The individual waiting in the parlor, if a chamber some ten yards by five could be called a parlor, was not High Holder Fauxyn, but a blond woman who looked to be about Quaeryt's age. Her eyes were a shade that was neither blue nor purple, but somewhere betweena"and intensea"much like the color of the eyes of the two men in the receiving hall portraits. Her skin was a flawless creamy peach, and her form was exquisitely female, accentuated by the not quite sheer and clinging pale green gown she wore. The shade of her shoes matched the gown, but the stone in the pendant attached to the golden rope chain around her neck was the same color as her eyes.

"Lady Fauxyn, Subcommander Quaeryt and Major Arion." The retainer bowed, then retreated to the wide hallway outside the archway into the parlor.

"Officers." Lady Fauxyn smiled warmly, even with her eyes.

That she could project that warmth in such a situation chilled Quaeryt through. "Lady Fauxyn," he replied, inclining his head slightly.

"My husband will be here shortly, but I thought it would be best if I made you welcome." Another smile, warmer than the first, followed her words in Bovarian.

"Shortly?" asked Quaeryt politely in Bovarian. "As in within a quint a or within several days?" He glanced around the parlor, noting another doorway at the end of the chamber, the door half open, revealing beyond the doorway a bookcase filled with richly colored leather-bound volumes a and little more.

"Certainly within the glass, if not sooner. Might I assume you are here to assert some sovereignty or control over Fauxheld on behalf of Lord Bhayar a temporary as that may be?" A light but not mocking laugh followed her words.

Quaeryt smiled in return. "Time will tell whether that sovereignty is temporary, but since Rex Kharst lost more than eight regiments down to the last man at Ferravyl, I rather doubt that Lord Bhayar's sovereignty along this part of the Aluse will be transient."

"You speak Bovarian better than most in Kharst's court, and far more eloquently. What rank is a subcommander?"

"Subcommanders command large battalions or regiments."

"Your uniform differs, Subcommander, as if you are half scholar and half commander."

"You are most perceptive, Lady, for that is indeed what I am."

"And have you been in battle?"

Arion cleared his throat. "Sira?"

"Just the basics, please, Major," said Quaeryt.

"The subcommander is modest, Lady. He is the most effective and most accomplished commander in Telaryn, and one of the few who has led his men from the front, both against the rebel holders of Tilbor and against Rex Kharst's regiments."

"Your man is most loyal, Subcommander. Are his comments accurate?"

Quaeryt laughed. "He's not my man. He's a Khellan officer who joined the Telaryn forces. From what I've seen, the Khellans are far too proud to stoop to lying."

For just a moment Lady Fauxyn was silent, as if his words had struck somewhere, but so short was her hesitation that it was barely noticeable. "My name is Ghretana. I'd prefer you call me that. When you address me as *Lady Fauxyn,' I expect to turn and see my mother at my shoulder."

Quaeryt was about to send Arion back to the companies outside, suspecting that Ghretana's delaying was for a purpose that would scarcely please him, when the doorway to the library or study opened more widely, and a slender, but muscular man stepped through it and into the parlor. He was attired in white breeches, rather than trousers, with pale peach hose above white shoes, and a brilliant white shirt, over which he wore a sleeveless vest of a rich and darker peach. His smooth-shaven face was gently tanned, and his light brown hair was cut short in tight ringlets against his skull, ringlets that Quaeryt suspected were anything but natural. Fauxyn's nose was straight, and neither too long nor too short.

He walked with his shoulders back and square, his head up, more like a dancing or fencing master than any High Holder Quaeryt had ever met, and at his side was a blade that was narrower than a sabre or rapier, but more substantial than a foil. From his gait, his body carriage, and Ghretana's welcome, Quaeryt had a very good idea of what Fauxyn wasa"and was not a and more important, confirmation of who Ghretana was.

"Greetings, Officers. What brings you to Fauxyn? Do tell me that it is something more substantial than the hope of plunder and pillage, not that Ghretana dear might not enjoy certain aspects of the pillaging, especially if it preserved Fauxyn."

"She married you to save the hold?" Quaeryt was half probing, half guessing, based on what he knew of inheritances and what he had observed since entering the hold house.

"Rather an impudent question, don't you think, Major?"

"Subcommander," corrected Arion.

"You don't resemble any of the portraits in the hallway. She does."

"That matters little. I remain High Holder."

"Only at Lord Bhayar's sufferance," Quaeryt said mildly.

"Perhaps for a brief time, until Kharst sweeps you all away. Kharst always has what he wishes." Fauxyn glanced meaningfully, if briefly, toward Ghretana. "I do not believe you ever stated the reason for your unannounced visit."

"There were two reasons for our visit. One was to meet the High Holder, if he happened to be present, and the other was to obtain supplies."

"You have met him, and we have little enough in the way of supplies to feed an army."

"I'm certain that you can spare some," suggested Quaeryt.

"Who are you to say what can be spared, Major?"

"I'm the subcommander with two companies outside your front entry, and a battalion within a few milles, not to mention two full regiments at Caernyn."

"Fauxyna" said Ghretana mildly.

The High Holder turned toward his wife. "You are determined to have it your way, aren't you? You always are, not that it has afforded you the least success."

"As if you have not?" Her voice was velvet and cool.

Abruptly, for no reason that Quaeryt could discern, Fauxyn's hand went to his waist and then back toward Quaeryt. Gold coins scattered across the thick pile of the carpet.

"Take those. Take whatever you will. You're the type that thinks you're honorable. Here's what I think of you and your lorda"

Quaeryt laughed. "Pick them up and put them back in your wallet."

"You can't make me. Not unless you're willing to kill me." Fauxyn sneered. "You aren't good enough to kill me yourself. You don't even carry a blade, and that means you're lowborn. So you can't afford to do that. Besides, you'd have to explain to your lord why you killed me when he'll need the cooperation of all the High Holders to rule. That is, if he even manages to keep what he's taken."

"Major Arion," said Quaeryt quietly, still in Bovarian, "if you'd have one of your men bring me my weapon."

"With pleasure, sir." Arion stepped back, then turned and hurried from the study.

Fauxyn offered a cold smile. "What weapon might that be?"

"One designed to teach arrogant High Holders a lesson."

"Killing me will only make matters worse a for you a and for your lord."

"Who said anything about killing? One doesn't kill willful children. One disciplines them."

Fauxyn couldn't quite conceal the puzzlement behind his smile.

As Arion hurried out through the archway, Ghretana's face remained pleasantly impassive, but Quaeryt suspected she was pleased.

"I could kill you now, you know?" said Fauxyn.

"You could try," admitted Quaeryt. "But if you succeeded, you'd only have killed an unarmed man, and neither Kharst nor Bhayar would find that either honorable or acceptable. Nor would you find much satisfaction in that."

"How would you know?"

"You said as much. If you go against what you implied, then you would be a liar as well as dishonorable. Then, again, you may be both, but I wouldn't hold that against you."

The slightest hint of color crossed the High Holder's face, and he took a step forward.

Ghretana stepped back slightly.

"You do not need to worry, dear one," oozed Fauxyn. "Not at present."

"You are a fool, Fauxyn, if you think that," she replied pleasantly, as if she were suggesting a walk on the verandah.

"I've been called many things, dear one, but there are none left who have called me that."

Quaeryt eased to the side as he heard footsteps so that he could watch both the archway and the parlor, but the only one who entered was Arion.

The major halted and handed the half-staff to Quaeryt. "Subcommander."

"A staff? You would face me with a staff?"

"I think you would be better served if we repaired to one of the entry halls," Quaeryt said. "After all, you would not wish to ruin this fine carpet with blood." He walked to the archway and turned. "Are you coming?"

"A staff? How did anyone ever allow you to become an officer?"

"Actually, that wasn't my choice. It was Lord Bhayar's. One refuses him at great risk, but you should know that about rulers a shouldn't you?" Again a that was a guess, based on what he'd seen so far.

Fauxyn's face tightened, just fractionally. "You do need to learn about your betters a even if your men decide to murder me once I've disposed of you."

Quaeryt glanced to Arion. "Major, if High Holder Fauxyn should happen to wound or kill me, he is not to be touched. Whatever his fate may be is to be left to Lord Bhayar. Is that clear?"

Arion's response was immediate. "Yes, sir."

"And the hold is to be left untoucheda"except for any supplies we may require."

"Yes, sir."

"You are so honorable." Fauxyn's words were mockingly ironic.

"My men will keep their word. So will I." Quaeryt walked back down the wide corridor to the receiving hall, where he turned and waited with Arion, who had accompanied him.

"Do not trust him," murmured the major.

"I will trust him to be what he is," replied Quaeryt, watching as Fauxyn stepped into the main entry hall with its goldenwood wainscoting and damask-covered walls.

"A staff a so awkward a so classless. But one must do what one must." Fauxyn eased his blade from the scabbard in a practiced and flowing motion.

"Let's call it a rod, Fauxyn. A rod for a spoiled child of a High Holder." Quaeryt smiled, taking the half-staff in a two-handed and balanced grip. He also raised full shields, but held them almost against his uniform. "Tell me a why didn't you leave Fauxheld? You must have heard we were advancing."

"That is another most impudent question." Fauxyn moved forward.

"Was it because you displeased your rex? Or because Lady Fauxyn would have greater freedom in Variana?"

"So impudent a and so foolish." Fauxyn's blade flickered toward Quaeryt.

Quaeryt moved the staff but slightly, deflecting the lighter weapon easily, his feet taking up a balanced stance. Even after all the recent battles where he had used the staff while mounted, he was far more comfortable with it on foot.

Fauxyn's blade was close to a blur, but Quaeryt had learned the half-staff on the pitching decks of a merchanter, and its greater length offset the speed of the lighter weapon.

The High Holder feinted, then danced to one side before dropping impossibly low, attempting an underthrust.

Quaeryt parried it, almost pinning the High Holder's blade to the polished marble floor before Fauxyn darted back.

"A rather accomplished blackguard a but when one deals with the lower classes, one must stoop to their level, must one not?" Abruptly Fauxyn stepped back and flipped the light blade to his left hand, and what looked to be a double-ended throwing knife appeared in his right. Before he finished speaking, the knife flew at Quaeryt.

Quaeryt twisted the staff, but missed a and the blade bounced off his tight-held shields just before it would have sliced into his shoulder. He moved forward immediately, twisting and turning the staff so that it was as close to a blur as he could manage.

"So fortunate, one time," said Fauxyn mockingly, retreating and producing another blade, which he hurled at Quaeryt's chest. The sharp-edged knife, deflected off shields and the staff, clattered to the marble. Fauxyn's eyes widened.

In that moment, Quaeryt struck, one end of the staff knocking Fauxyn's blade from his hand, and the other coming back and cracking the High Holder across the side of the jaw. As Fauxyn staggered, Quaeryt put as much force as he could into the next strike, right into the High Holder's right knee. The knee cracked, and Fauxyn went down, with a short scream that he could not quite choke off.

Lying on the marble and trying not to writhe, Fauxyn glared at Quaeryt. "Go ahead. Kill me. That's what you want." The words were almost garbled, most likely because Fauxyn's jaw was also broken.

Quaeryt shook his head. "No. That would be too easy. You need to understand that Lord Bhayar decides who lives and who does not, and that you need to obey. I will leave you to the tender care of your wife." He turned to Ghretana. "He should live. I expect him to live. Is that clear? Very clear?"

Lady Fauxyn tried to conceal her swallow. "It is indeed."

"Excellent. We will be back for what supplies we determine you can spare, most likely tomorrow. I expect nothing to be moved. Nothing at all."

She nodded, involuntarily, then said, "You are not just a subcommander. You are more than that." Ghretana looked to Arion. "Is he not, Major?"

"Yes, Lady. He is a lost one."

She frowned.

"A child of Erion, you would say."

"I meant a his position."

Arion smiled. "That is not my part to say, although he is well above me and his official rank."

Quaeryt looked to Ghretana. "Good day, Lady of Fauxyn."

"Good day, honored sir." There was not the slightest hint of mockery in the curtsey that followed her words.

Quaeryt turned to see the functionary with the scar glancing from Fauxyn to Ghretana before stiffening under Quaeryt's gaze. What was all that about?

While there was no point to asking about a glance, because the retainer would certainly deny anything, Quaeryt tried to fix the man's visage in his mind. Then he walked out of the damask-walled receiving hall, the unsmelled odor of corruption strong in his nostrils. Neither he nor Arion spoke as they reached their horses and mounted.