Dangerous Games by Victor Milan, Clayton Emery

black-and-white guards, then escorted to the front doors.
    Inside the mansion, the search was repeated, though more extensively. To an unbelievable degree. Braced by two guards, Candlemas was directed into a small room and ordered to strip. Wondering, he did so, even removing his loincloth. He was given a black-and-white robe, but the search continued. A maid went through his hair and beard with a comb, while a butler inspected each of his fingers, even pricking them with a needle to draw blood. Candlemas would have protested but for shock. After an inspection of his teeth, each one sounded with a tiny hammer, he was finally marched down a long corridor, handed to two more guards, marched farther, and so on.
    Eventually he reached the top floor. A maid said, “Lady Polaris awaits you,” and opened the door. Wondering, Candlemas went in. He was already half shielding his eyes. Remembering how stunningly beautiful Polaris had been three centuries ago, he imagined she must resemble a goddess these days.
    So his mouth fell open in shock as he entered the chamber.
    The light was dim, filtered through thick white curtains. The room was vast but cluttered, mostly with couches and low tables. At the far end of the room, reposing on a wide couch heaped with pillows, was someone who reminded Candlemas, vaguely, of Lady Polaris.
    Except she was huge. Massively, obscenely fat.
    The formerly beautiful face was lost in rolls of suet. Jowls suited to a hog framed deep-rooted, pouchy eyes and protruding lips. Her frost-blue eyes were lost under triple lids. Her hair looked dry enough to break, like frosted grass. Her body sprawled on the cushions, propped in a dozen places by flat pillows. From under her black gown stuck an ankle like a ham.
    “Candlemas!” Even her voice dripped with fat, curdled and choked, unlike her cool tones of centuries gone by. Her skin, Candlemas saw as his eyes adjusted, was blotchy and veined from years of debauchery and gout, too much wine and fatty food. “Candlemas! You wretch! Where have you been? Have you been searched?”
    Reeling with shock, the pudgy mage found it hard to respond. Slowly, he grasped her point. He and Sunbright had disappeared three hundred and fifty-eight years ago and had never been seen or heard from again (he supposed). Until today.
    “Yes, I was. Um …” he groped for a chair as he groped for words, but found only piles of pillows. Begging pardon, he sank onto them. He couldn’t stop staring at his transformed liege.
    “I’ve been busy,” he finally said, “in a library, lately.”
    The obese lady nodded as if that made sense. Grabbing with sausagelike fingers, she crammed a handful of sugared dates into her mouth. Drool chased down her chin, but she didn’t seem to notice. “When I heard you were in town, I sent my card immediately. Have you solved my problem of the scrying glass? I’ll need it for tonight.”
    “Scrying glass?” Candlemas didn’t know what she meant. The last problem she’d tossed in his lap was the flipping-bone-dice conundrum. But this…
    “No, wait. That wasn’t you I assigned, was it? It was, let’s see—that dark girl. Behira.”
    Oddly, this memory lapse shocked Candlemas the worst. One thing Lady Polaris had possessed above all was a keen mind that never forgot the smallest detail. Now she couldn’t even recall her hired help’s names. He watched uneasily as she picked up a mirror and finger combed her frizzled hair.
    Absently she murmured, “I need the glass because there’s a new form of assassination going around. They hire desperate people to sacrifice an arm, then fashion a simulacrum concealing poison until they can close with the victim …”
    Candlemas remembered each of his fingers being pricked to draw blood. Assassinations?
    “… I’m a prime target, of course, the choicest of the nobility. They’re all jealous of my beauty.” She preened in the mirror as she spoke, her forearm jiggling with fat. “Everyone hates me