the net that confined her hair and shook her head, freeing waves of gold to cascade down her back and touch her ankles. "She'll believe you're dead," she said. "They have arranged for it. Will she be faithful to you if you are dead?"
Seraph thought he was dead? He needed to get home.
"Telleridge said you would answer my questions," he said. "Where are we?"
"In the palace," she answered.
"In Taela?"
"That's right," she leaned into him.
He bent until his face was close to hers. "No," he said softly. "You have answers to my questions, and that is all I'm interested in." There was a flash of fear in her eyes, and it occurred to him that a whore was hardly likely to be so interested in him on her own. "You can tell Telleridge whatever you like about tonight; I'll not deny it - but I'll not break the vows I've made. I have my own woman; I need answers."
She stood very still for a moment, her eyes unreadable - which told him more about what she was thinking than the facile, convenient expressions of a whore.
Slowly, but not seductively, she rebound her hair. When she was finished she had tucked away her potent sexuality as well.
"Very well," she said. "What would you like to know?"
"Tell me a lie," he said.
Her eyebrows raised. "A lie?"
"Anything. Tell me that the coverlet is blue."
"The coverlet is blue."
Nothing. He felt nothing.
"Tell me it's green," he said.
"The coverlet is green."
He couldn't tell when she was lying. Just about the only useful thing his magic could do. He opened his mouth to ask her to help him escape, just to see if he could, but no word of his request left his throat.
"Gods take him!" he roared angrily. "Gods take him and eat his spleen while he yet lives." He turned toward the whore and she flinched away from him needlessly. He had himself under control now. "Tell me about this place, the Passerines, the Secret Path, Telleridge... all of it."
She took a step back and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, on the far side of the lute. Speaking quickly, she said, "The Secret Path is a clandestine organization of nobles. The rooms that you have seen today and a few others are under an unused wing of the palace. Most of the activities of the Path involve only the young men, the Passerines. The older members and the Masters, the wizards, direct what those activities are. The Passerines are the younger members of the Secret Path. They are brought in between the ages of sixteen and twenty."
"What do they call the older members?" asked Tier.
"Raptors," she replied, relaxing a little, "and the wizards are the Masters."
"Who is in charge, the wizards or the Raptors?"
"The High Path - which is made up of a select group of Raptors and Masters and led by Master Telleridge."
"What is the requirement for membership?" he asked.
"Noble birth and the proper temperament. None of them can be direct heirs of the Septs. Most of the boys come at the recommendation of the other Passerines."
"Telleridge is a Sept," said Tier, trying to put his knowledge into an acceptable pattern.
"Yes. His father and brothers died of plague."
"Did he start this... Secret Path?"
"No." She settled more comfortably against the wall. "It is a very old association, over two hundred and fifty years old."
Tier thought back over the history of the Empire. "After the Third Civil War."
Myrceria nodded her head, and smiled a little.
"Phoran the Eighteenth, I believe, who inherited right in the middle of the war when his father was killed by an assassin," he said. "A man known for his brilliance in diplomacy rather than war. Now what exactly was it that caused that war..."
Her smile widened, "I imagine you know quite well. Bards, I've been told, have to know their history."
"The younger sons of a number of the more powerful Septs seized their fathers' - or brothers' lands illegally while the Septs were meeting in council. They claimed that the laws of primogeniture were wrong, robbing younger sons of their proper inheritance. The war lasted twenty years."
"Twenty-three," she corrected mildly.
"I bet the Path was founded by Phoran the Eighteenth's younger brother - the war leader."
She cleared her throat. "By Phoran's youngest son, actually, although his brother was one of the original members."
"The Path," said Tier, having found the pattern, "draws the younger sons, young men educated to wield power but who will never have any. Only the ones who are