Book 2 - Warlock by Glen Cook Page B

like to speak to Assistant Security Chief
Bagnel,” Marika told him.
    He gulped air, looked around as if seeking a place to hide, then
gobbled, “Yes, mistress.” He hurried around the end of
his desk, down the hallway leading to the airfield. Halfway along
he paused to say, “You stay here, mistress.” He made a
mollifying gesture. “Just wait. I will hurry him all I
can.”
    Marika’s ears tilted in amusement.
    The guard turned again at the far door, called back,
“Mistress, Bagnel is no longer assistant chief. He was made
chief a few months ago. Just so you do not use the wrong mode of
address.”
    “Thank you.” Wrong mode of address? What difference?
Unless it was something the nervous guard had let carry over from
the mysteries of the tradermale brethren.
    She supposed she ought to examine the relevant data—what
was known—if she was going to be dealing with Bagnel
regularly.
    Time enough for that later. After today’s encounter had
shown its promise, or lack thereof. “Grauel, go down the hall
and keep watch. Barlog, check the building here, then watch the
street.” She stepped around the desk and began leafing
through the guard’s papers. She found nothing interesting, if
only because they were printed in what had to be a private male
language. She opened the desk’s several drawers. Again she
found nothing of any interest.
    Well, it had been worth a look. Just in case. She rounded the
desk again, recalled Grauel and Barlog. To their inquisitive looks
she replied, “I was just curious. There wasn’t anything
there.”
    The guard took another five minutes. He returned to find them
just as he had left them. “Kentan Bagnel will be here
shortly, mistress. Can I make your wait more comfortable somehow?
Would you care for refreshments?”
    “Not for myself, thank you. Barlog? Grauel?”
    Each replied, “No, mistress,” and Marika was pleased
with their restraint. In years past they would have chastised any
male this bold.
    “You called Bagnel Kentan. Is that a title or
name?”
    The guard was fuddled for a moment. Then he brightened. “A
title, mistress. It denotes his standing with the
brethren.”
    “It has nothing to do with his job?”
    “No, mistress. Not directly.”
    “I see. Where does a kentan stand with regard to others?
How high?”
    The guard looked unhappy. He did not want to answer, yet felt he
had to conform to orders to deal with her hospitably.
    “It must be fairly high. You are nervous about him. The
year has treated Bagnel well, then.”
    “Yes, mistress. His rise has
been . . . ”
    “Rapid?”
    “Yes, mistress. We all thought your last visit would cause
him grave embarrassment, but . . . ”
    Marika turned away to conceal her features. A photograph graced
the wall opposite the desk. It had been enlarged till it was so
grainy it was difficult to recognize. “What is this
place?”
    Relieved, the guard came around his desk and began explaining,
“That is the brethren landhold at TelleRai,
mistress.”
    “Yes. Of course. I have never seen it from this
angle.”
    “Marika?”
    She turned. Bagnel had arrived. He looked sleek and
self-confident and just a bit excited. “Bagnel. As you see,
I’m behaving myself this time.” She used the informal
mode without realizing it. Grauel and Barlog gave her looks she did
not see.
    “You’ve grown.” Bagnel responded in the same
mode. His usage was as unconscious as Marika’s.
    Grauel and Barlog bared teeth and exchanged glances.
    “Yes. Also grown up. I spent the summer in the Ponath,
battling the nomad. I believe it changed me.”
    Bagnel glanced at the guard. “You’ve been grilling
Norgis. You’ve made him very uncomfortable.”
    “We were talking about the picture of the Tovand,
kentan,” the guard said.
    Bagnel scowled. The guard retreated behind the barrier of his
desk. He increased the volume of the sound accompanying the display
on his screen. Marika was amused, but concealed it.
    “Well,” Bagnel