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looked about covertly for the speaker.
"Lord Rathekrel?"
The Lord shifted his position to look down upon his creation, and
Alara could not see anything of the rectangle itself, only the light coming
from it, reflecting oddly upwards into the elf-lord's face. Now was the time
to insinuate that little probe.
Rathekrel, from the little Alara could read of his thoughts, was
expecting immediate recognition; after all, Yssandra had been sent as a tacit
proposal of alliance, and by all rights he should have been responding to that
proposal.
But to his surprise, the underling was startled to see him in the
teleson. "My lord, what can our house do for you?"
"I want to speak to your Lord," Rathekrel snarled, his thoughts
telling Alara that he suspected insult in being answered by a subordinate.
"Now."
He waited, with visible impatience, and beside Alara one of the
humans shivered, nervous sweat running down his face. Finally the quality of
the light coming from between Rathekrel's hands changed, and Alara knew that
someone else had taken the underling's position at the screen. From
Rathekrel's nod of stiff recognition, she knew it was V'Heven Myen Lord
Lainner.
"Greetings, my lord " a tired voice said cautiously. "I beg your
pardon for having to wait, but there is a problem at "
"There's more than one problem in your house, my Lord," Rathekrel
growled. "Your daughter seems to have vanished from her quarters. After
accepting my proposal of marriage, I might add. I had thought better of your
training than that."
The speaker's reply came as a startled yelp. Not a sound one normally
heard from a powerful elven lord. "Mywhat?
Rathekrel's face contorted, and the human beside Alara winced.
"Yourtraining , man! No daughter ofmine would dare walk off after accepting a
proposal of marriage! What's wrong with your house when mere females "
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Rathekrel's voice rose steadily as his anger increased, and it was
obvious that he was building into a fine froth of rage. But the angrier he
became, the more the humans around Alara relaxed, and several of them sighed
with relief. She knew what was on their minds, for all that she could not read
their actual thoughts. The Lord had found a way to blame his humiliation on
someone else. Oh, humans would die, no doubt of it, but it would be the
fighters and gladiators in challenge,not the house-slaves.They were safe.
"Where is she?" Rathekrel thundered, standing up suddenly and
pounding the desk with his fist. "Where have you hidden her? She couldn't have
gotten off this estate without magic aid, and we both know it!" He remained
standing over the mage-crafted construct, staring down into it in
self-righteous wrath. He did not expect the answer he received.
"My lord," came the stiff reply, "I do nothave a daughter of an age
that anormal-minded man would consider nubile. My children number three: two
boys, of thirteen and six, and a girl of ten. Kevan, Shandar, and Yssandra."
Rathekrel froze, his fist halting in midair above the desktop. Alara
controlled her face as he realized that he had never bothered to check on the
age of "Yssandra," only that the Lord in question did, indeed, have a daughter
of that name. He had not wanted to advertise the fact that he was considered a
less-than-desirable mate by actively seeking a spouse among his inferiors; he
had been hoping one would offer so that he would be able to look "gracious."
When "Yssandra" had appeared at his door, he thought his prayers had been
answered, and had been so busy sweeping her off her feet he had neither chance
nor time for anything else. Alara's credentials had been perfect; the message
she bore plausible. They should have been; Alara had stolen them from an
excellent source.
"I would suggest, my lord," continued the other, a certain smug,
self-assured arrogance creeping into his tone, "that you have been the victim
of a very poor joke. And if I were you, I should be grateful that the joke
never went so far as wedlock. I "
But that was too much.
"Ajoke! Isthis your idea of ajoke ?" Rathekrel exploded with anger,
backing a single pace and destroying teleson, desk, and all with a single
mage-bolt.
The slaves scattered to the corners of the library, ducking to avoid
the shower of debris. Difficult though elven thoughts were for a dragon to
decipher, his rage made them clear enough to Alara, and they were everything
she could have wanted. The unfortunate choice of the word "joke" had triggered
a set of assumptions and reactions Lord Myen never intended.
There were any number of people who would profit by Rathekrel's
embarrassment, and Lord Myen was high on the list. Furthermore, Myen could
argue that he, too, had been injured by this unknown prankster, sincehis name
had been stolen for the ruse.
But the last time someone had played a double-dealing trick on
Rathekrel and apparently upon another lord as well the perpetrator turned out
to be the same person who claimed equal injury&
Therefore, by Rathekrel s logic, Myen was the guilty party.
And since he was the perpetrator, Rathekrel would see him punished
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