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Wincing, I nod. “I hope it’s quick.”
“Good luck.”
So there is security between the servants’ quarters and the rest of the House. Lucky for me it’s fairly lax.
Now to find Juliette.
The mind of the original Rupert won’t help me here. He might be familiar with the rooms that were prepared for the new concubines, but he won’t know which room is Juliette’s. What’s needed here is some good old-fashioned Elvish magic—the simplest of spells, one of the first I ever learned.
Most of the Kin use Elvish dialect when composing spells, but as a Half-Elf, I can use either Elvish or the human tongue, Arcspeech, with equal power, provided my words fit the rhythm and rhyme structure used by the Kin. There are plenty of poetic forms to choose from, but I usually go the simplest route—”the lazy path,” my teachers would have said… but as long as it works, why complicate it?
I take out Juliette’s little notebook, pressing it tightly between my hands, and I whisper a spell.
Lost or taken,
found or forsaken,
seek the home of
the one who
did own you.
The pliant leather warms my palms, and the book tugs slightly, as if it’s trying to get away from me. Grinning, I set off in the direction it wants to go.
Guards stand here and there along the hallways, but I distract them easily by casting the sound of footsteps down an adjacent corridor or laying a magical veil over their eyes for a few seconds. That’s as long as the veil lasts—to the count of five, and then it fades. Many’s the time I’ve wished I could extend its duration or expand it to cover more than one person’s vision; then I wouldn’t have to bother with disguises. But as a Half-Elf, I’m more limited than other Kin.
At last the notebook takes a sharp turn and flies out of my hands to bump lightly against a door. I snatch it and tuck it back in my vest pocket, glancing up and down the hall to make sure no one’s coming.
The handle doesn’t yield to my touch. They locked Juliette in, but the lock is no problem for me.
When I dressed in Rupert’s clothes, I omitted his boots, partly because I didn’t fancy tromping around in another man’s smelly leather and partly because mine are extremely valuable. My boots were made by a pair of Elves in Lensterhaven. Enthel and her wife Lannau are both very pro-human and accommodating—they like to travel and lend their skills to impoverished shoemakers. They were happy to design me a pair of boots that fit both my feet and my unique needs. The boots have invisible pockets along the sides into which I can slip small items—miniature tools, tiny packets of spell ingredients, poison vials, that sort of thing.
I could do this with magic, but I prefer to save my energy. Reaching down to my left boot, I flip open the pouch containing my lockpick, and within seconds I have the door unlocked.
The notebook in my vest pocket is still lunging toward the door, so I end the spell with a quick rhyme of “Cease, peace,” and it quiets.
My fingers curl around the elaborate handle of the door.
Time to seduce the pretty baker.
As I open the door quietly and slip into the room, my sensitive nose catches a whiff of something heavenly, something hot and sweet and fiercely delicious.
The angry tears of a beautiful woman.
5
The baths we endured today weren’t pleasant. We were escorted into a gorgeous, glittering bathhouse lined with tall windows, only to have our clothes torn unceremoniously from our bodies. Only by vociferous protest was I able to retain my own jewelry—my father’s wedding ring and my mother’s necklace.
We were hustled into the hot water, bare-ass naked, and scrubbed all over by silent, heavy-handed women who spoke not a word to us or to each other. Shenya whispered to me that she thought some of them were the concubines of the former king, demoted to the role of servants for the new crop of young women. Once she mentioned that possibility, I felt more sympathetic toward them.
Still, I did not enjoy having to spread my legs and lift my arms so another woman could roughly scrub all my folds, swells, and creases. Afterward being thoroughly shampooed, shaved, and rinsed, we were all spritzed with the same scent—apparently the King’s favorite, a blend of licorice and almflower—a combination I detest.
The servants folded us into thick robes and hurried us along the upstairs hallways. They propelled each of us into a room, handed us a covered tray by way of breakfast, and closed the doors. Mine was locked from the outside with a significant click.
It was all very efficient. The King likes order. I suppose that’s one thing in his favor.
I spent the rest of the day in my room. Since the moment I was locked in, my only interaction with people occurred when a maid brought me lunch at noon and my dinner around six. Those meals were also served on covered trays, which were later collected by the same maid. I tried asking her a few questions and was met with utter silence.
