Agent of the Dragon

Dimly, Mieryth heard voices coming from behind a closed door. Startled at the unexpected sound, she stopped and realized she was outside Armina’s office. A faint candle-glow came from under the door. She paused, then pressed herself against the wall to one side of the door.

“I know you’re not used to a body servant, my Lady.” Armina’s voice was muffled through the door. “But you need to realize a body servant is not a slave.”

“Oh, really? Then why does she obey like one?” Taryn’s high-pitched voice replied.

“Because she’s well trained. She knows you’re unused to a body servant. She’s making allowances that wouldn’t normally pass.” Mieryth was impressed with how clinical Armina’s voice was. She knew Armina was worried; apparently, Armina wasn’t going to let Taryn know this was anything but a simple lesson in protocol.

“If she’s so well trained, why is she trying to attract Camyrn’s attentions?” The sneer was obvious in Taryn’s voice. Mieryth suppressed a growl of outrage.

“What makes you think she is?”

“Oh, come on. You saw his interest at the introduction. He wouldn’t do that unless it had been invited.”

Mieryth heard Armina sigh. “You’re making a mistake. A body servant can be your greatest asset if you treat her right. Ask Camyrn about his mother’s maid.”

“Why? Why would I want an obvious hussy as a confidante? Especially one who obviously plans on seducing my husband?”

The unfair accusations bore down on Mieryth, a weight crushing her shoulders, the sheer backwardness of the accusations adding to the weight. Couldn’t Taryn see Camyrn was the type of man who seduced anything with breasts and hips? She felt the beginnings of tears burning in her eyes--then Rhysa surfaced in her mind.

She knows what Camyrn is. Rhysa’s voice was sharp in her mind. She’s blaming you because she can’t blame him.

Why not?

It was an arranged marriage. She doesn’t dare let it fall apart. Certainly not this soon. She’s just smart enough to realize accusing him will speed the process.

Would it?

I doubt it; but all she knows is the merchant class, albeit the upper levels. In a merchant family she would probably be correct. Their alliance marriages tend to be centered around money and resources. She doesn’t understand that in the realms of nobility, alliance marriages are about politics and Society. In a merchant’s life, money and resources are easily delineated: this is yours, that is mine. For a noble, things are not so easily marked. Their resources are influence. As a result, marriages are about influence, not possession, so sleeping around is not a crime so much as a socially unacceptable habit--like public drunkenness.

No wonder crossing the class line is so rare. The mindset is completely different.

Right. So now that you know why she’s doing these things, you can stop feeling sorry for yourself.

Mieryth felt her mouth tighten with irritation at berating herself. Fine. Now she knew why Taryn was behaving as she was. She returned her attention to the conversation on the other side of the door.

Armina was explaining the hazards of alienating a body servant. “If you make her mad enough, she can and probably will make your life miserable. It won’t even have to be anything obvious. An intelligent and competent personal maid can be frighteningly subtle about retribution.”

“But it’s her job to be loyal to me.” Now that she understood what was going on inside Taryn, Mieryth could hear the pettiness, even petulance, in Taryn’s statement.

“No.” Armina spoke with finality. “Her job is to be loyal to her job. Personal loyalty is earned, not bought.”

“What’s the difference?” It was a demand, rather than a question.

“Let’s say you have a ball to attend. You need to bathe and dress. If you’ve seriously angered your personal maid, she will follow your directions exactly.”

“So? Isn’t that what she’s supposed to do.”

“Not really.”

The silence carried an obvious startlement that made its way through the door.

“Let me explain. You tell her to wash you. She might do so--very thoroughly. She wouldn’t even have to be rough about it. The time it takes will irritate. Then you tell her to prepare your gown. If you don’t select the gown yourself, she may pull out the most unflattering one in your wardrobe. If you do select it, she may take hours ironing it and preparing it. After all, you must appear absolutely pristine, mustn’t you? Same thing with doing your hair and make-up. The end result is you show up to the ball embarrassingly late--if at all. Nothing in her performance would warrant so much as a reprimand, much less dismissal.”

“Hmm.” To Mieryth it sounded non-committal. The part that was Rhysa, however, told her wordlessly there was a note of pre-emptive retribution. Rhysa also urged it was probably time to continue on her way to bed.

What truly worried her was not Taryn, but her split in personality. Mieryth had spoken with Rhysa as if Rhysa were a separate person--albeit in her mind. She didn’t like the implications of that. Mieryth knew she was a cover for Rhysa, but she felt real. She didn’t want to disappear when the assignment was over.

Contemplating that was like contemplating an inevitable death. What truly terrified her was knowing Rhysa knew everything about Mieryth, but Mieryth knew almost nothing about Rhysa. Mieryth knew she was the creation, and as such she had no secrets from her creator, but it seemed so unfair.

The door to her room opened easily. To her surprise, Mieryth found a candle already lit. There was no one there, but something on the small table in the corner caught her eye; it was a small plate with a piece of fudge. The plate held down a note.

Here’s hoping tomorrow is better.

It was unsigned, but it was written in the clerk-like hand of someone used to dealing with nearly illiterate ingredient providers. Besides, she’d seen Sterling making the fudge earlier. Sterling had obviously brought this to her room through the servants’ corridors while she’d been listening outside Armina’s office door.

She smiled and gingerly picked up the small square delicacy. At the first brush on her tongue, her mouth watered. She bit into it and once more acknowledged Sterling had earned his position as Head Chef of this manor. She tried to make it last, but no time had passed before she found herself licking her fingers to get the last flavorful morsel.

Absently, she walked over to her vanity and looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was tired, but did not betray the exhaustion she felt inside. Idly she traced designs on the vanity counter as she examined herself, trying to find what others saw there: Sterling, Taryn, Armina, Camyrn.

Abruptly Rhysa realized she’d just finished tracing the reset sigil. She looked down at her fingers, and could barely make out the evaporating traces of saliva on polished wood. The taste of the fudge lingered in her mouth and she swallowed reflexively.

She turned, went to her dresser, and selected a night shift and dressing gown. While she got ready for bed, she pondered what she was going to do about Mieryth. No one had mentioned this splitting of personality was even possible. While Mieryth could handle most situations, Rhysa didn’t dare put herself in a position where her other, more specialized, skills were necessary, but couldn’t switch to physical control.

Rhysa was just bending down to remove the daggers strapped to her thighs she made sure Mieryth accepted without thought, when she caught a movement from the corner of her eye. She took a split second to realize it wasn’t coming from the direction of the door. She drew both daggers and whirled towards the movement, letting her magic channels fill. If something was coming through the walls, maintaining her cover was not her priority. The daggers glowed azure as she faced the wall where she’d seen the movement.

A translucent face protruded from the bricks. The light refracted through it so it appeared as if the face itself were made of bricks. Its eyebrows had raised with surprise, even as its mouth twisted in to a satisfied smirk. It was also male.

“I see I’m going to have to set up some protections, after all.” Rhysa kept her voice quiet and dry, but maintained her intensity.

“Indeed.” Bricks twisted to match the hollow voice. Its--his--eyebrows returned to their normal place.

A waiting silence fell as they watched each other. Rhysa noticed he, whoever it was, eyed her daggers cautiously. She sighed and straightened from her coiled crouch. “You might as well come in. It’s disconcerting to talk to a brick face.”

“Ahh, thank you, lady, but I think I’ll stay here until you put those daggers up. They look like they could actually hurt me.”

Rhysa glanced at her daggers then shrugged. She let magic drain from her channels, keeping the ebb of power subtle. If she wasn’t in immediate danger, she didn’t want to warn anyone who hadn’t already noticed an active mage was around. As the glowing daggers faded to normal, the--person--finished stepping out of the wall. He looked around the room and grinned at her. “An interesting use for a wine cellar.”

She quirked an eyebrow of her own at him. “You’re the ghost that scared Crysta so badly, I take it.”

“The smallish woman who moves like a cat? Yes.”

Rhysa noticed, now that he had separated from the wall, his eyes were solid white--the white of long dead flesh just before it begins to rot. Very creepy.

After another brief silence, the ghost said, “Though your reaction was much more interesting, if unexpected.”

Rhysa shrugged. “I’ve dealt with ghosts before. I was more concerned you would attack.”

“I noticed.” He looked pointedly at the now ordinary daggers Rhysa still held.

Rhysa sheathed her daggers and finished removing her thigh sheathes. The ghost watched with interest. “You’re a very unusual Lady’s Maid.”

“I suppose I am.” Until she was sure of him, she didn’t want to let him know more than he could figure out through observation.

“Ah.” The simple response told her he’d seen her intent, and that he was slightly disappointed at her reticence.

“You know,” said Rhysa, trying to be hospitable, “half the household doesn’t believe you exist no matter what Crysta says.”

“I know.” The ghost laughed. “I try to keep it that way. The things I find out are much more interesting that way.” He grew serious. “Honestly. I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t felt you use magic earlier. I thought I’d better introduce myself before you did something that might harm me.”

“Sounds reasonable.” She paused as he nodded--then she waited a little longer. “So what’s your name?”

“Oh. Right. I’m Dyram D’Gaer.”

“I’m Mieryth.” Rhysa offered her hand.

Dyram looked at it, assumed a concentrating expression, and his hand ceased to be translucent. He took Rhysa’s hand and shook it. “Pleased to meet you. You have no idea how glad I am to have someone to talk to.”

“Been a while, has it?”

Dyram rolled his eyes. “That’s an understatement. Do you realize I’ve been here slightly less than three centuries.”

“That’s, um, quite a long time.”

The nod he gave in response was morose. “And damned few willing to speak with me.”

“Surely you could speak with people when fully manifested.”

“Oh, I can. And when I got desperate enough, that’s what I did. The problem was coming up with a believable reason for me to be here when no one knew me. I don’t dare let too many people know what I am. I have no wish to be exorcised.”

“Exorcism? They do that here?” Rhysa knew she shouldn’t be shocked. In a country where elves and dwarves were not even second-class citizens, a ghost would be considered a dangerous pest--something to be annihilated.

Dyram looked surprised. “You didn’t know?”

“I’m from Ellendahl.” Dyram looked blank. “The kingdom to the north.”

“Oh. Last I knew, that whole area was wilderness.”

“Well, it’s a kingdom now.”

“And they don’t exorcise up there?”

“No. In fact--.” Rhysa bit her tongue before she revealed too much. She decided upon a version of the truth. “I’ve heard of a couple ghosts, husband and wife, who are detectives for hire.”

“For hire.” Dyram sounded skeptical. “What do you pay a creature that doesn’t need to eat?”

“Experience.” Rhysa paused. “Nearly three centuries, and you still haven’t tried to share experiences with anyone?”

He shook his head with bewilderment. “Can’t say I have. What’s it like?”

“I’ll tell you what. Prove to me I can trust you, and that you will help me, and I’ll show you.” He blinked. “Sharing experience requires a certain amount of trust from the person you draw from. Everybody has secrets, if you prove to me I can trust you with mine, we can do business.”

“What do I have to do?”

“It’s not that easy. If I set hoops for you to jump through, you’ll jump through them and prove nothing.” Rhysa shrugged. “I’m not saying it won’t take time, but since you’ve been around for centuries, I don’t think it’ll be too much trouble for you.” She shot him a narrow look. “Unless you want to be released.”

Dyram’s eyes widened grotesquely. “You can do that?” It came out in a hopeful whisper. When she nodded he licked his lips but shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. If you’d asked me fifty years ago, I might have agreed immediately. Now?” He shook his head again. “I need to think on it.”

Rhysa nodded. “Very well. If I’m still here when, or if, you decide to be released, I’ll do it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need some sleep.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll see you later.” He disappeared through the back wall of her room.

Rhysa shifted to Sight and saw the fading signature of Dyram’s passage. Using a bit of magic she touched each of the eight corners of her room. As soon as she touched the eighth corner, lines describing a cube merged with the walls of her room. Dyram wouldn’t be able to come through, or see through, the walls of the cube. She could open a passage through, but he would have to knock first. Satisfied with her work, she stopped using Sight and finished getting ready for bed.

#