8
The candlelight wavered over the rough stone walls, throwing shadows over the worktable before her and blurring her already uncertain vision. Ton-Kel let her breath out with a sigh and closed her eyes, letting her head droop forward for a moment. One fireball down, two to go.
She raised her head and picked up her handiwork once more, carefully examining the wax plugs she had just applied to the holes on either end of the goose egg shell. The seals were almost dry and looked solid. The egg felt firm in her hands; none of the deadly powder inside shifted or rolled as she turned it. Her fingers tingled as she felt the faint kiss of the energy she had poured into it. The fireball waited to burst into glorious, devouring life at her command, but lay quiescent for now. The thing was as perfect as she could make it.
She stared dully at the other two egg shells, hollowed out and settled securely to dry in the cunning rack above the tiny brazier, obviously intended for just this purpose. The eggs were long since dry enough to use. She had enough of the various powders to make two more fireballs, but the thought of doing it all again was more than she could bear. She was simply too tired. A single mistake could cause her and everything in the underground chamber to be consumed in an instant. Fireballs were tricky things; Mystics died making them all the time. Or when they misfired. Or broke accidentally. They were as treacherous a weapon as they were powerful.
But they were almost the only thing that would enable a single human to destroy trolkien, or many of the more powerful monsters that roamed the wilds of Tir na n'Og. And she definitely didn't want to head into boggie territory without that particular edge. Boggies feared fire. If negotiations failed, they would pay attention to someone carrying a fireball.
As soon as they had returned to the Roan Horse Inn, she had asked Galen where she might work in privacy and relative safety. He had been alarmed when she told him why, but finally told her of this cave, far to the rear of the baths beneath the inn, where Ankh had set up a workroom. She had gathered her things, nicked three goose eggs from the kitchen, and sealed herself below for the rest of the day.
Ankh had obviously arranged the room for this kind of work. Ton-Kel used her own ingredients, but freely availed herself of the various tools and implements he had invented or acquired. Not only had he set up the cunning rack for drying eggshells, there were several sizes of mortar and pestle sets, spatulas, cups and spoons for measuring, funnels, even a number of little clay pots, glass vials, sheets of fine parchment, and good beeswax candles.
She wondered idly what he preferred to use. Many Mystics sealed the charged powder in parchment, but she mistrusted that method, since she'd heard many tales of the contents spilling at the wrong times, with predictable, if disastrous, consequences. Small clay or ceramic jars were much safer, but too often failed to break when thrown. Glass worked better, but was expensive and hard to obtain.
Ton-Kel had learned the trick of using hen or goose eggs from an old gypsy who claimed to have learned it from an Ironlord. Now she never used anything else, given the choice.
Her stomach rumbled, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and filling the room. She looked down. "Oh, be quiet. We're finished. We can eat now, I promise." Her voice was hoarse from the hours she'd spent softly humming to maintain her concentration.
She stood slowly, pressing her hands to her back and stretching one way, then the other, to ease the cramps. God Almighty, how long had she been down here? Probably long enough to miss dinner. Well, she could always scrounge something. She'd done it often enough.
She carefully cushioned her fireball in lambswool and packed it in its hardened leather case, as secure against accidental breakage as she could make it. Closing the lid, she yawned widely. "Done."
The roughness in her voice reminded her that she'd promised to sing in the common room this evening. She groaned aloud. Well, perhaps a glass of wine would revive her. That and some food. She'd sung under worse conditions and pulled it off. She gathered up her things and stuffed them back in her pack.
The workroom was in its own alcove at the far end of one of the corridors. As she shut the door behind her, she was surprised at how few lights had been left on in the baths. The corridor was almost pitch black. Had it been this dark when she'd come down? She stood quietly for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust. She had excellent night vision, but there was no use taking silly chances. Especially not now.
To reach the main corridor and the stairs, she had to take the first left turn she came to. Not difficult, and anyway she hadn't the energy for a light spell. Trailing her fingers along the wall, she felt her way down the walkway until her hand fell into nothing. She turned to face the new direction and noticed a little light spilling from ahead.
As she passed under the stone arch, she caught movement in the corner of her eye. She drew back and froze, holding her breath. The next instant, voices reached her. She turned her head and peered cautiously around the corner.
A single bathing pool, isolated from the others in its own little alcove, lapped against the stone of the passageway. She hadn't noticed it on the way in, but perhaps it had been darkened. It was not now. A soft, silvery light, so faint it did not reach much beyond the edge of the water, shone over the pool, turning the steam to a ghostly mist and rimming in frost the two figures standing close together.
Lily's pale hair glowed like moonlight as it flowed over her snowy shoulders and tumbled past her tiny waist to drift on the surface of the water, spreading around her hips like the petals of a flower. Beside her shining pallor, Ankh looked almost to be made of obsidian. There was no spare flesh on his body, only hardened muscle over a compact frame, sinuous, yet powerful as a wolverine's.
The illumination from his light spell bled his skin of warmth, as if he were her shadow made flesh. He trailed one hand slowly down her side as if savoring the contours of her body, while she leaned against the edge and stroked his shoulder, a sated smile curving her lips. They spoke in whispers that hissed and sang in soft echoes from the stone walls.
Ton-Kel rested her head against the stone behind her and stared into the darkness. There was no way to pass without being seen. Unless the two were so absorbed in each other they could notice nothing else.
Well, it was awkward, but there was no help for it. A perverse imp of humor urged her to just announce herself and stroll gaily by, perhaps with a cheery wave — Oh, never mind me, just passing through, carry on — but she dismissed the idea almost at once.
The voices fell silent. She peeked around the corner again to see if they were sufficiently occupied for her to risk a quick exit. The lovers were clasped in one another's arms, mouths locked hungrily. Ankh moved his attentions to Lily's swanlike neck and she lifted her head, her lips parting.
For a moment her eyes widened as she stared into the darkness where Ton-Kel watched. Ton-Kel ducked back — had she been seen?
But no, the shadows had successfully hidden her; Lily's eyes drifted almost shut and she moaned, murmuring a wordless endearment. Her head tilted back. "Oh my love," she sighed, "when I am with you, none of the horror seems real. I know you'll keep me safe."
Ankh's head came up and he brushed a strand of hair from her face. "I will protect you. No matter what happens."
She pouted prettily. "But do you say that to your Cavalier as well?"
"I protect what is mine. My Triad…and you." He looked into her face. "We are together. There is nothing to fear."
She smiled blissfully into his eyes, her doubts apparently forgotten. "There is nothing to fear. Not when I'm with you."
Ton-Kel's humor withered. It was unthinkable that Ankh would use magic to render a woman willing, but something in Lily's compliance, in his choice of words, reminded her of a suggestion, tainting the moment like an echo running just behind the lovers' vows.
She shook her head; she was letting her imagination get the better of her. Her lip curled in scornful amusement. On
e thing she was sure of — Lily wasn't the sort who had to be forced to any man's bed. It was more likely to be the other way around.
The thought restored Ton-Kel's good humor.
The sounds of passion escalated. She risked another look just as Lily snaked her arms around Ankh's neck. "Ankh, my magician, my wild one…." Her words faded into a sibilant murmur. With an animal growl, he grabbed her, pulling her tight against him. She purred like a cat as she wrapped her legs around his waist.
Oops. Time to go. It was none of Ton-Kel's business, of course.
She hurried silently by as the two surged against one another, snarling like beasts. The sounds of their passion followed her through the passages until she reached the stairs.
Light, the smells of cooked food, and voices raised in something almost like revelry assailed her as she closed the door behind her and passed through the arch to the common room, driving away the image of the tryst in the darkness behind her. She paused, blinking, and looked around. Where had all these people come from?
"Ton-Kel!" Paulo stood and waved from the table closest to the other stair; beside him, Baraccus turned and, likewise, waved a welcome.
She smiled tiredly and made her way carefully through the crowd. She recognized the other Triads, of course; without their armor now and settled around other tables. A few of the faces she'd seen in the inn at other times, but many were strange to her, though all shared the gauntness and lack of animation that marked them for locals.
Paulo drew out a chair for her as she reached the table; she sat gratefully, laying her satchel and pack on the floor.
"Just in time," he said. "We saved some dinner for you, but we weren't sure how much longer we could continue to fight off everyone else. All the world decided to dine out tonight, it seems. Or watch others dine, anyway."
Her spirits lifted. "Food? Thank the good God. I'm starving." As she shoved her pack and satchel under the table with her foot, she noticed that the vessels littering the table all seemed to be empty. "Where are you hiding it? In your pockets?"
Baraccus waved her into a seat. "We had it taken back into the kitchens. Paulo, go have them bring it out."
Paulo bounced up and was gone while Baraccus continued. "In the meantime, have a drink. It looks like you could use one." Without waiting for her reply, he snagged a carafe and poured a deep purple liquid into an empty cup. He handed it to her with a cheery smile. "Drink up. It won't last long."
She took the cup and, out of habit, wet the tip of her tongue in it first. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Anagnian, surely. But like nothing I've ever had."
He grinned. "You won't again, either. A rare vintage, that. And of a type Anagni doesn't usually export. I'm told this was rescued from the ruins of a caravan. It must have come from someone's private stock."
She started to take a grateful sip, then lowered the cup as a sudden thought struck. "Um…Baraccus, I do hope you won it in a bet or something. Can we afford this?"
He snorted. "When last I looked, it would have taken more than all we had combined to buy even this much. No, this is due entirely to your influence. A gift from the good Constable."
She stared at him. "To all the Triads? Or just us?"
He twirled his own cup on the table and leaned back, resting an ankle over his knee. "Neither. To you and only you. It was left in our room." He smiled again. "But since Triads share…."
She flushed, momentarily bereft of words. Such a gift — and from such a source — how was she to react to that? And for Baraccus to take it upon himself to treat the gift as a tithe! She opened her mouth to sear him with outrage, but found herself laughing instead. "You're welcome," she sputtered. "Always happy to contribute what I can to my Triad's welfare."
He laughed with her, and suddenly she felt in perfect harmony with him. This was what mattered; this man, her Cavalier. And Paulo. Her Triad. Whatever Galen might feel for her — or she for him — he was, after all, an outsider.
The laughter died away, leaving them in a comfortable silence. She met Baraccus's eyes and saw something there — a hint of brightness, something alive beneath the hard, ebony sheen of their surface — she hadn't seen before. He feels it, she realized, and a rush of warmth made her want to laugh again. He was, in his own way, protecting her. Shielding her from harm, even harm she might bring on herself. She should have resented it, but found she could not. Not much, anyway.
Paulo returned to the table, balancing trays and bowls in his arms. "I couldn't find anyone, so I helped myself. Someone take these before they go flying."
Startled from her reverie, Ton-Kel reached for a platter; Baraccus unfolded himself and snagged a bowl. Paulo lowered the rest to the tabletop like a juggler finishing his act. "And — presto! — we have achieved supper!"
Her mouth watered as the smell reached her nostrils. "Oooh. What have we here?"
Paulo indicated the choices dish by dish. "A fine cheese of unknown but tasty variety. Fresh bread. An array of delectable fruits. A savory lamb stew, piping hot. This meat pie, which was excellent when hot and is still probably quite passable cold. A mixture of fresh and roasted vegetables that seem to have been marinated in spiced vinegar. I have no idea what this pastry thing is, but it's delicious." He sat down and started filling an empty platter. "Here, try it all. You look half faint."
Ton-Kel sighed. "I am. I hate making fireballs. It's exhausting."
"Nerve-racking as well, I'll wager." He set the heaping plate in front of her. "How many did you make?"
"One. I was too tired to do more." She cut a bite of the pie and popped it into her mouth. Paulo was right about it. But then, almost anything would have tasted good right at the moment.
He shrugged. "One's enough, if you use it right." He leaned back in his seat with a smug expression. "While you were so occupied, life became very interesting around here."
She wanted to say that life had been rather interesting where she was as well, but her mouth was full. Paulo continued before she could speak. "It seems Galen is desperately short of guards. Most of them died during the fight today."
Ton-Kel choked, and hastily swallowed her half-chewed mouthful. "How? They only arrived at the last minute, didn't they?"
Baraccus cut in. "When the bodies were stripped of their masks and hoods, Galen identified some of the bandits as former guards — all of whom have been missing since yesterday or the day before, or so he said. Other bodies, including some of the Tainted, turn out to have been former citizens of Westmere." He spread his hands. "You tell me — how is our enemy managing this? Do the victims have to encounter a certain area of effect, like pocket magic? Is it something visited upon them from afar? Something they eat or drink?"
A man at the next table was watching each bite that rose to her mouth with dull-eyed fascination. Reluctantly, she set down a piece of cheese, uncertain whether to feel guilty or annoyed. She glared at him until he looked away, then returned her attention to Baraccus. "I was wondering about that earlier. I think that, whoever or whatever it is, he has to have an ally inside Westmere itself. Someone who is selecting the victims, exposing them to the spells."
Paulo snorted. "That is a masterful statement of the obvious. The question is: who, and how?"
She shrugged. "One or more traitors — or lackeys, more likely — who walk unsuspected among the citizens of Westmere. It could be anyone. They may not even know it themselves."
"I doubt that." Baraccus leaned back in his chair again and swept the room with a calculating stare. "Too much thought went into this. An unconscious slave can't take the initiative when the unexpected occurs. No, this is someone who knows what they're doing. They may recruit the unknowing or unwilling for particular tasks, but they themselves are helping the enemy with their eyes wide open."
She glanced around the room, trying to gauge whether the eyes she met slid away from hers deliberately or by chance
. Most simply stared covetously at her food, but were some trying to listen in? Who could they possibly trust? She shivered and turned back to her partners. "The guards who died today — you think that was planned?"
Baraccus nodded. "The town guards suffered the heaviest losses. All but Galen and two others." He paused. "And the messenger who came for the Triads — Galen says he didn't send him, and obviously none of the Triads did. And no one professes to know who he was."
"A trap," said Ton-Kel, ladling stew into a bowl.
"Then maybe the purpose of today's little adventure was twofold," said Paulo. "Maybe Galen and all his guards were supposed to come to our rescue and die with us?" He cocked an eyebrow first at Ton-Kel, then Baraccus. "Eliminate not only the Triads, but all the fighters who can identify the locals?"
Her mouth was full of stew, but Baraccus nodded slowly. "It seems like a good assumption. Another is that Galen is the agent in question."
She swallowed and looked up from her plate, startled. "What? Galen? But he's the one who sent for the Triads."
Paulo grunted. "He sent to the Triumphant for help, and we're the help that was sent. But, yes, it would seem to be most unwise on the part of our unknown enemy. So he may not be the best suspect."
Baraccus shrugged. "Very well, there's another factor. This entire business has left a lot of openings in the guard, and Galen is having to recruit from among people he's rejected in the past."
Ton-Kel sat up straighter. "Who?"
"Tainted. " He tore off a piece of bread and passed it to her. "Oh, he's gathered displaced farmers and the like, but now Galen's guard boasts a few Tainted as well."
"Like the bandits," Paulo pointed out.
Baraccus nodded. "Like the bandits."
Ton-Kel twirled the bread in her stew, her appetite suddenly diminishing. "It's going to make it harder to tell them apart."
"Galen's rationale is that Tainted stand a better chance against other Tainted," Paulo said. "And it's not as if he has much choice, at this point. There aren't that many humans left who can fight." He waved his hands at the room in general. "That's who most of these people seem to be — concerned citizens, bereaved relatives…the remaining human ones, anyway."
She looked around, trying to spot familiar faces. "I don't see Galen." Another face surfaced in her memory, and she frowned. "Or Nayir." The thought of him stirred a faint ghost of uneasiness.
"I saw him earlier," Paulo volunteered. "Nayir, I mean. Why? Feeling neglected by your admirers?"
She shot him a look and picked up her cup. "Just wondering why he's not here. He wanted me to sing tonight." She took a sip. "Mmmm. And I really should thank Galen for this wine."
Paulo made a show of straining his memory. "Well, let's see. I saw Nayir with that other man — the fine, fancy fellow in red — not long after we got back. There was no one else here then but Lily. I went upstairs, and when I came back down, they were all gone. Lily came back a bit later, but then she vanished again. Haven't seen her since. I'm sure that distresses you."
"Nayir and Philemon van der Beck were here together?" Something tickled the back of her brain…could this be important? But how? Especially in light of what she'd just learned of their hostess. "Well, Lily isn't with them now."
Baraccus looked at her. "How do you know?"
She took a sip of the wonderful wine, smiling at them over the rim. "Well, actually, I just saw her…."
Talk around them suddenly died. Ton-Kel lowered her cup and sat up, startled. Baraccus and Paulo's attention was already fixed on the doorway; she followed their glances and saw Rowan standing there, looking more haggard than ever, her sunken eyes sweeping the room. If she was looking for an empty seat, she was disappointed; every table was filled, save those the Triads had claimed for themselves.
For a moment the silence stretched, unbroken. Then, from the table nearest the fireplace, Sir Charles rose. "Pray join us, Rowan."
She crossed the room, ignoring the wary looks on the faces that turned to follow her progress. The Blue Ranger, Dale, rose from his chair and offered it to her, moving to stand beside Sir Charles. Rowan sat without looking at him.
"Have you seen Ankh?" she asked.
Sir Charles shook his head as he resumed his seat, but Ali spoke. "This afternoon I saw him with Mistress Lily and some other people but they looked to me to be very busy so I did not talk to them, so I do not know where they were going, but I am sure that—"
"Ali." Sir Charles raised a hand and the Mystic subsided. Sir Charles lifted the pitcher in front of him and filled a cup, passing it to Rowan. She took it without comment and downed it in a gulp. He watched her, a frown of concern replacing his guarded expression.
"You've seen the bodies," he said. It was not a question.
She nodded, looking down at her cup.
"I'm sorry." He pressed his lips together, the memory of anger still visible under the surface. "I attempted to take some alive. I failed."
Dale spoke. "You did not fail. Tell her what happened." Without waiting for Sir Charles to do so, he turned to Rowan. "The others killed the prisoners. It wasn't his doing."
From the next table, the Red Ranger spoke. "We were saving our own skins, Blue," Zizka said hotly. "No thanks to you."
Sir Charles's eyes flashed dangerously as he looked at her. "They had surrendered to me. You had no right to—"
Sir Ulrik rose, towering over his table. "My Ranger acted in the best interest of all concerned; so did the Constable and his guards. The matter is finished."
Sir Charles also rose, like a snake uncoiling. "I gave my word and accepted theirs."
Sir Ulrik scowled back at him, unmoved. "Your first priority is to the safety of your Triad; when your word endangers them, you dishonor—"
"Have a care, Red, lest you go too far," snarled the Blue Cavalier.
Ali rose, waving his hands in distress. "Please do not be challenging one another to a duel. This is not a good thing, this calling someone dishonorable when it is all a misunderstanding that I am certain we can all forget and be friends, yes? We are not the enemies of one another, we are allies and allies do not challenge one another to duels and cut each other into little pieces over a misunderstanding, and in any case, it was that guard who killed the prisoner he said was going to stab the brave and most noble Red Ranger in the back and that is why she killed those others and so everyone killed everyone else and it is over and done now, so perhaps it is best if we go on with what we are supposed to be doing instead of fighting with one another now and saying things we might be very sorry for later, yes? I think so."
For a moment, silence hung in the air, thick with the threat of blood. The tables nearest the door emptied as patrons rose and hurried out into the gathering dusk. Ton-Kel caught Paulo's eye and he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.
Then Sir Ulrik turned his gaze on Rowan. "I do not doubt Sir Charles's honor. He is clearly above question. But is it true that he gave his word on your behalf, Green? For all your concern, I did not notice you fighting beside us. Who did you hope to save — your wayward Ranger?"
Ton-Kel sucked in her breath, certain that the Green Cavalier's uncertain temper was about to explode into violence — but Rowan's reaction surprised her.
"There seem to be no secrets among us," Rowan said quietly, not looking up from her cup. Her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "I had hoped to discover from one of the prisoners something of his fate. No, Jax was not among the dead."
"You would have known, Rowan," said Sir Charles, his voice nearly as quiet as hers.
She nodded. "I had to be certain." She rubbed the bridge of her nose, eyes closed wearily. "I know that you did what you could, Sir Charles. In the heat of battle, each must answer to his own judgment. Sir Ulrik is correct; one's Triad comes first. None know that better than I."
Ton-Kel exchanged glances with Baraccus and Paulo, who looked as surpr
ised as she felt. Around the room, no one else moved or spoke, their attention riveted to the Blue Triad and their guest. Even Sir Ulrik looked taken aback. He cleared his throat. "We understand your concern," he said, less brusquely than usual. "None of us would willingly slay your Ranger if another choice presented itself. But I saw no man among our foes with the mark on his brow, green or otherwise."
The others echoed soft agreement. The Red Cavalier and Sir Charles sat back down, though their attention remained on Rowan. She looked up, finally, and addressed Ali. "You say you saw Ankh?"
He nodded, an eager smile lighting his worried features. "Oh, yes, I did see him, and he was coming up the hill in this direction so whatever he was doing I am certain he was done with it and will soon be returning to your side. I was thinking to myself that he had gone to see the bodies for the same reason you went to see them, but he was with Mistress Lily and some other people and I do not think he would take a young lady to do such a terrible thing, so perhaps that is not what he was doing—"
"Ali." Sir Charles raised a hand again, and the Mystic fell silent.
Rowan's mouth twisted again into that smile that wasn't. "Ah, yes; Lily. The princess of Westmere."
Ton-Kel slipped a hand over her mouth to smother a grin. If she laughed now, it would almost certainly be taken amiss.
Ali looked troubled. "I am certain that she is not Fey, oh, surely not, and I do not think that she is of noble birth, though I could be mistaken, but in any case perhaps it is different in Killaloe — I have heard that many things are different in Killaloe — but I do not know of any princesses or princes or kings or anyone who would call themselves royalty in all of Tir na n'Og, not among the humans at any rate—"
"Ali," sighed Sir Charles. The Mystic stopped, looking crestfallen.
Sir Charles addressed Rowan. "That was hardly charitable, Rowan. Lily does seem to hold a position of some stature in Westmere, and rightfully so as the Mistress of this fine establishment."
She snorted softly. "She has the stature of being Galen's darling baby sister who can do no wrong in his eyes, and the wife of the man who owns this fine establishment." She looked at Sir Charles and her lips curved in a tired, but genuine, smile. "Ah, but it's not surprising you find no fault in her. You're a good man, Sir Charles, but a man nonetheless."
Ton-Kel wondered if the Green Cavalier knew of the relationship between her Mystic and Lily. If she did, it was certain she did not approve. Ton-Kel felt a surge of sympathy.
In any case, right at this moment, Rowan was approachable for the first time since Ton-Kel had arrived in Westmere. It was too good an opportunity to miss. She leaned forward. "Dame Rowan, you have been here longer than we have. You know the folk of Westmere better than we. Perhaps they have told you things they have not yet told us. Will you share what you know?"
The other woman turned her head and eyed Ton-Kel. "Now, why should I do that? No one else in this fine town is willing to." She raised her voice slightly. "Even to save their own lives."
She turned in her seat to face the rest of the room, her face stern and cold as her stare swept the remaining people surrounding the other tables. "Look at them: all these good folk who came to view the bodies of the dead, who offered their services to Galen for the guard to protect the living. 'Tis a heart-warming sight, to be sure."
The citizens of Westmere stared back as a bird stares at a snake. Rowan's eyes narrowed. "They see each other day in and day out, and yet no one sees anything. They watch friend and family perish, and no one knows anything. They live with the shadow of death stretching over them, and no one says anything. They sit here drinking and smiling to one another as if naught's amiss, protecting the traitors in their midst."
Ton-Kel caught movement out of the corner of her eye; she turned her head and saw Alfred behind the bar. He looked around, scowling, then fixed his attention on the Green Cavalier.
Rowan paid him no mind. "Well, it's on your own conscience if you choose to speak or no. You can keep silent and send your fellows to their deaths, and those of us you should honor, who came to help you, to ours. Be that as it may. We'll keep doing what we came here for, whether you will or no. You're all free men. It's your own choice." She paused, and smiled suddenly. When she spoke again, her voice, the lilting accent in strange contrast to the chill of her tone, carried to every corner of the room. "Of course, when I find out which of you it is, I will cut your hearts out myself and feed them to the wolves."
For a breath no one moved or spoke. Then, singly and in groups, the citizens rose, snatching up cloaks and hats as they left. Within moments, the room was empty save for the three Triads and the innkeeper.
Alfred brought his fist down on the bar, breaking the silence. His dark eyes glittered with rage from beneath his shaggy brows as he glowered at Rowan. "You've no right to drive my customers away," he said in a deep voice that sounded rusty from disuse. "Cavalier or not, you'll take yourself out of here, Rowan of Killaloe."
She tilted her cup to look into it. "Will I now? Who'd have thought it?" She picked up Sir Charles's pitcher and refilled her cup. "I suppose I'd best be off, then. You might send your lovely wife to scold me, mightn't you?"
The skin above Alfred's grizzled beard flushed red and he glared at her in silence for a moment. Something glittered in the back of his dark, deep-set eyes that sent warning prickles up Ton-Kel's spine, but before she could name it, he turned with an angry grunt and went back to the kitchen.
"That was ill done," said Sir Charles, staring at Rowan in shock. "He is our host, after all."
"And ill done to threaten the people of Westmere, when they may have little to do with the matter," Baraccus said, breaking his long silence. "If you examined the bodies, you saw how many Tainted were among them. It seems likely that we need to turn our attentions there — not to bullying the human townsfolk."
Rowan shot him a glance of pure dislike. "I'd not bark up that tree were I you, sir. All in all, I'd rather deal with the Tainted than with most ordinary folk."
"Then you're not paying attention." Paulo sat stiffly, blond brows drawn into a knot over his pale eyes. "The human townsfolk around here are being overrun, and if they're scared, they've good reason. Having all their neighbors become bloodthirsty monsters overnight just might explain some of their reticence, don't you think? Threatening them isn't exactly going to make them any more forthcoming."
"Which are the monsters?" The Green Cavalier shifted her glare to Paulo; Ton-Kel wondered that he didn't wither under it. "At least the Tainted wear their natures plainly on their faces; they can't hide what they are behind pretty smiles and fine words. Not all the beasts who walk among us are furred and fanged, or have claws you can see. Pocket magic does naught but bring out what's already within. The Tainted are forced to be honest about it."
Galen suddenly filled the doorway, his face hard as stone. "Dame Rowan, some of my people have accused you of extreme discourtesy at the very least, and threats to their welfare at worst," he said, his voice a barely veiled threat. "I hope rumor has misled me."
She rose. "I doubt it. But all the same, I'll take myself off." She set her cup on the table and nodded to Sir Charles. "Thanks for the drink, Sir Charles. Good luck and watch your back." Her gaze lifted to include the other Triads in her farewell. She turned and walked to the door. Galen moved aside to let her pass, then followed her out.
With a start, Ton-Kel shook off her paralysis. It was time to take matters into her own hands, and this was doubtless the best chance she'd have. She stood quickly.
"Where are you going?" Paulo demanded.
"I need to talk to Galen. I'll be right back." She did not look at her Triad as she headed for the door.