cloak.
Andim made a low noise in his throat. “Getting in isn’t the problem. It’s getting out that’ll be tricky.”
“Will we have everything in place?” Lyrra-Sharron asked, as she accepted a bowl of stew proffered to her.
“I believe so,” Dak replied. “But I am still concerned that this will risk over half our contacts in the city.”
“If we get the Sorcerer, it will be worth it. And even if we do not, the embarrassment we shall cause the King will not be something easily shaken.” She grinned at the lady who had passed her the food. “Thank you, my lady, this stew is wonderful.”
The merchant’s wife made a quick curtsy, blushing. She quickly laid out bowls and spoons for everyone else, serving all. Lyrra-Sharron waited until the others were eating before continuing herself.
“You do realize, that if you get caught in Gara-Sharron, our plans will all be for nothing,” stated Dak, picking up the same argument he’d begun in Tarmollo.
She glanced towards him thoughtfully. “Fair enough. If I am caught, I have failed. But if I succeed here, we finally turn these plans into actions. I know what a risk this is. But it is all for naught if we do not act. It had to happen sooner or later.”
“I would have preferred later,” Dak muttered.
“We are all with you, my Lady,” Kurr murmured, chewing on a fingernail fretfully.
Most of the others around the table indicated their assent.
Lyrra-Sharron observed them. Her soldiers. Following her because they believed in her and what she stood for. It was not an easy burden to carry sometimes.
“I would not let you down. Not a one of you.” Lyrra-Sharron turned to the lady of the house. “Now then, I believe, Lady Areiana, that you have a wig for me? Let us fit it before the party begins. We have a lot of plans to set in motion. Time is short. Let us get this right the first time.”
Chapter 6
The Sorcerer lay upon the bunk, staring out through the barred window into the courtyard. It was a perfect sunny day, without a trace of cloud. Even the air in the musty cell smelled somewhat fresher than before. A pleasant day to die, he thought.
He had slept fitfully that night. He could not concentrate enough to work on the webbing that held in his power. He admitted to himself that it could not save him. It was simply too little, too late. Nothing could save him.
Just after dawn they had come, offering food. Anything he wanted. He did not speak. They brought him eggs and chicken and bacon and fresh bread, the best food he’d seen in years. For all his resistance, he found himself ravenously hungry. He ate it entirely. His final meal.
He would be dignified. He would not speak, nor cry out. He would never show an expression upon his face. He would be hanged. To his way of thinking, a far less unpleasant punishment than the King had promised.
He would be dead in a few hours . Everything he believed would be a lie, if he died now. When he had come to Sharron, he had been so confident, so arrogant, so completely certain nothing could get between him and his destiny.
It was only the loss of his power that allowed for his capture.
The sorcerer let his mind wander, remembering how they had taken him.
It was a typical tavern, no town within twenty miles in either direction. Inside was a large open space, broken only by the occasional unadorned wooden column, stained a dark brown. Small tables were all about the dusty wood floor, just enough room between them for the serving wenches and patrons to pass through.
The room was dim, with only a few narrow windows emitting sunlight, and half the candle chandeliers lit. The smell of sweat and grease and roasting chickens and ale filled the room, mingling with the smoke of pipes and cigars. The space was well worn, not unclean, but scuffed and littered with the signs of nearly unending use.
A small group
Andim made a low noise in his throat. “Getting in isn’t the problem. It’s getting out that’ll be tricky.”
“Will we have everything in place?” Lyrra-Sharron asked, as she accepted a bowl of stew proffered to her.
“I believe so,” Dak replied. “But I am still concerned that this will risk over half our contacts in the city.”
“If we get the Sorcerer, it will be worth it. And even if we do not, the embarrassment we shall cause the King will not be something easily shaken.” She grinned at the lady who had passed her the food. “Thank you, my lady, this stew is wonderful.”
The merchant’s wife made a quick curtsy, blushing. She quickly laid out bowls and spoons for everyone else, serving all. Lyrra-Sharron waited until the others were eating before continuing herself.
“You do realize, that if you get caught in Gara-Sharron, our plans will all be for nothing,” stated Dak, picking up the same argument he’d begun in Tarmollo.
She glanced towards him thoughtfully. “Fair enough. If I am caught, I have failed. But if I succeed here, we finally turn these plans into actions. I know what a risk this is. But it is all for naught if we do not act. It had to happen sooner or later.”
“I would have preferred later,” Dak muttered.
“We are all with you, my Lady,” Kurr murmured, chewing on a fingernail fretfully.
Most of the others around the table indicated their assent.
Lyrra-Sharron observed them. Her soldiers. Following her because they believed in her and what she stood for. It was not an easy burden to carry sometimes.
“I would not let you down. Not a one of you.” Lyrra-Sharron turned to the lady of the house. “Now then, I believe, Lady Areiana, that you have a wig for me? Let us fit it before the party begins. We have a lot of plans to set in motion. Time is short. Let us get this right the first time.”
Chapter 6
The Sorcerer lay upon the bunk, staring out through the barred window into the courtyard. It was a perfect sunny day, without a trace of cloud. Even the air in the musty cell smelled somewhat fresher than before. A pleasant day to die, he thought.
He had slept fitfully that night. He could not concentrate enough to work on the webbing that held in his power. He admitted to himself that it could not save him. It was simply too little, too late. Nothing could save him.
Just after dawn they had come, offering food. Anything he wanted. He did not speak. They brought him eggs and chicken and bacon and fresh bread, the best food he’d seen in years. For all his resistance, he found himself ravenously hungry. He ate it entirely. His final meal.
He would be dignified. He would not speak, nor cry out. He would never show an expression upon his face. He would be hanged. To his way of thinking, a far less unpleasant punishment than the King had promised.
He would be dead in a few hours . Everything he believed would be a lie, if he died now. When he had come to Sharron, he had been so confident, so arrogant, so completely certain nothing could get between him and his destiny.
It was only the loss of his power that allowed for his capture.
The sorcerer let his mind wander, remembering how they had taken him.
It was a typical tavern, no town within twenty miles in either direction. Inside was a large open space, broken only by the occasional unadorned wooden column, stained a dark brown. Small tables were all about the dusty wood floor, just enough room between them for the serving wenches and patrons to pass through.
The room was dim, with only a few narrow windows emitting sunlight, and half the candle chandeliers lit. The smell of sweat and grease and roasting chickens and ale filled the room, mingling with the smoke of pipes and cigars. The space was well worn, not unclean, but scuffed and littered with the signs of nearly unending use.
A small group
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