“For myself,” he said loudly, “I would be honoured if Councilman Estraysian D'Arle act as my second.”
The wolf started. Beside him stood two women, one no more than a girl. D'Arle's wife was dressed as a veiled woman of Callows, while the girl had selected-outrageously-the minimal garb of a Barghast warmaiden. Both wife and daughter spoke to Estraysian. He stepped forward. “The honour is mine,” he rumbled, completing the ritual acceptance.
Turban Orr felt a surge of triumph. To have his most powerful enemy in the Council at his side for this duel would send a message mixed enough to panic half the Council members present. Pleased at his coup, he faced his nameless opponent again. “And your second?”
Silence fell over the room.
“I haven't much time,” Lady Sinital said in a low voice. “After all, as the hostess for this f?te. .”
“It's your duty,” murmured the man before her, “to satisfy your guests.”
He reached forth and brushed the hair from her forehead. “Which is something I'm certain you can do, and do well.”
She smiled and walked to the door. She locked its latch, then spun to face the man again. “Perhaps half an hour,” she said.
The man strode to the bed and tossed down his leather gloves. “I'm confident,” he said,” that those thirty minutes will be satisfying indeed, each more than the last.”
Lady Sinital joined him beside the bed. “I suppose,” she whispered, as she slipped her arms around the man's neck and drew his face down to her lips, “that you've no choice now but to tell the Widow Lini the sad news.” She touched her lips to his, then ran her tongue along the line of his jaw.
“Mmm? What sad news is that?”
“Oh, that you've found yourself a more worthy lover, of course.” Her tongue reached into his ear. Abruptly she pulled back and met his eyes searchingly. “Do you hear that?” she asked.
He brought his arms around her and drew her closer. “Hear what?”
“That's just it,” she said. “It's suddenly quiet downstairs. I'd better-”
“They're in the garden, no doubt,” the man said reassuringly. “The minutes are passing, Lady.”
She hesitated, then made the mistake of letting him press his body against hers. Lady Simtal's eyes widened in near-alarm. Her breathing changed. “So,” she gasped, “what are we doing still dressed?”
“Good question,” Murillio growled, pulling both of them on to the bed.
In the silence following Turban Orr's question, Baruk found himself preparing to step forward. Knowing well what that would reveal, he felt compelled nevertheless. Rallick Nom was here to right a dreadful wrong.
More, the man was a friend, closer to the alchemist than Kruppe or Murillio-and, in spite of his profession, a man of integrity. And Turban Orr was Lady Sinital's last link to real power. If Rallick killed the man, she'd fall.
Coll's return to the Council was something Baruk and his fellow Vorrud mages greatly desired. And Turban Orr's death would be a relief.
More was riding on this duel than Rallick imagined. The alchemist adjusted his robe and drew a deep breath.
A large hand closed on his upper arm and, before Baruk could react, Lord Anomander Rake stepped forward. “I offer my services as second,” he said loudly. He met Rallick's eyes.
The assassin betrayed nothing, not once looking at Baruk. He answered Rake's offer with a nod.
“Perhaps,” Turban Orr sneered, “the two strangers know each other.”
“We've never met,” Rake said. “However, I find myself instinctively sharing his distaste for your endless talk, Councilman. Thus I seek to avoid a Council debate on who will be this man's second. Shall we proceed?”
Turban Orr led the way out to the terrace, Estraysian D'Arle behind him. As Baruk turned to follow he felt a familiar contact of energies at his side. He swung his head and recoiled. “Good gods, Mammot! Where did you get that hideous mask?”
The old man's eyes held his briefly then shied away. “An accurate rendition of Jaghut features, I believe,” he said softly. “Though I think the tusks are a little short.”
Baruk shook himself. “Have you managed to find your nephew yet?”
“No,” Mammot replied. “I am deeply worried by that.”
“Well,” the alchemist grunted as they walked outside, “let's hope that Oponn's luck holds for the lad.”
“Of course,” Mammot murmured.