Outside Pawn

Author's Note: This story is a spin-off that takes place a few years after one of my other stories and focuses on a previously minor character. If you haven't read "Pawn En Prise"  yet, I highly recommend doing so... or you may end up very confused very fast.

Peyton stared at the oaken door before him, clenching and unclenching his hands. With the torches making uncertain shadows against the walls, he couldn't tell if any light shone through the crack beneath, and hard as he listened, no sound from within disturbed the eerie stillness of the deserted halls. At this late hour, would the man on the other side have already retired? Perhaps he was making a mistake; perhaps he had only imagined the other man's assessing look earlier in the evening. There was still time, before the guards caught him, to turn back and steal away. Yes, surely it would be better for him to forget the whole, mad idea, to leave before he forfeited his soul and--

"I believe," a dry voice remarked behind him, drawing a strangled yelp as he whirled and jumped back to collide into the wall, "that the socially accepted method of asking for entry is to knock."

Rendered speechless in the face of his fright, Peyton could only lean against the cold stones, gasping for breath as his knees shook. One hand rose of its own accord to rub at his chest, trying to calm the painful, violent rhythm of his heart.

The cause of his alarm raised an eyebrow in sardonic amusement, evidently enjoying his reaction. "Lord Peyton. What a pleasant surprise."

Swallowing to restore moisture to his mouth, Peyton pushed himself upright and tried to tell himself that his shivers came from the night's chill. "L-Lord DuFey."

"I hope you haven't injured yourself, my lord?"

"No... no, I'm fine," Peyton stuttered, even as a sharp stab in his hip told him he would have a sizable bruise on the morrow.

"Of course, I forgot. The wall broke your fall."

There was no possible reply to make to that, and Peyton could only gape at the mage, confused and embarassed. Lord DuFey eyed him a moment, but when no response seemed forthcoming, coolly ignored his presence and stepped up to the door, producing a key. Peyton shrank back at his approach, half-fearful at coming into contact with the man's swirling black robes.

The door opened with an omninous groan. Candlelight popped into existence within as Lord DuFey glided past, and Peyton gasped at this display of magic. His chest squeezed. Fear, ingrained from the cradle, had him backing away without conscious thought. Magery was the work of demons, and those who practised it were tainted in the eyes of the gods. He should leave. He should run. He should be horrified at the man before him and be forever grateful that he himself would not share his fate of eternal torment. Let the man enter and let the door slam closed on his vague, treacherous longings. Surely it would be for the best, to nip such desires in the bud...

"My lord!" he blurted, as the door began to swing shut. He coloured as dark, unreadable eyes glanced back at him over DuFey's shoulder. "I... I... I wanted to speak with you..."

"So I gathered, Lord Peyton, from your lurking outside my door like a nervous thief casing his first burglary."

Once again left with no answer, Peyton hesitated. Lord DuFey took no notice of his uncertainty, proceeding into his suite without a backward look, leaving the door open to close as it willed. Taking this as a rather dubious invitation -- at least he had not slammed the door in Peyton's face -- the young man leapt forward, catching it just shy of swinging shut. Before he knew it, he was inside, leaning against the wooden frame and feeling weak and breathless at his own reckless impetuosity.

Lord DuFey had disappeared into an adjoining room, and Peyton cast a quick look about, at a loss for whether he should follow or wait. The spacious chamber functioned as a receiving room for the guest suite, and while he thought that in daylight, it would doubtless be a bright and cheerful place, at the moment it appeared dark and forbiding. The dim-lit furniture seemed like hulking beasts, and he could almost feel the silent, shadowed stares of the portraits on the walls. Peyton shivered and dropped his eyes.

"Once you have finished gawking, my lord, do feel free to join me," came the voice from the next room, a trace of impatience in its tones.

Grimacing, Peyton straightened, promptly stumbled over a thick rug, saved himself by a hair, and finally managed to make it to the next room. He slipped inside and stood blinking in the light of the lamps, his eyes roaming over the profusion of books and other curios. Did they all belonged to Lord DuFey? It would be just like the man to carry his own private library with him wherever he went. Or perhaps the mage was such a frequent visitor that General Morecai had simply stocked the study with reading he knew would interest his guest. The abundance of books and manuscripts made the room appear a bit cramped, but there was a sense of order and organization to the clutter; given what he had seen of the man's meticulousness, Peyton would have been willing to bet that Lord DuFey could lay his hands on any tome of his choosing in a matter of seconds.

Speaking of whom... Peyton steeled himself and met his host's eyes. Unreadable as polished obsidian, they regarded him over Lord DuFey's steepled fingers with impersonal curiosity, as though examining some strange new species of plant or animal matter. Seated behind his solid, imposing desk, the mage reminded Peyton of all the times he had been hauled before his father as a child for one misdemeanor or another, and he immediately felt wrong-footed and guilty.

"Have a seat, my lord," DuFey said with the merest flicker of his eyes to the straight, padded chair in front of the desk. "Now then. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

Peyton's heart sank at the bored, dispassionate question. So he had imagined it then, that interest he thought he had seen in the careful, blank stare the mage had shot him over dinner, when he had sat tongue-tied and despairing as his father had outlined what was to be his future.

Hot, angry tears started in his eyes, and Peyton clenched his jaw and curled his nails into the palm of his hand to keep them from falling. He was suddenly furious with himself. Had he really hoped that the man before him could offer a different path for him to take? What madness had gripped him, to come here -- of all places! -- to seek aid, when Lord DuFey had never, to his knowledge, given him the slightest thought? It had all been a child's fantasy, a desperate gamble that somehow things would work out, and now what answer could he give to those calm, cold eyes? He was going to be humiliated, and all for naught. Nothing would change come morning, and he would still be as powerless as a kitten in determining his own fate.

Flushed and mortified, Peyton squirmed, racking his brains for a way out of his situation. One that would hopefully allow him to keep a shred of dignity while also permitting a quick retreat so that he might slink back to his rooms and nurse his wounds in peace. He would have to say something soon; the silence was becoming awkward, and one of Lord DuFey's eyebrows was already on the rise. Peyton opened his mouth with a muddled idea of apologizing and bolting, but before he could utter a sound, the mage spoke again.

"I confess myself somewhat surprised, my lord," DuFey said, mouth quirking into a thin smile. Peyton stared at him in confusion, having abruptly lost his train of thought at the interruption. "I was under the impression that General Morecai, who usually excells in matters of security, had assigned you and your family a... ah, an Imperial honor guard, and yet here I find you... alone. Allow me, therefore, to offer my apologies on behalf of my friend the General for this terrible breach of etiquette. I am sure he will be properly wroth with their laxity, and will no doubt order harsh punishments for neglecting their duties to you."

This speech did nothing to soothe Peyton's nerves. The irony in the delivery, and the evident amusement behind the words, told him that Lord DuFey knew as well as anyone that the "honor guard" was only a pretext for the General to keep all the Rhyzengers under strict observation during their stay. Under those watchful, Imperial eyes, they were little more than prisoners, and it had galled to realize that everyone from the servants to the other guests knew it, to have to suffer a thousand trivial limitations and subtle snubs a day, each overlaid with a veneer of false courtesy that made the situation all the more infuriating to bear.

"N-No need for that, my lord," Peyton stammered, hating the need to keep the man pacified but alarmed at the prospect of others learning of his nocturnal jaunt. "I, uh, I'm sure they had more important things to do..."

"More important than the continued safety of Lady Keira's family? Surely not. Yet this failing is indeed curious, for the General's discipline is well-known. One wonders, then, if there might be some other cause for this unprecedented negligence?"

His insides twisted at the question, and at that moment Peyton would have given anything to be able to sink through the floor. He recognized the trap now; either he could pretend ignorance and in the morning deal with an escort that would hate him for earning them stripes, or he could confess to his chicanery and so place himself even further in Lord DuFey's power. For a long second, Peyton agonized between the two, while DuFey's satisfied smirk told him that the mage was willing to let him dangle and writhe on the hook for as long as he wanted before coming to the inevitable decision. Because, after all, there could only be one conclusion. If he didn't come clean now, not only would his guards have a further reason to wish him ill, but news of his nighttime activities would almost certainly surface, and then he would be confronted with having to explain to his family what he had been doing seeking out Lord DuFey in the middle of the night. Peyton thought he would be lucky if his father merely disowned and banished him should that ever come to light.

"My lord?"

Resignation settled in. There was nothing else for it. At least if he confessed... well, it was a slim hope, but he knew of few people who could match Lord DuFey's reputation for discretion. In any case, he was already so deeply mired with the mage by simply being where he was that this new admission was not so large a step to take as it might otherwise have been.

"I... I..." Peyton cursed himself as he felt a rush of heat suffuse his face. He dropped his eyes to his lap, and his voice grew small and uncertain. "I, uh, bribed one of the stable lads to give Lord Darmos an envelope with the... the key to Wesley's rooms inside." He risked a quick glance up, in time to see Lord DuFey's startled blink, and continued before he lost his nerve, "Our rooms are right down the hall from each other so... in the, ah, ensuing chaos, the guards who were stationed at my door went to help their comrades and I snuck out when their backs were turned."

There was a moment of utter silence.

"Let me get this straight," Lord DuFey said, his words soft and slow. "You arranged for Lord Darmos, a notorious philanderer with an avid love of men and boys, who has been not-so-subtly making eyes at your brother for these past few days, to believe himself invited to an... assignation by Lord Wesley? Lord Wesley, your older brother?" he inquired, as though there might be another Lord Wesley with whom he was not acquainted. "Lord Wesley who, as far as I have been able to determine, would no more have thought of dallying with any man than of jumping off the highest tower of this castle?" A pause as Peyton nodded miserably to each point. "I see. And then, when your brother returned to his rooms tonight and was, not unjustly, rather surprised by his... guest, you used the distraction to slip away?"

Peyton cringed. "Rather surprised" was a grossly inadequate understatement for how Wesley had reacted. Lord Darmos had a reputation for enjoying... exotic fantasies, and given that the man had excused himself early in the evening -- presumably to get ready for his rendezvous -- Peyton could only imagine what preparations must have greeted Wesley upon his return to his rooms. The bellows of rage and screechings of terror had certainly attracted enough attention to cover his getaway, and Peyton had a sinking feeling that the story of the aborted tryst would be all over the castle by breakfast. And that wasn't even accounting for the glimpse of bare flesh he had witnessed before the guards closed in to pry his brother off the unfortunate Darmos. He gulped, hoping they had at least prevented wholesale bloodshed, and managed a dry croak. "That... sounds about right, my lord."

For the space of two heartbeats, Lord DuFey said nothing, but merely stared at him with the oddest expression crossing his features. Peyton quailed under the weight of that look and what it might portend. Had he overlooked something vital? Surely Lord DuFey wasn't actually fond of Lord Darmos? It would be hard to imagine two men of more opposite temperaments, but stranger things had happened. Were they close cousins? Boyhood friends? Blood brothers?

A stiffled sound interrupted his musings of doom, and Peyton had a sudden, dramatic vision of the mage turning him into a mushroom before he collected himself enough to realize that the other man was actually... laughing! Silent mirth shook the thin shoulders, while one hand covered his mouth and the other arm curled around his midsection. Little wheezing snickers escaped at intervals, and tears of merriment formed in DuFey's eyes as he regarded the nonplussed young man before him. Peyton supposed this was as close to unrestrained hilarity as the man ever permitted himself.

Completely bewildered, and feeling himself more and more ridiculous as each second passed, Peyton hunched his shoulders and shrank down, wishing himself dead. Which, now that he thought of it, might come to pass in a hurry if Wesley ever got wind of his role in tonight's fiasco. Amazing how a threat on one's life could rearrange priorities. Suddenly getting disowned and banished didn't sound so dire as before.

"Well, that explains why Lord Darmos was in such a frightful hurry to leave the reception tonight," DuFey said at last, his voice still trembling with suppressed humor. "And my congratulations, Lord Peyton, on finding such a creative, not to mention effective, method for eluding the General's vigilance."

For once his words lacked their characteristic bite, and Peyton blinked at the apparently genuine compliment. "Err... thank you. My lord."

DuFey waved away his words with a faint smile. "I believe, Lord Peyton, that you were on the verge of telling me what brings you to my chambers at this hour?"

The abrupt switch back to their previous topic threw Peyton for a moment and revived his earlier apprehension. Still, there was considerably less mockery involved and he felt an unexpected surge of hope amidst all the doubts. Best to capitalize on this rare boost of confidence ere it faded.

"I don't want to be in the military!" he exclaimed. Nothing else followed, as he sat with his mouth slightly open, half-aghast at the bald statement.

Lord DuFey appeared to see nothing wrong, however, as he leaned back in his chair with a noncommittal hum. "Lord Rhyzenger seemed quite keen on the idea."

He would be, Peyton thought with a savage bitterness that surprised even him. It was not until he saw Lord DuFey's eyebrow arch in amusement that he realized he had spoken out loud. Well, in for a penny...

"Everyone in my family's been in the military," he said, aware that his words had taken on a whining edge but not caring enough to stop. There was a relief to finally giving voice to the thoughts that had plagued him, and he fixed his eyes on the top of the desk and continued with a scowl: "Grandfather ran the household like an army camp 'til the day he died. Father led the Elrithean army against desert marauders in his youth, before he assumed the throne. Tristan..." -- he swallowed, and his voice dropped -- "Everyone hoped for great things from Tristan. He always had a knack for strategy and... I guess everyone expected we would follow in his footsteps. No problem for Wesley; he enlisted with the militia almost as soon as he could, and he's been making a name for himself ever since. And Lysander follows him around every chance he gets, begging for stories of heroic exploits when he's not playing make-believe with knights-and-dragons; father is considering fostering him to a family in the foothills as a way of introducing him to border patrols. So of course he expects me to join the guards as well. After all, what higher ambition could I possibly entertain that could rival the heady glories of middling officerhood? Surely I should be falling over myself with gratitude at the prospect!"

Peyton fell silent, feeling out of breath, and the flood of words halted.

"Do my ears detect a trace of sarcasm in your words?" DuFey asked with an air of mock-surprise. "Ungrateful child. Why, I'm sure Lord Rhyzenger has only your best interests at heart. Witness his choice of regiment, for example."

A faint stir of nausea manifested in the pit of Peyton's stomach. The Firniks. He remembered only too well the imposing, bear-like presence of General Firnik, head of a fighting force widely seen as one of the most vicious in Litha. It was also a regiment famed for the sheer brutality of its officers and soldiers alike; discipline usually came in the form of lashes or worse, weaknesses were exploited with ruthless efficiency, and those higher in the pecking order thought nothing of using those below them as they pleased.

When he first learned of the man and his methods, Peyton had regarded General Firnik with a sort of impersonal disgust -- appalled, but not terribly concerned. Then a sneaking suspicion had formed, as he watched his father chat with the man -- a suspicion that he had tried to deny and ignore, unwilling to contemplate its fulfillment. It was not until earlier in the evening, right before dinner, that his father had informed him of the results of these chats, with a brusque assumption of obedience indistinguishable from an actual command. Too stunned to formulate a response, Peyton had drifted through the meal in a haze of horrified disbelief as he listened to Lord Rhyzenger inform the other guests of his intentions for his third son to join the Firnik regiment, assisted by the rumbling growls of Fernik himself. He had a vague recollection of General Morecai's skeptical frown and Keira's startled expression, but one part of the ordeal stood out clearly in his mind: the swift, piercing look Lord DuFey had shot him at the pronouncement. For a fraction of a second, Peyton thought he had seen... not empathy certainly, but a shrewd understanding.

Then the look was gone, and the mage had remarked with utmost indifference, as he helped himself to a slice of mutton, that the Firniks were without doubt some of the... hardiest soldiers in the Empire.

Yes, my thoughts exactly. Lord Rhyzenger had aimed the remark in the general direction of the mage, as was his habit when circumstances forced him to interact with Lord DuFey. Relieved to receive no answer, he turned his attention back to the other guests at the high table. It will do the boy good. Toughen him up a bit. Lazlo here has already assured me that he'll not take it easy on the lad on my account, and I entrust his future to you without reservations, my dear General.

Toughen him up. Having been on the receiving end of Wesley's fists for many years, ostensibly for the same purpose, Peyton had no interest in continuing down the same path under the tender care of Lazlo Firnik. What had scared him most was not the thinly-veiled cruelty and contempt in the man's eyes; no, it had been the gleam of unholy anticipation he had caught there that had convinced him that his life would not be worth living under the General, even should he survive the experience. There were few things more dangerous than to be within the power of a man who enjoyed inflicting pain on others.

Lost in these reflections, he jumped when Lord DuFey's voice recalled him to the present.

"May I take it from your continued silence and the attractive pallor you have suddenly developed, that you do not appreciate the distinction of a commission under the wing of General Firnik?"

Peyton did not try to suppress his convulsive shudder. A cold sweat had formed on his palms, and he rubbed them against each other in an effort to restore warmth. "I would rather die."

"Well, that seems a tad extreme, my lord." DuFey bore Peyton's black look with equanimity. A delicate pause. "While I am not wholly unsympathetic to your dilemma, my lord, I am not sure of its connection with myself. I have little sway, after all, with either your father or General Firnik. So again I ask: why come to me?"

A muscle twitched along Peyton's jaw. For a moment, the enormity of his request paralyzed him. Desperate, he risked a glance up into his host's face. DuFey regarded him with hooded, sleepy eyes, but Peyton detected a sharp amusement behind the bland mask. It startled him. It was almost as if the man knew exactly what he wanted, but was deriving cynical entertainment from forcing Peyton to admit it out loud. The flare of exasperation at this thought freed his tongue.

"I want to be a mage."

The words came out in a whisper that might as well have been a shout. The stillness in the room thickened into a solid wall of silence. There was no reading Lord DuFey's expression now, as his eyes drilled into Peyton's own. For his part, the young lord could not have spoken again to save his life, torn between relief and shock at his admission.

One corner of Lord DuFey's lips curled up in a wry smirk, breaking the frozen stalemate. His voice was unwontedly gentle. "Given your stunned reaction to your own assertion, Lord Peyton, I feel almost compelled to offer you an opportunity to retract it."

This was his opening then. His chance to bolt.

"Thank you, my lord, but I don't wish to retract it," Peyton heard himself saying, as though from a great distance. He swallowed to force his heart out of his throat, hoping to restore some sense of reality to his reeling thoughts.

The mage leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Have you mentioned this aspiration to anyone besides myself?"

"No!" Peyton blurted, horrified. A hot flush rose to his face a moment later as he realized how that had sounded. "I-I mean... they wouldn't... they wouldn't understand..."

"I doubt that you do either," Lord DuFey remarked dryly.

"As long as it gets me away from my father and General Firnik, I don't care," Peyton said, his voice clipped and grim.

"Proving once again that ignorance really is bliss," DuFey muttered. "Very well, Lord Peyton, if you are truly determined, then I suppose an apprenticeship is not out of the question."

The words were begrudging, but the tone brought Peyton's head up. Had he only imagined the trace of satisfaction he thought he had heard?

"I trust you need no warning to keep this arrangement between ourselves until it is completed?"

Distracted, Peyton shook his head. "Err... should... I mean, what should I do?"

"Very little, at this point. Tomorrow morning, you will muster as much enthusiasm as possible at the prospect of joining General Firnik's regiment." DuFey raised an eyebrow at Peyton's dismayed expression. "Unless you would like to personally inform your family of your career decision, my lord? No? Well then, as I was saying. I expect the General to quit the region shortly, as he is nearing the end of his recruitment run. It is his custom, I believe, to see his new men to his garrison at Halmes, where he leaves them to be initiated into the delights of military life while he himself winters at the capital. I strongly urge you, my lord, to see to it that you accompany him thither, rather than remaining behind."

"How do I do that?" Peyton interrupted.

Lord DuFey graced him with narrowed eyes. "I have no intention, my lord, of burdening myself with someone who is incapable of handling even the simplest of tasks. If you cannot manage, in the upcoming weeks, to convince General Firnik -- a man not noted for his subtlety -- to include you in his retinue, then you will fare very badly indeed trying to navigate the intricacies of court." He paused to let his words sink in and seemed somewhat appeased when Peyton dropped his eyes and nodded. After a moment, he said, in the tones of a man relenting despite his better judgement, "You might do worse than to approach the regiment's chaplain. Brother Orin, I think his name is. A recent addition who has not yet found his proper footing among the veterans. Make yourself useful to him -- in a clerical capacity, for example -- and he might request your presence when he accompanies the General to the capital to report to the head of his order." DuFey stopped once more and made a show of examining his fingernails. "I assume you know better than to mention your ultimate goal to one of the clergy?"

Peyton nodded again to show his understanding, grateful for the tip about how to coax his way into the General's train. He would just have to be careful that this Brother Orin never suspected his true motivations. There was little love lost between the Empire's mages and the various religious orders scattered throughout Litha and her provinces; the former regarded the latter as narrow-minded and superstitious at best, while Peyton had heard enough sermons on the unspeakable evils of magery to know that popular view condemned its practitioners to nothing less than an eternity of torment. Perversely, this gave Peyton a boost of confidence; the idea that anyone would aspire to be a mage was almost inconceivable; as long as he never mentioned it, no one would suspect. "What happens after we arrive at the capital?"

"You will come and find me, keeping in mind the need to exercise discretion. I hope for his sake that you will at least not have to resort to Lord Darmos for another distraction." DuFey's lips twitched at Peyton's look of chagrin. "From there, we shall work out the details of your apprenticeship."

"Yes, my lord," Peyton said. The relief of having a definite plan lifted a weight from his heart. The future did not seem so daunting now that the first tentative steps had been laid down, ones that had nothing to do with the constricting expectations of his family. More than that, there was comfort in the tacit agreement that this scheme should not come to the attention of others until it became necessary. He drew a deep breath and released it in a slow sigh. "Thank you, my lord."

DuFey inclined his head in acknowledgement. They sat in silence for a moment, before he pushed his chair back and rose. "The hour is late, Lord Peyton. If we have nothing more to discuss...?"

"Err, of course, my lord." Peyton scrambled to his feet. It suddenly occurred to him that he had hatched no plan for how to get back into his rooms once he had snuck out. For a moment he was tempted to ask Lord DuFey, but then remembered the man's admonition about handling simple tasks. Well, if nothing else, he could probably rely on his guards' reluctance to admit their own error to keep him safe. "Thank you again."

Lord DuFey waved away his words, and Peyton bowed before retreating. The last thing he saw before the door closed was the characteristic gleam of irony in the mage's eyes.

***

"You are not serious, surely?"

DuFey studied the look of comic disbelief on his guest's face and his mouth formed a faint smile. "I assure you that I am perfectly sincere."

Prince Alddyn blinked at him and visibly tested and discarded a variety of rejoinders before snorting and giving up. He settled back into the couch and lifted his feet unto the footstool. Behind him, the morning sun shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows and bathed the receiving room in bright, golden light. The prince rubbed at his chin in bemusement. "Peyton Rhyzenger... Imperial mage. I can't quite picture it somehow. I thought all these provincials believed that magery is the work of demons or some such foolishness?"

"Hardly a point upon which I wanted the boy to dwell, if I was to get anywhere with him. Rather, we focused on his family's overbearing control and the delightful personality of General Firnik."

Alddyn considered this. "It sounds," he said, hesitating as though tasting each word before releasing it, "that you went to some trouble to direct the conversation. Is he that important?" This was said in a tone pitched to convey maximum doubt.

"On the contrary, he is not important at all." DuFey hid his amusement at the prince's exasperated look. "But he might still prove useful."

"Oh really?" Said with a drawl and a roll of the eyes.

DuFey frowned at the prince's levity. "You would do well, your highness, to pay more attention to the machinations of your brothers."

Alddyn went still for a long moment. Then, arching an eyebrow in a show of carelessness that fooled neither, he asked, "Arcturus?"

"Knows he will not be strong enough to contend for the throne without military support."

"And you think he is courting Lazlo Firnik?" Alddyn asked, his skepticism clear.

"He does not need to if there are others who do so on his behalf. Others like Archbishop Torbeau, who recently appointed a cousin by the name of Orin to see to the spiritual needs of the miserable souls in a certain regiment stationed at Halmes and to quiet their discontented rumblings."

"Ah. Any luck with that?"

"Not that I've heard, but it's early yet."

There was little humor on Alddyn's face now, as he rose and paced back and forth a few steps. "May I assume this is where Lord Peyton comes in?"

"I do not think Brother Orin will link his presence to me, and if the boy takes my hint and ingratiates himself through clerical work he could gain access to manuscripts or correspondence. I suspect Torbeau may push to have Halmes and the surrounding area declared as a separate diocese."

"And won't that be a pretty mess. What did you tell our young Rhyzenger spy to look for?"

DuFey did not answer, and his silence earned him a sharp look.

"You really didn't tell him anything, did you?" Alddyn said after it became clear the other man was not about to speak. His brow furrowed in thought. "Did you think he would not comply?"

"A spy who does not know he is one is much less likely to doublecross his benefactor, your highness. Lord Peyton requires careful handling. At the moment, he is confused and isolated, and he came to me because he had no other recourse. Had he any inkling that there are other options, I would not wager upon his loyalty."

"Perhaps," Alddyn murmured, "perhaps he already is a spy. It would be a brilliant coup for Arcturus if so."

"Unlikely. Recent efforts aside, Elrithea is still on the whole too insular to have been so saturated with Imperial politics. What's more, the religious orders in the provinces are powerful, but not yet well-organized enough to exert the kind of influence they enjoy in central Litha. From what I have seen, Lord Peyton's only exposure to such authority is in the form of the Rhyzenger family priest, a harmless innocent as much in love with the bottle as with his chosen saint. I would assume that is the reason he did not think to join the clergy as an alternative to the military, because he thinks they will not be able to protect him from the idiocy of his father. He will realize differently, of course, once he settles at the capital, but by then it will be too late for second thoughts."

Alddyn grinned. "Because he will already have acted as our eyes and ears and won't be able to seek other routes out, eh?" He chuckled at DuFey's ironic nod. "Do you really intend to make him a mage?"

"If he shows talent for it," DuFey said with a shrug. "I doubt he knows what such an apprenticeship involves. Provincials are remarkably ignorant when it comes to magic; to them it's all about blinding flashes and loud bangs, nothing at all to do with mental ability or strength of will. As he stands now, the boy won't last a week before he becomes a toy for the older apprentices at court to practice their mind-warping spells upon." He heaved a sigh. "Normally I wouldn't care, but I do not think General Morecai will be amused if I allowed such a thing to befall his brother-in-law. He shall simply have to go about it the regular way and endure a year or two as a lowly Collegium scribe before we see if he is capable of anything more."

"And he thought Firnik would be bad," Alddyn said with a laugh. "I'd take Lazlo over those old curmudgeons masquerading as professors any day. Oh, and speaking of Zasz... I assume that's why you wanted to see me?"

"Yes. I thought it best if I explained the situation before he decides to interfere."

"You know each other entirely too well," Alddyn told him cheerfully. "He did, in fact, hint at giving Lord Peyton a place in his own guard this morning. Lady Keira is apparently unimpressed by her father's plan for her younger brother. I do not think she has Zasz convinced yet, however."

"I would urge you to dissuade him from the idea. As I said before, Lord Peyton is desperate right now, but if offered another plausible source of protection, he will not hesitate to seize it."

"Consider it done. I don't think Zasz much likes the lad anyway." Alddyn bounced a little on the balls of his feet, looking pleased at the morning's conversation. "That's all for now then? Good. I need to go get ready for the hunt later." He paused at the door and shot an appraising glance back at his mage. "I know you haven't told me everything, Morty, because you never tell anyone all that you know. Just don't get so carried away with your manuevering that you forget that not everyone is a pawn, eh?" He flashed a crooked smile at Lord DuFey's startled expression, but there was an edge to his otherwise friendly tone. The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

Lord DuFey stared after him a moment, before releasing his breath in a soft sigh. The warning in Alddyn's words was clear. Up to now, the mage had always kept his own counsel and acted as he thought best in the interests of his prince, but now, while Alddyn still trusted him, that same prince was also realizing that he could not leave everything in others' hands or allow himself to be used with impunity. Soon enough, he would expect an accounting of DuFey's plans, a problematic proposal given their fluid and uncertain nature.

The mage thought of General Morecai and the just-below-the-surface rumblings that still plagued Elrithea; he thought of Archbishop Torbeau and the subtle flexing of religious muscle gathering behind Prince Arcturus; he thought of other Imperial offspring, male and female, and the never-ending dance for power at the Imperial court, of the watchful eyes of Emperor Tavius and his ceaseless scrutiny of his potential heirs. And finally he spared a thought for Peyton Rhyzenger, an as yet insignificant piece on a board that stretched the length and breath of the Empire.

"I will not always be by your side, my prince," he murmured to the empty room. "And who knows, after all? Even the keenest dagger must come from crude ore. Perhaps the boy will surprise us all. And if not..." He trailed off, drifting to a window to stare out at the courtyard below. If not, there were always others whose malleability could be put to good use.

***

Author's Note: Yeah, I know, it's getting out of hand... but if you want to read more about a minor character in this story (Darmos), check out "Breached Defenses" ! Thanks and don't forget to review!