wall drapes and the ceiling, all done in the patterns of constellations. Oku’s Boar, the Swan, the Ship of Dreams, the dread Night Ship that could lead a man astray and the Guiding Light of Kyr that brought him home again.
The man who stood as he entered seemed to fill the room, a full head above Rillen, broad and solid as mountains. He held out a hand like a ham and Rillen shook it, knowing it was their way, hoping no fingers would be broken.
“Lord Brimeld, it’s an honor to meet you, and a pleasure that your country can now send its ambassadors to us, thanks to the destruction of the Remorian empire. Hopefully this can be the beginning of a fruitful trading relationship.”
“Brimeld” murmured his thanks and turned to the woman sitting beside him. Her brown hair—dyed, even if expertly—was wrapped in a prim bun under a blue silk scarf. Sharp gray eyes appraised him as she held out a demure hand for Rillen to kiss.
“My wife, the Lady Amana,” the fake lord said.
Rillen held in his grin. Amana and Brimeld, ambassadors for the Gan from far across the ocean. Or, as they were more usually known, Joshing Josie and her new first mate, Skrymir.
The surprise had been finding out that Josie wasn’t Van Gast’s enemy, never had been despite the public fights, the long feud between them, despite what the mages had thought and tried to use. Just another con, and one Rillen intended to use to his advantage now that he knew of it. He’d given them his answer to their proposal, brought them here, where it was safe enough to find out what they were up to, what scam they thought they could run. Then use it, and them.
Rillen slid into the seat opposite them. He’d spent his time well since he’d taken his reply. They’d arrived in Estovan a few days ago, but not like this. Yet their identities were well made. “Lord Brimeld” was supposedly both a duke and ambassador. From what Rillen could gather, the real Lord Brimeld was both. Rather than a letter of credit, as was more usual on the western coast, this “lord” had an official seal which looked authentic, and at least two of the more traveled merchanters had agreed on that, and on Brimeld’s name.
They were very slick, he had to give them that. Skrymir looked every inch a duke in an impeccable heavy wool tunic that came down to his knees, sky blue like Rillen’s but with a white stag emblazoned across it. The blue-and-white were matched in the family braid every Gan wore in their hair, the colors proclaiming his house, and the braid signifying he was an honorable man with no broken oaths. Josie wore a heavy brocade dress in the same blue, one that pinched in her waist with a square-cut neckline, both demure and revealing—Rillen had no idea if that was what Gan women wore, but it was entirely too warm for this climate and had brought a sheen of sweat to her brow.
A waiter came for their order and swiftly returned with drinks and Rillen’s usual finger food, pickled squid. He always liked to deal with a full stomach and the squid wasn’t what you’d call a usual dish. It was several months old and had been pickled in whey until it began to ferment. A very acquired taste, and serving it almost always put the other man at a disadvantage. To refuse and maybe insult Rillen? Or to eat and gag on it?
Josie picked one up and ate it with every indication of enjoyment, her eyes half-closed and staring straight at Rillen, a lopsided smile on her face as she licked her fingers, quite at odds with the demure nature of her hair and dress. She winked at him when she saw him watching.
Rillen had heard about Josie—who hadn’t? Joshing Josie, as like to kill you without the blink of an eye, rob you blind or give you the time of your life. She used her face and body as much as she used her brains, getting marks onside with a sweet promise of later, then, when lust distracted them, robbing them before they got the chance. Not Rillen’s sort of woman—he went for dark, soft and petite, obliging rather than contrary—but he’d still best be wary and on his guard.
“So, Lord Rillen—” the bogus Brimeld began.
Rillen cut him off. “Not lord, we have no lords here. Just a son of