When the Inn in Havenstry fills with business during the evenings, Rainier finds an empty table in a corner of the main dining room—then turned tavern—and listens to the flow of gossip. Sometimes Surreal joins him. Tonight he is alone.

He sips at a half-filled mug of ale, closes his eyes and focuses his attention on picking out sentences or thoughts.

“—heard that they’re plannin’ on going after Phaedra’s personal—”

“My new neighbor, I’ve always been suspicious… he’s never home!”

“There’s a band of ’em right here in town, mark my words—”

Thunk.

It takes all of Rainier’s self-control not to lash out. Prince Jakob is scowling down at him. “Yes?” There is a hint of warning in his voice.

“Thought you might be needing a refill,” the other male bites out. “It must be boring, sitting down here night after night with nothing but us simpletons for company. Your lady get pissed and toss you out?”

He feels his temper rising. This fool is ignorant all right—and damned lucky that he isn’t talking to a much high-ranking male than Rainier. A much, much higher-ranking one. Like Sadi.

“Watch your words, boyo,” he says softly. “You may feel that you can be insolent with me, but there won’t be a damn thing anyone can do if you offend the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.”

The other man swallows. “He’s comin’ to Ciraea, then?”

Rainier nods.

Prince Jakob curses quietly, and Rainier lifts an eyebrow. “Is there a particular reason that bothers you, Prince?” he asks, voice mild.

“No” is the terse reply.

Rainier makes a noncommittal noise and says, “Thanks for the ale.” He watches the Warlord Prince stalk away and spends the rest of the evening thinking on Jakob’s response. If there are rogue males nearby—and people who support them through more than just talk—then they’ll know soon enough that a new opponent is entering the game.

A deadly one.

Two days later finds Lady Surreal and Prince Rainier pulling up to a decent-sized estate in a private SaDiablo Coach. They thank their driver, and a butler nods to them on their way inside.

“The Prince will be with you shortly. There are refreshments in the parlor to your left.”

“Have you ever stayed here, Surreal?” Rainier wants to know as they vanish their coats and gloves.

“No. I like Amdarh well enough, but I haven’t been around other parts of Dhemlan often—except on business, of course.” She smirks.

Rainier settles onto an arm of a chair. “I have counted up to six other estates in Dhemlan alone.”

“So many?” Surreal looks interested at this bit of news.

He warms to the subject. “Well, considering the wealth of your family—”

She rolls her eyes, but he ignores that.

“—and the long-established… business in Dhemlan, it’s no wonder that there are a number of estates employed and kept for the SaDiablos. Of course, going by the account ledgers alone—”

“There are seven family estates,” a deep, cultured voice interrupts from the doorway.

Rainier jumps up from his perch.

“Father tells me,” Prince Sadi adds with obvious amusement, “that Mephis made use of the estates for our family ‘business,’ I believe you called it.”

He tries not to blush. Sadi’s mouth twists at the corner in a half-smirk.

Surreal sighs. “Daemon, play nice.”

Sadi raises one elegant eyebrow at his cousin and second-in-command. “I am,” he replies mildly.

Mother Night.

“If you can’t let us indulge in a little family gossip now and then, I’d suggest that you go soak your head in a bucket of water.” Surreal’s eyes light up, and Daemon smoothly glides to a side-table—and away from her. “Or better yet, I’d be more than happy to assist you.”

Rainier watches as Daemon mutters something under his breath and pours himself a glass of red wine. He’d get involved in this conversation except that he’s not stupid and has no wish to focus Surreal’s attention on himself—particularly when she’s dreaming of large buckets of water. Well, maybe water. Probably more like piss. Rainier takes a page from Daemon’s book, pours a glass of wine also, and once Sadi is seated, takes a position behind and to the left of him.

When Daemon eyes him, Rainier remarks to his employer on a spear thread, *Safer this way. She’ll target you first.*

Sadi sighs into his glass.

Surreal narrows her eyes at them both as she uses Craft to move a chair across from Sadi and re-settles there.

Daemon begins, “Who wants to go first?”

When Surreal says nothing, it is Rainier’s turn to sigh. He walks around the chair so that Daemon can actually see him talking. “Basically, Ciraea needs intervention before things get out of control—and people start a revolution.”

“Against who?” the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan asks softly.

“Queen Phaedra,” Surreal jumps in. “The bitch seems to be on everyone’s shit list these days.”

“The people remove Phaedra, and this is my problem how?” Sadi looks only mildly curious.

Rainier knows that Daemon understands, but the words must be said. “The Blood has an established hierarchy for a reason. If the rogues are allowed to incite protest and eventual anarchy, then that goes against Blood law and the order in which the system works. It… provides incentive for those who would abuse the system to undermine how we function as a society.”

Sadi nods. “Do you have a guess of the identities of the rogues?”

Surreal shrugs. “No. I’d say that they are ordinary men who do a little pirating on the side.”

Rainier coughs into his hand to hide his amusement. “Lady, technically we are all ordinary men with, er, alternate egos.” Sadi looks equally amused.

She snorts. Then sobers and looks at Daemon. “Do you want me to go hunting?” she asks too softly.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sadi replies. “Not yet. But I do have an idea in mind that will require your help.” His smile is brutally gentle.

Rainier suppresses a shudder. “How can we serve, Prince?”

The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince’s gold eyes gain that trademark glazed, sleepy look. “Do you like games, Rainier?”

Not when I’m playing against the Sadist, he doesn’t say. There’s no need. Without a doubt Sadi knows his thoughts.

Surreal interrupts with “Rainier’s more honest than the both of us put together. I like him that way.”

“Surreal!” Rainier is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. The witch ignores him in lieu of watching Sadi.

Sadi says, “Fine. We’ll keep our Rainier pristine.”

He sputters. “Now what just a minute—”

Surreal waves a languid hand in his direction. “Oh hush. You’ll still have some fun things to do, I’m sure.”

Rainier looks between Surreal and Sadi, mouth open and feeling slightly upset—though he’s not sure who he wants to be upset with, or can survive being upset with. So he settles for crossing his arms in a manner that he hopes is less pouty than it feels. After all, he is a grown man.

Daemon chuckles and drains his glass. “All right. Here’s what you can do for me…”

Rainier listens, becoming more interested than he should be. By the look on Surreal’s face, she is just as interested but a lot more thrilled. He wonders if he won’t have the more difficult task after all. Lady Surreal will need both eyes on her at all times. Glancing at his employer, Rainier realizes that that is, perhaps, exactly what Sadi had in mind all along.

“Ma, please tell me—!”

Jakob pokes his head into the kitchen and pulls up short. “Hey, I thought I heard shouting…”

Theia marches past him and Jakob flattens himself against the door to avoid a collision with the angry witch.

“Jakob!” His head pivots back from watching Theia disappear around the corner of the bar. The voice is familiar.

“Whit. When did you get in?”

A man of average height and without any particularly astounding physical appeal rubs a hand against his cropped black hair and gives Jakob a sheepish smile. Whit may not be what women think of as handsome but his sweet personality is endearing to most females. In particular, Ali claims this and Jakob is forced to agree under pain of sparking Lady Alia’s temper.

“Sorry, Jak. I-well, I—”

Jakob walks all the way into the kitchen and pats Whit half-heartedly on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Whit. Here to see Ali?”

Whit shakes his head. “Queen’s business.”

Jakob forces his body to remain relaxed. “Oh?”

“I’ve been assigned to a guard detail with Prince Nyx.” They both grimace. The Master of the Guard is most certainly not a beloved—or nice—man under which to work. “We’re, ah, chasing after those rogues. I’m sure you heard—”

“Yeah,” he says shortly. “I heard.” As a quick afterthought, he adds, “Who hasn’t?”

Whit nods. “I just, I was afraid for Ma. When we come through town, well, you know how riled she gets—”

Jakob nods. “Don’t you worry about Theia. I’ll look after her.”

“I know you will, Jak. But I can’t help feeling as if…” The young man trails off. After a few seconds, Whit asks plaintively, “Ma isn’t… hiding anything, is she, Jak? She hasn’t been herself the last few times I’ve been home, won’t even discuss the subject.”

Jakob looks away, not flinching. On the inside, he feels pain akin to a knife in the gut. “Your mother is an honest woman, Whit.”

“Yes, she is,” Whit agrees quietly.

“And she’s loyal to her family. Those are the things you can count on.”

Whit sighs and nods with acceptance. “I do trust her. And I love her. I’m just afraid.”

“We are all,” he admits.

They don’t look at each other for a minute. Then Jakob breaks the awkwardness by smiling ruefully. “You know that if you stop by and don’t see Ali, she’ll have your balls on a string before you two are even married.”

“Thanks,” Whit says dryly. “You always know how to comfort a Brother, Jakob.”

He grins. “Just calling it like I see it, boyo. Ali’s probably collecting the linens by now…”

Whit is already halfway to the side door that leads towards the guest rooms. Jakob calls on a spear thread, *Don’t tumble on the new sheets. Theia will tan you both!*

Laughter drifts back. *Don’t forget that Ma’s a forgiving soul too, Prince.*

Jakob drops his head and smiles.

Theia is; she really is. Now all he has to do is find a way to keep the Queen’s men from sniffing around the Inn and away from his family. He owes them that.

Saetan is fresh from a shower and settling into a book—whose contents he won’t admit reading to anyone—when he senses the roll of dark-Jeweled power signaling that a temper is about to barrel through his sitting room. He sighs and calls in his half-moon glasses.

The door swings open to admit one stomping, ill-tempered Eyrien. His son, Lucivar Yaslana, in all of his Ebon-gray-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord Prince glory. To say the man is pissed would be a mild description. Nevertheless, Saetan raises an eyebrow and comments slowly, “I could have sworn that I taught you manners, Prince.”

Gold eyes lock onto his. Then the Eyrien snorts and tucks his membranous wings back against his body. “You probably tried.”

“Yes,” he says in a mournful voice. “I did try.”

Lucivar’s approach is only marginally calmer but still wary. “Daemon isn’t at the Hall.”

“No, I expect that he is not.”

“And he isn’t here.” Lucivar looks suspicious. “Cat is, though.”

“Mmhm,” his father agrees. “I take it that she didn’t enlighten you of Daemon’s whereabouts.”

Lucivar rubs his stomach. “Nooo. She was too mad that I’d barged in on her bath. Her aim’s still good,” he adds wryly.

Saetan snorts and decides that he’d better vanish the book before he spills yarbarah on it. Geoffrey wouldn’t appreciate that, would probably demote him to a demeaning duty for a Keep’s part-time librarian. He has discovered that the pale, black-eyed Guardian can be subtly spiteful if the need arises.

“Where is he?” Lucivar prompts, coming around to stand in front of Saetan.

“Handling a business matter.”

His son narrows his eyes. “Dhemlan, then.”

“Yes.”

“Does he need help?”

Saetan smiles. “I doubt that, Prince.”

“Battlefields aren’t predictable,” Lucivar argues. His Eyrien son is a warrior, born and bred, right down to his soul. Saetan would never change him.

“I know that, Lucivar, but you are not the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Daemon is.”

Lucivar moves, then, to pace. “I can get involved if the threat is against my brother.”

“Yes,” Saetan says softly. “Family is entitled to… become involved under those circumstances.” Family would most certainly be. Those are words Saetan need not voice, as Lucivar and Saetan both know how they react to a threat against any member of their family. “So barring that, I suggest that you allow your brother some time before you go dropping down on his doorstep.”

Lucivar stops, considering him. “What makes you think I plan on doing that?”

Saetan just smiles knowingly and calls in a different book. Lucivar is heading for the door when his father clears his throat. “There is an interesting short story in this collection.”

Lucivar turns around and blinks. “Yeah?”

“I believe so.” He uses Craft to slide a footstool within arms’ reach of his chair. “Perhaps you’d like to hear it?”

When Lucivar straddles the footstool without a second’s hesitation, Saetan adjusts his half-moon glasses and lowers his voice to an enticing story-telling timber.

The kind that Daemonar, his grandson, enjoys; the kind that his sons have enjoyed too, in years past. “Once there was a Warlord…”

Eyan never spends time at the Rose & Thorn Inn, preferring to enjoy his evenings with his wife and children. Jakob is on instant alert. He slides into a seat next to the Prince at the bar. Lawl thumps down a mug of ale in front of Eyan and completely ignores Jakob.

“Bad news?” he asks the Prince, heart pounding.

Eyan focuses on drinking his ale for a minute. “I was going to ask you the same, Jak. Word’s going around that Sadi is coming to Ciraea.”

“Lady SaDiablo and her Warlord Prince are here.”

“Shit,” the man mutters. “Under your own damn roof. I’m sorry.”

Not as much as I am, he thinks.

“Jakob,” Eyan turns to him with concern and a flash of fear in his eyes. *If Sadi catches us—* He doesn’t need to finish that thought. Probably can’t without terrifying himself to pieces. *I promised Jyl I would stop the runs.*

*Hell’s fire, Eyan, you weren’t supposed to tell your wife!*

*And let her think that I have a mistress on the side, Prince? I’d rather confess to the rogue business. Safer that way.* There is a hint of amusement along the thread.

Jakob shoves a hand into his hair. *I bet she was still pretty pissed.*

*That’s putting it mildly. But Jyl and I see eye-to-eye on a lot of things. She understands, on some level, why I agreed to join your rogues in the first place. Only now that the heat is coming down, she says I have to think of the children. And I do think of them, Jak, all the time. Rani and Jyrd have already mourned a father once.*

He nods, unable to speak. Eyan reaches out and clasps his shoulder.

“I want you to know,” the Prince says quietly, “that I do believe in you, Jakob, and—whatever it is that you want to accomplish. Not just for Ciraea, but for yourself.”

“Eyan…”

“Don’t give me a spiel I won’t believe, puppy. You and I both know that there had to be more to the start of things than you’ve let on.”

Jakob looks away briefly. He returns his gaze to his friend. “Yes. But I—I can’t tell you why, not yet.”

“I trust you, Prince.”

Slipping from his seat, he whispers back, “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Eyan lingers at the bar, finishing his ale. After Lawl collects the tab, the Prince leaves the Inn, nodding one last time in Jakob’s direction. He shudders, then, at the inexplicable loss he feels. Jakob wonders in that moment just how much danger the rogues will face in the coming weeks.

“You’ll be heading back to Havenstry?” Daemon asks idly, swirling the red wine in his glass.

Surreal cuts into her steak and takes a bite. She chews so slowly that Rainier sighs and puts down his fork. “No. We need to search for the cargo’s trail.”

“The cargo was intended for unloading at Mist Falls.”

Rainier nods to confirm Daemon’s assumption. “Yes. The goods would then travel to the city surrounding the Queen’s residence for sale.”

“I have already spoken with Phaedra’s Steward.”

“Shit, Sadi.” Surreal chokes on her wine. “Couldn’t you have mentioned that before?”

The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince raises an eyebrow. “Did I not?” He sounds curious.

Surreal glares at him.

Rainier coughs into his napkin. “Was Lord Reed…”

“Ecstatic to be talking to me?” Sadi laughs. “Hardly. Reed is… searching for the documents pertaining to the stolen shipments.”

“Why don’t you just tear the place apart until you find them?” Surreal suggests.

“My darling, I much prefer to study his actions rather than the actual documents.” Daemon pauses. “Marcus has offered to procure the information that I need from the merchants in Little Terreille.”

Surreal points her fork at Rainier. “See! I told you that Marcus is good. You’ve got to let him handle your investments.”

Rainier fidgets in his seat. When he shoots a pleading look at the other male, Daemon remains silent and smiling. Surreal is right. He does look like a cat contemplating toying with the mouse—or much worse. “I’ll think about it, Lady” is all that the concession that Rainier offers.

She huffs and goes back to her dinner. He suddenly thinks that this meal can’t end fast enough. Having Lady SaDiablo against him is one thing—having a SaDiablo teaming up on the opposite side is terrifying beyond compare. He asks the footman who comes in to collect the used dishes, “I’d like a glass of… something strong, please.”

Prince Sadi interrupts with “Bring the bottle.”

Rainier drops his head into his hands.

Surreal and Rainier have left for Ciraea and Daemon is alone. He strips off his jacket and shirt and sighs into the bathroom mirror, hands braced on the counter.

He misses Jaenelle fiercely. He would take a quick ride on the Winds to the Keep, just to be close to her, but his wife had said, eyes midnight, that he must stay in Ciraea until the matter is resolved.

His Queen commands.

Then she had stroked his face, kissed him and told him that it wouldn’t really be all that long anyway. The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan would help Ciraea. Her tangled web had alluded to that.

He exits the bathroom and sits on the edge of the bed. On Daemon’s nightstand is an envelope addressed to him. His father’s handwriting. The flap is sealed shut with black wax, the family crest glaringly obvious. Daemon breaks the seal with one long, black-tinted fingernail.

The message is short.

He reads it, groans, and reads it again before vanishing it.

Then the man lies down on his bed and throws an arm over his eyes. His grin betrays him. The candlelights are extinguished, and he rolls onto his stomach, vanishing the rest of his clothes. Time to grab what sleep he can. He’ll be in dire need of it soon enough, if Saetan’s message is any indication of the future.

It had read: Your brother is upset. It would be a kindness to prepare the staff in advance.

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Related Posts:

• [BJT Big Bang] The Rogue of Ciraea (masterpost) – from March 5, 2011
• The Rogue of Ciraea – Preface – from March 3, 2011
• The Rogue of Ciraea – Epilogue – from January 29, 2011
• The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Six (2/2) – from January 23, 2011
• The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Six (1/2) – from January 18, 2011