A Prison Unsought Read Online Free PDF Page B

lines of fire on all three doors.
    In the center of the octagonal chamber, she found the
Aerenarch Brandon vlith-Arkad standing patiently under the fussy ministrations
of an elderly tailor. The Aerenarch inclined his head in silent apology for the
delay, then he looked up as the woman’s deft fingers twitched at the high
collar of a tunic jacket. Nearby, a tailor’s dummy displayed a magnificent
formal mourning outfit, a vivid contrast with the severely plain civilian
mourning white the tailor was fussing over.
    Against one wall a buffet offered beautifully presented
little sandwiches, and hot coffee, from the smell; beside it stood the Rifter,
Jaim, whom the Aerenarch had taken as his sworn man. In defiance of all
convention, as might be expected from someone who had grown up in the anarchy
of Rifthaven, he lounged next to the buffet: seemingly casual, but his was the
second position that commanded a clear field of fire.
    Jaim’s gaze met hers without the deference of a servant:
dispassionate, considering. His stance, too, conveyed his lack of acquaintance
with or his disregard for Douloi expectations. A proper servant would have exerted
himself to remain invisible.
    Jaim selected a sandwich and popped it into his mouth, an
absolute breach of protocol for a servant to the Douloi.
    The tailor paused, looking inquiringly from Willsones to the
Aerenarch.
    Willsones said, “I can wait.” She didn’t care if Brandon’s
pet Rifter stayed, went, or hung from the ceiling and hallooed, though her
opinion of Brandon dropped a notch. Why would he take a Rifter as personal
sworn man?
    She pondered this question as the grateful tailor resumed
her twitching and tucking, muttering in an urgent under-voice to a point somewhere
between the Aerenarch and her assistant. A lover could be politely ushered out.
A bodyguard could only be commanded by Brandon, but why this Rifter? It was too
easy to assume that Brandon was setting up a favorite, the fiction of bodyguard
to place his lover outside the rules. Yet so far, Vahn reported, there was no
sign of intimacy, and the Aerenarch slept alone. Then there was the fact of a
second Rifter having been put in charge of the kitchens—a former Douloi, chef
and surgeon both, a bit of detritus from Tau Srivashti’s abominable rule of Timberwell.
    Damana Willsones recalled Brandon nyr-Arkad as a boy,
trotting behind his brother Galen, the tall, thin poet who so strongly
resembled Ilara’s father. Semion had been a throwback to Gelasaar’s father.
Brandon, at first glance, resembled neither of his parents closely, though
details evoked one or the other, such as those blue eyes so like Ilara’s.
    From a purely aesthetic perspective, the presumed heir was
at his best, standing there in shirt and trousers and boots. Rumor for the past
decade had done little to flatter him, but there was no sign of gluttony or
debauchery in the clean lines of his body, the contour of muscle not completely
masked by the loose linen sleeves, or in the clear gaze. But Willsones knew
debauchees who appeared to advantage, as if leading the most abstemious of
lives, Tau Srivashti being one of them.
    Brandon’s dark, curling hair, that was the Arkad heritage.
What was going on between those fine ears lying so flat to his head?
    The tailor fretted to herself, then glanced one last time at
her boswell as she muttered, “It will have to do. . . .” She
stood back, surveying her work with what unease, then glancing eloquently at
the tunic on the dummy. “I do not know how I will explain this to the Archon.”
    “Archon Srivashti will be apprised
of my entire responsibility for the situation, and my total satisfaction with
your efforts,” said Brandon. “Thank you.”
    Interesting that he
rejected Srivashti’s gift, Willsones thought.
    The tailor bowed, hesitated when she glanced again at the splendid
outfit on the dummy, then she gestured to her assistant, who took the tunic
jacket Brandon shrugged off and bore it to