Lord Aren paced the length of his office, the bone-white shepherd’s hook above and behind him, his wardrobe soundly closed. He ran his fingers along the edge of his desk, absently pying with the tooling there as a scribe waited for him to dictate his message to her.

  The scribe was a newly risen servant, and he did not trust her. The more seasoned among them knew the importance of keeping their mouths shut, but the younger…well, they gossiped. He had chosen her knowing she would, a politically necessary move in order to ensure he was not seen to be withholding information from the other generals on the Council of Liam, chief among them Lord Cree, who would pose a complication to him if he began to suspect they were not aligned in their goals.

  He thought about how to frame the messages he needed to send, how to word them so that their meaning was not lost even as little might be parsed out by those he did not want scrutinizing his activities.

  He started with Lady Therien.

  “To the Lady of House Therien, I commend you for an excellent showing with this morning’s activities.” He said. The scribe set to work. “However, I must forewarn that you send a courier to my residence on the morrow. I am in need of a draw from my accounts. Please do send the one who served me some days ago, I cannot remember when. I found his service was exempry, and believe he is worthy of this greater measure of responsibility in my affairs.

  “I would quite like it if you entertained the idea of sending him to me as a dedicated servant in the future, if he continues to show this high measure of competence.

  “Yours, Sis Aren.”

  The scribe finished with the letter, let the ink set and then waved it to finish drying. She slid it aside, selected a new piece of parchment, and set down to wait again.

  “To Lord Giram.” He said. “I am aware of your desires of me; however, I have nothing new to report. Activity in the city has slowed, as we expected, and the vermin have gone to ground. My Thorns continue to watch for changes, and I will report when any change occurs.”

  The servant signed the letter, let it dry, and set it neatly atop the first.

  “To Master Gregor, my chambers are a bit warm at the moment. Please pause the heat coming up to them for a time. Have your boys see to it that I am not roasted alive. Take whatever steps necessary to ensure they comprehend the delicate bance between a bonfire and an ice shield.”

  The scribe repeated her ritual with the st letter. When she as finished, she folded the parchments and pushed them to the edge of the writing desk she sat behind. He crossed to her with a pot of heated wax in hand, and dribbled a little of the powder blue substance on each. He impressed his seal, the ringlet of bckthorn, into the wax on each of them, and she let it set before housing them all in a satchel at her ankle.

  She picked up the leather case, bowed to him. “The shadow preserve you, Lord Aren.”

  “You are dismissed.” He said.

  She took her leave.