She stood at the one window and stared out over the city’s sprawl, now splashed all orange and red and shadow with the light of a setting sun. She was eighty or a hundred feet above street level. In an apartment with its own staff, none of whom spoke a familiar tongue. It was almost as if she were a prisoner.

She slept only a few hours. Awareness of a subtle, unidentifiable wrongness set her to pacing the floor.

Someone tried the door, pushed through. Nepanthe settled onto the edge of her bed. The visitor stepped out of shadow, proved to be a woman.

“Good evening, Madame. I’m sorry you had to wait so long.” The woman’s Wesson was abominably accented.

Nepanthe rose. The words gushed. “Where is he? When can I see him?”

“Who?”

“My husband.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The men who brought me to Throyes. They said they were taking me to my husband. That he sent for me. They had a letter.”

“So that’s how they managed it. They lied.” The woman smiled mockingly. “Permit me. I am Fadema, Queen of Argon.”

“Why am I here?”

“We had to remove you from Vorgreberg. You might have embarrassed us there.”

“Who is us?”

“Madame.” Another visitor entered.

“Shinsan!” Nepanthe gasped. She’d seen enough booty after the battle at Baxendala to recognize a Tervola. “Again.”

The Tervola bowed. “We come again, Madame.”

“Where is my husband?”

“He’s well.”

“You’d better send me home. You lied to me… I have Varthlokkur’s protection, you know.”

“Indeed I do. I know exactly what you mean to him. It’s the main reason we brought you here.”

Nepanthe raised merry hell.

“Madame, I suggest you make the best of your stay. Don’t be difficult.”

“What’s happened to my husband? They told me they were taking me to him.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the Fadema said.

Nepanthe drew a dagger from within her bodice, stabbed at the Tervola. He disarmed her with ease. “Fadema, move the boy elsewhere. To keep her civil. We’ll speak to you later, Madame.”

Nepanthe shrieked. She kicked. She tried to bite. She tried threats and pleas.

Silent as death, the Tervola held her. The Fadema took Ethrian away. Once the woman was gone, he said, “Your honor and your son are our hostages. Understand?”

She did. All too clearly. “I understand. Varthlokkur and my husband…”

“Will do nothing. That’s why you’re my captive.”

Nepanthe could not stifle a wan smile. He was mistaken. He didn’t know the men he wanted to control. Mocker would run amok. Varthlokkur couldn’t be blackmailed. He would accept his losses, if need be, and utterly destroy those who had inflicted them.

She was scared. With reason. “I’m your captive. Isn’t it her city?”

“She seems to think so. Amusing, isn’t it? One year. Behave and you’ll be freed. Otherwise… you know our reputation. Our language has no word for mercy.” He turned briskly and marched out.

Nepanthe dropped onto her bed, softly let run the tears she’d held at bay during the interview. “What a fool I’ve been,” she murmured. “I should’ve known when the letters said Bragi was trying to kill him.” Was Mocker dead or alive?