“Hmm,” she said.

“He can’t marry her, of course. Too far beneath him socially for that to be a consideration. But he’ll help her raise the child and he’ll be there for the Birthright Ceremony.”

“Did he help, at least financially?”

The Warlord snorted. “She never saw so much as a copper from him, let alone anything else. Barely ever saw him again, even though he lives in this town too. But he did show up for the Birthright Ceremony and said all the right things, and that made her hopeful. If nothing else, once paternity was officially acknowledged, her daughter wouldn’t be considered a bastard.”

“But . . . ?”

The Warlord focused on the tankard. “Sweet girl—and smart enough in her own way. But she’s a little bit simple in the way she sees the world. Despite both parents wearing Jewels—lighter Jewels, to be sure, but still enough that you’d have expectations for the child—the girl didn’t acquire a Birthright Jewel at the ceremony, and it’s unlikely that she’ll ever have more than basic Craft even when she’s old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness.

“To say the girl’s sire was viciously disappointed would be gilding him with a kindness he doesn’t deserve. When the girl failed to acquire a Jewel, he refused to go through with the rest of the ceremony so that paternity could be acknowledged. He said loudly—and in front of witnesses—that he wouldn’t have his name associated with a blob of flesh that might have come from the last squirt of his cock or a half dozen other men’s. The woman was crushed, since he’d been her first—and only—lover. Her family is helping her as best they can, but she’s been struggling, barely able to leave her home because that bastard’s ‘jest’ was all over town by that evening and she’s too ashamed to see anyone. And the girl doesn’t understand why her mother is crying all the time.”

“What does this have to do with Dillon?” Surreal asked. She hadn’t been hired for what she was thinking. She didn’t have a client.

Well, Hell’s fire, she’d just hire herself—and give herself a steep discount from her usual fee. Or not.

“The Warlord who wouldn’t acknowledge his daughter because she wasn’t going to be anything useful to him is the uncle of the bitch who took a fancy to Dillon. I don’t know how Dillon heard the story about the woman and her daughter, but when the ground was pulled out from under him and the bitch’s father paid him to leave town so that he wouldn’t soil the bitch’s honor by association, Dillon gave the woman half the money before he left town.”

The Warlord drank until he drained the tankard. He set it aside. “Maybe he’s developed a skin of meanness in his dealings with the distaff gender. But that’s not who he was a few months ago. I thought you should know that.”

“I appreciate it.” Surreal looked toward the owner, who hovered out of earshot, and wondered if she would ever see her meal. “Two things, Warlord. First, tell the woman to write up every encounter she’s had with the man who sired her daughter. Make sure she records what support he provided before and after the Birthright Ceremony.”

“I told you—he didn’t provide anything. He has no interest in the girl. Never did.”

“Exactly. And make sure what occurred at the Birthright Ceremony is part of that account, including what he said. If she won’t—or can’t—do that, you write it. Have that written account witnessed and give a copy to the woman’s family. Another copy should be sent to the Province Queen. And the third copy should be taken to the Keep, with a request that it be included in the information for the woman’s bloodline and the Warlord’s.”

“What’s the point?”

“The point is to show that he shouldn’t be granted any authority over the girl, if he starts showing interest in a year or so, since he wasn’t interested before.”

“Before what?”

Surreal smiled and leaned closer. “The second thing: where can I find that Warlord?”

* * *

* * *

An art exhibition. People milling around, distracted by the art—and more distracted by noticing who was noticing them attending the exhibition. The Warlord was there, showing everyone how attentive he was to the Lady he’d recently married.

Surreal strolled through the crowd, stopping to look at a painting here, a fired pot there. The spell she had crafted was ready, primed for release.

Bloodless castration. Not as much fun as the other way but useful when it needed to be done neatly. And something that might not be detected for years, since it didn’t take anything away from a man except his ability to sire children.

Jaenelle Angelline had taught her that piece of Craft.

So simple, really. Looking away as if distracted when the Warlord walked toward her. Her shoulder bumping into his hard enough for anyone looking to think she’d lost her balance. Her hand brushing against his cock and balls for just a moment. Just long enough to release the spell.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the Warlord said, sounding outraged. “Have you forgotten who you are?”

The question made her smile. “Actually, sugar, I finally remembered.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Lucivar landed on the street in a Rihland town, studied the clusters of people standing on the opposite side of the street, then looked at the beautiful man in the perfectly tailored suit waiting for him in front of a shop.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“Followed a side trail,” Daemon replied. “It led me here.”

“This is the last one on my list.”

“Then this is the last one.” Daemon used Craft to open the shop’s door. “After—”

Daemon’s power broke the aural shield around the shop, revealing the voices and the struggle going on inside.

“Do it!” a female voice screamed. “If you loved me, you would do it!”

“Graham! Don’t. Please don’t.” Another female voice, crying, pleading.

A male voice, angry and anguished. “Bekka! I can’t stop. . . . I have to prove I . . . Get out of here before I hurt you!”

“Do it!” the first female screamed again. “Kill her!”

Wrapping himself in a skintight Red shield, Lucivar strode into the shop, Daemon right behind him.

One young woman trapped between a counter and a young Warlord with a knife. Three other young women—aristos by the look of their clothes. Two of them watched with avid cruelty while the third kept screaming, “If you loved me, you would kill her!”