That … Well, that seemed to have touched a nerve, somewhere. The princess might not be dead – but there was something more to her situation. Something that could spur her cantankerous servant to drop pretense for a moment. His brows lifted, listening carefully. Considering. It had been some time since anyone had bothered to threaten him. His life back home was ever a foregone conclusion while everything here was gauzy and immaterial.
“And just what secrets do you think that I’ve learned, shopping the Val Royeaux marriage market?” He smiled, a brief fickle thing, gone in a flash. “Only which scheming mamas might sell their daughters to a heretical northern mage. I’m sure my Imperial masters are sweating in their silks, waiting on that report.”
The rest of it, well. She was full of shit. The crown didn’t want him. Where were the soldiers? The harlequins? Would they be dragging the Nicolliers from their beds right about now? He doubted it.
“You know, madame, I don’t see a nation ready for war. I see only that someone has put an obvious puppet on the throne – and that there are hundreds of miles of darkspawn and undead between here and Minrathous.” A day ago, he might have entertained this for the novelty alone. For the lovely frisson of danger that cleared his head for the first time in months. “I wish you luck with your war. If I know my country, they’ll be ready by the time any of your poor starving bastards make it there.”
Now? She’d have to kill him. Tiberius wasn’t staying in this city a moment longer than he had to and very few prisons could hold a properly motivated abomination mage of his talents. He did not think a disfavored princess had access to any of them.
“I do not think you want nice, Cici. Though you may bill me for the parasol.” He looked her up and down, slowly, as though he might actually be interested in her charms – shrouded though they were. A game, an othering, exclusively cultivated for pissing off powerful women. What would it be like to unlace those boots? He’d take it very slow. The picture would serve her right for digging in his head uninvited.
“Now where am I going, if not home?”
“And just what secrets do you think that I’ve learned, shopping the Val Royeaux marriage market?” He smiled, a brief fickle thing, gone in a flash. “Only which scheming mamas might sell their daughters to a heretical northern mage. I’m sure my Imperial masters are sweating in their silks, waiting on that report.”
The rest of it, well. She was full of shit. The crown didn’t want him. Where were the soldiers? The harlequins? Would they be dragging the Nicolliers from their beds right about now? He doubted it.
“You know, madame, I don’t see a nation ready for war. I see only that someone has put an obvious puppet on the throne – and that there are hundreds of miles of darkspawn and undead between here and Minrathous.” A day ago, he might have entertained this for the novelty alone. For the lovely frisson of danger that cleared his head for the first time in months. “I wish you luck with your war. If I know my country, they’ll be ready by the time any of your poor starving bastards make it there.”
Now? She’d have to kill him. Tiberius wasn’t staying in this city a moment longer than he had to and very few prisons could hold a properly motivated abomination mage of his talents. He did not think a disfavored princess had access to any of them.
“I do not think you want nice, Cici. Though you may bill me for the parasol.” He looked her up and down, slowly, as though he might actually be interested in her charms – shrouded though they were. A game, an othering, exclusively cultivated for pissing off powerful women. What would it be like to unlace those boots? He’d take it very slow. The picture would serve her right for digging in his head uninvited.
“Now where am I going, if not home?”
04-04-2024, 04:31 PM
