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Great, she thought to herself, another spineless political appointee who has long since passed his age of usefulness. Why don't they ever send me someone who is young and vibrant rather than another impotent husk of a boot licker?

The Tharchioness looked him in the eyes, dead on.

He dropped to the floor, cringing in an absurd amalgam of abasement and terror.

The Tharchioness rolled her eyes, her contempt turning to cruel amusement, and said, "Well, it doesn't look like you are long for this job, and you know what that means?"

"Yes, your Tharchioness," he managed to get out through trembling lips and chattering teeth.

"Find my husband, corpse maggot, and do it fast," she ordered, revelling in the sheer terror her latest ambassador felt toward her. "I haven't laid eyes on him since I arrived yesterday."

"Perhaps he is avoiding…" the quivering mass offered.

"I don't recall giving you permission to speak, corpse maggot!"

"No, your Tharchioness."

"So don't just cower there, find him!" she screamed, sending him out of the room at a break-neck pace that was, no doubt, largely propelled by complete and utter terror.

The Tharchioness laughed for a moment, her thoughts temporarily diverted from the precarious situation at hand.

"And while you're at it," she said aloud with a grin, though the ambassador had long since left, "clean yourself up. You can't seek the High Blade smelling of excrement. He might mistake you for one of his subjects."

* * * * *

The Reid Room in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The two heads of state met in the receiving room, their entrances carefully orchestrated and timed by their retinues so that neither seemed to have been left waiting for the other.

"Darling," the Tharchioness cooed.

"My Thayan beauty," the High Blade countered, "I was not expecting you for another month."

"I just couldn't stand being away from you," she replied, her cruel lips pursed in fake kisses for the husband she hated.

"That makes two of us," he agreed with just a hint of a leer that the retinues would no doubt mistake for lust, rather than contempt. "How goes the rebuilding of Eltabbar?"

"Slowly."

"Earthquake, wasn't it?"

"Right as always."

During the entire exchange neither the husband nor the wife had come any closer to each other, and still stood on opposite sides of the room. They tentatively drew closer together, still halting well before they had reached an arm's distance.

He first noticed the scent of a new perfume as they entered the room, while she recognized the foul stench of his tobacco. Their eyes never left each other, like two jungle cats each waiting for the other to be the first to blink, at which point the other would strike a lethal blow.

She's even icier than usual, the High Blade thought. She is probably already aware that her plan has gone awry.

Usually he can't remove his eyes from my breasts, the Tharchioness contemplated. Now he won't break my stare. He knows something and is trying to see if I know it, too. I mustn't give myself away.

The subtle standoff was interrupted by the arrival of some Arabellan Brandy. The High Blade seized the opportunity to seemingly relax, and poured his bride and himself a snifter each.

The Tharchioness sipped.

"Mmmmmm," she purred, licking her lips.

"I'm glad it is to your liking," he said in mock gallantry. "I always try to provide you with the best Mulmaster has to offer, but sometimes plans do go awry, as you no doubt have recently experienced."

The Tharchioness maintained her composure, and in a tone that she thought of as schoolgirlish (which, incidentally, turned her stomach every time she used it), she inquired, "What could you mean, darling?"

"Why the earthquake, of course," he replied, hesitating just a moment before adding, "dear."

"Of course," she said in agreement, realizing the subtext of taunts that he was beginning to bedevil her with.

"It's a funny thing though," he persisted, "one's misfortune is sometimes another's boon."

"To whose advantage is an earthquake?"

"Why those