“It’s not like that: I need confidential advice,” she said. Lowering her voice, “They must know I’ve spent over thirty years on the other side. Can I catch a couple of hours with you, without anyone snooping?”

“Hmm.” He paused for a bit. “Only if you can manage to become invisible. Listen, I am in the suite on the floor above you, second along. I’ll have dinner laid out at six, then send the servants away. Still, it’ll be best if nobody sees you. It would cause tongues to wag—and give your enemies words to throw back at you.”

“I’ll think of a way,” she promised. “Lay on the wine and dress for dinner. I’ll be seeing you.”

Part 3

Hothouse Flowers

Revenge of the Invisible Woman

Revenge of the Invisible Woman

The small town of Svarlberg squatted at the mouth of the Fall River on the coast, a day’s ride south of Fort Lofstrom. Overlooked by a crumbling but huge stone fortress built in the romans model, brought to the western lands by survivors of the Roman Gothic war against the Turkic occupiers of Constantinople and now used as a bulwark against threat of invasion by sea, Svarlberg was home to a thriving fishing community and a harbor much used by coast-hugging merchants.

Not that many merchants would put into this harbor so late in the year. A few late stragglers coming down the coast from the icy trapping settlements up north, and perhaps an overdue ship braving the North Atlantic winter to make the last leap from the Ice Isles to western civilization—but winter was beginning to bite, and only rich fools or the truly desperate would brave the boreal gales this late in the year.

When the horseman reined in his tired mount outside the port-side inn, wearily slid out of the saddle, and banged on the door, it took a minute for the owner to open the hole and look out. “What are you wanting?” he asked brusquely.

“Board, beer, and stable.” The rider held up a coin so the innkeeper could see it. “Or are you already asleep for the winter, like a bear fattened on salmon since I was here last, Andru?”

“Ah, come you in.” Andru the innkeeper unbarred the heavy door and yelled over his shoulder: “Markus! Markus! Where is the boy?” A freezing draft set him to shivering. “It’s perishing cold out. Will you be staying long this time, sir?”

A thin boy came rushing out of the kitchens. “Ma said I was to—” he began.

“Horse,” said Andru. “Stable. Brush. Oats. You know what to do.”

“Yes, master.” The boy half-bowed cringingly, then waited while the rider unstrapped one saddle bag before leading the gelding around the side of the inn.