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supercilious, stiff-necked shrew who was raising their daughter Honora in herown disdainful image and assailing their son Bram with stories of pompous Knights of Solamnia, but who seemed at the same time too much like Cormac’s own wastrel of a brother, Guerrand.
    Then again, when Rejik died and Cormac had at last become lord of Castle DiThon, he’d believed he actually had a chance to get ahead. He had hoped to pay off the gambling debts he’d run up in expectation of his inheritance. But he discovered soon enough that there was barely enough money to keep the castle running, and little more. Cormac’s own creditors had forced him to sell off lands, among them Stonecliff.
    Once again, the fates prevented him from getting what he wanted. Cormac slammed the port glass to the desk a little harder than he’d intended. The stem snapped from the pear-shaped bottom, splashing the dark red liquid onto his hand. Growling in irritation, he wiped his hand on the thigh of his breeches.
    “You’ll ruin the only suit that still fits you, Cormac, and you can’t afford another, unless it’s of that dreadful brocatelle the merchants are passing off as genuine brocade.”
    Cormac looked up to see his wife Rietta strolling into the room. Her presence caused his mood to sour more than the wine spill had. “Can’t a man have some peace in his own castle?”
    “Not during his brother’s funeral.”
    Through eyes just beginning to fog with port, Cormac considered his wife. In her late thirties, Rietta had that tight-lipped, smooth-skinned look of a woman who never smiled much for fear it would cause wrinkles. Her severity was emphasized by wearing her dark, thin hair in a tight chignon covered by a strong veil of lace netting. She was too thin for Cormac’s taste, her bosom a sunken thing thankfully covered by the long gorget she wore around her neck. Rietta’s silent, lithe grace brought to mind a cat, a black, sneaky creature that appearedonly when she wanted something and left bad luck in her wake.
    “You left me alone to deal with all those wailing old women from the village, not to mention Dame Berwick and her toothsome daughter.” Rietta shivered. “If you ask me, Quinn escaped a fate worse than death with that one.”
    Cormac thought he knew such a fate firsthand, even thought of remarking on the pot calling the kettle black, but Rietta never seemed to catch his irony, especially when it was at her expense. He was definitely not in a mood to joust with her. “If you’ve come just to pull me back into that dank abyss with you, I’ve more important things to deal with now.”
    “It’s bad enough that scalawag sister of yours hasn’t blessed us with her presence,” sniffed Rietta as if Cormac hadn’t spoken. “What will everyone think if the lord himself isn’t there to greet the mourners?”
    Cormac poured himself a new glass of port and tossed it down in one gulp. “They’ll think I’ve gone on with the business of running a vast estate. I made an appearance and accepted more condolences than I could stomach, anyway.” He gave her a sly look. “However, they
will
wonder where the lady of the manor is.”
    Rietta was too smart to rise to the bait. “I watched you leave with Berwick. What have you done with him?” She glanced about the room artlessly, though it was obvious the other man was gone.
    Cormac sighed heavily. “We finished our business, such as it was, and he left. I assumed he’d returned to the great hall.”
    “You’ve not given up on getting back Stonecliff already, have you?”
    “Through marriage, yes. I can see no other lawful option, since Quinn had the ill-timed bad luck to be slain.” Cormac fiddled pensively with a dry quill pen that lay on his desk. “More’s the shame that he inducedin me a brilliant idea for using Stonecliff to recover the family fortunes. It would be a perfect place to establish a fortress from which we could extort a toll on the vessels that traverse the