landing. Before Nate had come to Highfall, he’d had a picture in his head of what one of Lord Elban’s courtiers would look like, and it might have been painted after the man in front of him: overstyled hair gleaming with oil, garish clothes, gaudy jewels on every available appendage. No doubt the jewels had been mined by slaves in the Barriers. No doubt this courtier, this Firo, knew that, and didn’t care.
“Well, magus,” he said. “I see Lady Eleanor has convinced you to join in her little subterfuge, as well. What has she offered you in payment? Arkady could be bought for a few glasses of wine and an hour or two with a willing woman. Do you come so cheaply? I might require your services one day.”
“She offered me nothing,” Nate said curtly. “And I don’t have much time. What do you need?”
The courtier’s eyebrows lifted. “I need nothing, good magus. We are on a mission of mercy. Would you care to see my rooms?”
“As you wish.”
The courtier looked him up and down in a way that Nate was not entirely comfortable with, and rolled his eyes dramatically. “What I wish is that this was a different kind of story entirely, my lovely young magus, but oh, well. Maybe another time.” Then he smiled. “You look shocked, magus. Do you disapprove of my predilections?”
“They’re...unproductive,” Nate said.
“How quaint. Have you been visiting with my father?” Firo laughed. “I assume that you mean un-reproductive. There’s no shortage of babies in the world, magus, but there is a distinct shortage of delight.”
“I’m not here for your delight, and I’m not here for you.”
Firo drew himself up. “All business, then? Fair enough. Onward, good sir. To the guest rooms.” Picking up a large bundle that Nate hadn’t noticed from the floor—a bundle which clanked softly—Firo led Nate downstairs, through a rather utilitarian corridor to a grander, more sumptuously appointed one, studded with highly polished doors. Nate guessed that they led to the rooms the courtiers paid handsomely to keep. The door Firo opened was halfway down; the room behind it was a riot of color, lushly carpeted and sparkling with glass, although the narrow bed seemed at odds with Firo’s licentious manner. In the middle of the room, holding himself stiffly without touching anything, stood a huge man wearing drab staff clothes. His hugeness was mostly in his arms and shoulders, which told the story of a lifetime of hard work; his curly hair was damp with sweat, and his broad, ordinary face was twisted with worry and sadness and an exhausted sort of resignation. There was a smell in the room that did not match the furnishings, a smell of horse and manure and leather. Add in wood smoke and the creaking sound of wagon wheels, and with his eyes closed, Nate could have been convinced he was home.
“Do they not teach you to sit in the stables?” Firo said once the door was closed, letting his bundle clatter to the ground.
Glancing uncertainly between the two men, the stableman—for that was who he must be—said, “I did not know if I was allowed to sit, my lord. This is the nicest room I’ve ever been in.”
Nate felt a pang, remembering his own reaction to Lord Elban’s study. Firo merely said coolly, “I’m glad you like it. I had to pay a great deal of money to have you brought here. If we’re caught, I imagine the price will increase dramatically.”
Even more confused, the man said, “Then...why—”
“I suppose I like the idea of Lady Eleanor owing me a favor more than I fear death. Now.” He kicked the bundle open with one polished, high-heeled shoe, revealing a leather cuirass with a white badge. Nate could see other pieces of armor underneath it. “This should fit, for all that you’re freakishly large. Fortunately, most of the guards are also freakishly large.” To Nate, he said, “Our Judah has interesting taste in men, does she not?”
Nate scowled, but he had imagined someone more handsome, someone confident and predatory, like the young Slonimi men who caused trouble with village girls. The stableman went scarlet. “Please, my lord,” he said. “Is she—”
Firo pointed at Nate, who said, “She’s fine. Nasty bump on the head.”
The scarlet drained away, leaving the stableman deathly pale. “I swear to you, I would never hurt her.”
“No need to explain,” Firo said. “As I was just telling the good magus here, we take our pleasure where we find it in this ugly