and wears little. You'll qualify." She tilted her head to one side. "Pretend they're Bernard."
Amara blinked. "What?"
"Walk for them as you would for him, " Rook said calmly. "On a night you have no intentions of allowing him to go anywhere else."
Amara found herself blushing again. But she steeled herself, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine it. Without opening her eyes, she walked across the room, picturing Bernard's chambers at the Calderon garrison.
"Better," Rook approved. "Again."
She practiced several more times before Rook was satisfied.
"Are you sure this is going to work?" Amara asked her quietly. "Your way in?"
"It isn't even a question," Rook replied. "I'll get you in there. I'll find where your prisoners are. The difficult part will be leaving afterward. With Kalarus, it always is."
Bernard knocked on the door, and said politely, "Are you almost ready, ladies?"
Amara traded a glance with Rook and nodded. Then she slipped the headdress onto her hair and fit the false steel collar around her neck. "Yes," she said. "We're ready."
One would think that sneaking into the citadel of a High Lord of Alera, the single most secure bastion of his power, would be a nigh-impossible task, Amara mused. And yet, when guided by that same High Lord's master spy, the task was evidently quite simple.
After all, Fidelias had demonstrated the same principle only a few years before, when he led Lady Aquitaine into the First Lord's citadel in Alera Imperia on a desperate mission to save the First Lord-so that she and her traitorous husband could be assured that they, not Kalarus, would be the ones to replace him.
Politics, Amara decided, really did make strange bedfellows. An idea that acquired an uncomfortable spin, given its proximity to the focus of thought demanded by her current role.
Amara swayed sleepily along the streets of Kalare in her slave costume, holding herself with a loose-limbed air of decadence, her lips constantly parted, her eyes always half-lidded. There was a peculiar sensuality to the movement, and though some part of her was fully cognizant that they were in mortal danger simply moving openly through the city, she had forced the reasoning, analytical aspects of herself to the rearmost areas of her mind. Walking, then, became an activity that carried a sensuous, almost wicked sense of indulgence, in equal parts sweetly feminine and sinfully titillating. For the first time in her life, she drew long, silently speculative looks from the men she passed.
That was good. It meant that her disguise was more complete than if it hadn't happened. And, though she could barely admit it to herself, it gave her an almost-childish sense of pleasure, simply to be stared at and desired.
Besides, Bernard, dressed in the plain garments and equipment of a travelling mercenary, walked only an arm's length behind her, and she knew from the occasional glance over her shoulder that he was staring at her far more intently than any of the men passing by.
Lady Aquitaine walked in front of Amara. She had altered her appearance via watercrafting, darkening her skin tone the deep red-brown of the inhabitants of the city of Rhodes and changing her hair to waves of exotic, coppery red curls. Her shift was emerald green, but other than that her outfit was a match for Amara's. The High Lady moved with the same half-conscious air of wanton sensuality, and if anything, was better at it than Amara. At the front of the slave line was Odiana, in azure silk, all dark hair and pale skin and sweet curves. Aldrick paced along in front of her, and the big swordsman carried such an aura of menace that even in the teeming streets of Kalare, they were never slowed by foot traffic. Rook walked beside him, her expression bored, her manner businesslike as she guided the party toward the citadel.
Even as she concentrated on her role, though, Amara noticed details of the city and extrapolated on her observations. The city itself was, for lack of a more accurate term, a squalid cesspool. It was not as large as the other major cities of the Realm-though it housed a larger population than any but Alera Imperia herself. It was hideously crowded. Much of the city was in savage disrepair, and impoverished shanties had replaced more solid construction, in addition to engulfing the land around the city's walls for several hundred yards in every direction. The city's waste disposal was abysmal, likely because it had been designed for a much smaller population and never updated as the city overflowed with inhabitants, and the entire place reeked of odors that turned her stomach.
The inhabitants of the city were, as a group, the most miserable-looking human beings she had ever seen. Their clothing was mostly rough homespun, and mostly in disrepair. They went about their business with the kind of listless deliberation that screamed of generations of deprivation and despair. Vendors hawked shabby goods from blankets spread beside the street. One man whose clothes proclaimed him a Citizen or a wealthy merchant passed by surrounded by a dozen hard-eyed, brawny men, obviously professional bruisers.
There were slaves everywhere, even more beaten down than the city's free inhabitants. Amara had never seen so many of them. In fact, from what she could see, there were very nearly as many slaves as freemen walking the streets of Kalare. And at every crossroads and marching along at regular intervals, there were soldiers in Kalare's green-and-grey livery. Or at least, there were armed and armored men wearing Kalare's colors. From the slovenly way in which they maintained themselves and their equipment, Amara was sure that they were not true legionares. There were, however, a great many of them, and the automatic deference and fear they generated in the body language of those passing nearby them made it clear that Kalarus's rule was one of terror more than of law.
It also explained how the High Lords of Kalare had managed to put together a fortune larger than that of every other High Lord in the Realm, rivaling that of the Crown itself-by systematically and methodically stripping everything from the people of Kalare and its lands. Likely, it had been going on for hundreds of years.
The last section of the city before the citadel itself was where the most powerful lords of Kalare kept their homes. That level of the city was at least as lovely as those she had seen in Riva, Parcia, and Alera Imperia-and the contrast of the elegant white marble, furylit fountains, and exquisitely artistic architecture made such a stark contrast to the rest of the city that it literally made her feel physically ill to see it.
The injustice proclaimed by even a simple stroll through Kalare stirred a deep anger in Amara, one that threatened to undermine her concentration. She fought to divorce her feelings from thoughts, but it proved to be nearly impossible, especially after she saw how richly the elite of Kalare lived at the expense of its non-Citizenry.
But then they were past the Citizens' Quarter, and Rook led them up a far less crowded road-a long, straight lane sloping up to the gates of the innermost fortress of Kalare. The guards at the base of the road, perhaps slightly less shoddy-looking than their counterparts in the city below, nodded at Rook and waved her and her party of slaves by them without bothering to rise from their seats on a nearby bench.
After that, they had only to walk up a long hill, which led to the main gate of the citadel. Kalare's colors flew on the battlements, but the scarlet and blue of the House of Gaius were conspicuous by their absence.
Amara sensed immediately that the guards at the gate were nothing like those they had seen at the bottom of the hill or in the town below. They were young men in superb physical condition, one and all. Their armor was ornate and immaculately kept, their stance and bearing as suspicious and watchful as any Royal Guardsman. As they drew nearer, Amara saw something else-the metallic gleam of a collar at their throats. By the time they had ordered Rook and her company to halt, she was close enough to see the etching on the steel: Immortalis. More of Kalarus's Immortals.
"Mistress Rook," said one of them, evidently the leader of the guards on station. "Welcome back. I received no word of your coming."
"Centurion Orus," Rook replied, her tone polite but distant. "I am certain that His Grace feels little need to inform you of the comings and goings of his personal retainers."