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because you owed it to me? We're
friends, Rakashi. What did you think I would do, kill you for being the one
responsible?"
    "I am still not certain that you will
not." Rakashi stared up at her. She noticed his gaze flick momentarily
over to the terrace, where his half-spear lay sheathed. Soria breathed a
frustrated sigh. She walked over to the terrace, took his weapon and the rest
of his clothing and threw them down next to him.
    "Iridan didn't deserve to die, but you were
doing what you were born to do. I get it. They put you in his path ... you were
honor-bound to stand your ground, he was determined to prove he could take on
anything," Soria said. "I am more hurt that you hid it from me, like
pretending it didn't happen could make it go away. Did you think I would never
find out?"
    "I had other concerns as well," Rakashi
admitted. Soria's eyes widened.
    "Brannis ..." she whispered. "You
can't let him find out! He will kill you, in both worlds, if he knows you
killed Iridan."
    "You confirm my suspicion as well. He already
mistrusts me. I fear he would not react as rationally as you have."
Rakashi climbed to his feet and began untangling his clothes from the pile
Soria had presented him.
    "Oh no. You haven't flown free quite yet. I may
forgive you, but not yet," Soria said.
    "What if I cleared the path between you and
Brannis in Veydrus?" Rakashi asked as he pulled on his tunic.
    "You bastard. You did this for me ?"
    "Iridan was violent. By your own word and by
all measure I have taken of him, Brannis has been unfailingly kind to you. Yes,
I did it for you."
    Soria swallowed a rising lump in her throat, but she
could not refute his argument. Did I secretly wish him dead?
    "Get out of here. We can talk about this back
in Veydrus. I have a party to dress for."
    * * * * * * *
*
    Dinner that night was lavish, hosted by Lord Harwick
in his son's home. Brannis had gone home to change into more formal attire and
retrieve Soria. By the time they returned, a number of other guests had already
arrived. Minor noblemen and gentlemen from the Society of Learned Men filled
Tomas Harwick's sitting room as their wives congregated in the foyer; the
former smoked pipes and drank brandy, the latter sipped wine while partaking of
pastry cakes and gossip. Brannis deposited Soria among the ladies, for which he
received a withering glare. He shrugged it away with an amused smile and went
to join Lord Harwick's peers.
    There was one young man in the sitting room who
looked out of place. He had met the lad before, but Brannis hardly recognized
Neelan Tillman with his hair combed, the light scruff shaved from his cheeks,
and a well-tailored suit wrapped around him. The suit fit him ill—in spirit, if
not in its shape—causing him to squirm and chafe against the stiff, starched collar
and fight with unruly ruffles. Brannis nodded acknowledgement to him as he
looked for his host.
    Soria passed the time drinking more than her share
of the wine. Getting drunk enough to enjoy the company of the lighthearted,
lightheaded ladies was difficult, since the wine seemed to have been cut with
juice. She knew she would have only found herself a different sort of bored
were she to intrude upon the stodgy old men in the other room, so she hung
around the periphery of conversations, trying to look interested and keep from
being engaged directly.
    "Good evening Lady Soria," a lyrical voice
called out behind her.
    "Miss Abbiley, how are you this fine
evening?" Soria replied. She was enough of a natural actress to betray
none of the antipathy she felt for the girl—unfairly she realized, since
Abbiley seemed a sweet girl, but that was almost the point. Soria had visited
the girl's studio some two months prior in disguise—nothing elaborate, just
hair, eyes, mannerisms. As near as Soria could tell, Abbiley had never drawn
the connection between her and "Darlah Silverweave." For an artist,
it seemed an unforgivable lack of observational skill.
    "Oh, wonderful. Isn't