Flamecaster by Cinda Williams Chima Page A

politically astute,” Lila said.
    â€œTourant should know better than to engage with you.”
    â€œHe should, but he does not,” Lila said, “just as you should know better than to come here.” She added loudly, “So what brings you to Oden’s Ford, Lieutenant? Is the marching season really over in Arden?”
    â€œIt’s always the marching season in Arden,” Destin said, cradling his mug of ale but not drinking from it. “The king is a demanding master.”
    Lila leaned toward him, so their faces were inches apart. “If you’re here to see me, you’re wasting your time.”
    â€œI’m here on other business,” Destin said, looking away.
    Which raised the question—what other business?
    â€œBut as long as I’m here,” he went on, “it seemed like a good opportunity to convey a message from our quartermaster. We have an urgent need for as many—”
    â€œI thought I made myself clear. I don’t do business here. Never ever. If you want to talk, I’ll be heading east in another week or so. You can leave me a message at the Seven Horses on the West Road, or Chauncey’s in the city. Let me know how to get in touch with you.”
    Destin’s hand stole to his neckline, then dropped away as he remembered himself. “Hear me out, at least. The king has made a proposal that I think you’ll find—”
    â€œI said no. Is there something you don’t understand about no?”
    â€œIs there a problem?” Somebody’s foul breath washed over her, and Lila looked up to find that Tourant was back, like a bad dream, and pulling up a chair. He all but fell into it, clunking his mug down on the table. It was nearly empty.
    â€œTourant,” Destin said in a low, vicious voice. “Go away. The lady and I were having a private discussion.”
    â€œLady?” Tourant snorted. “You must be joking. I can tell you stories about Barrowhill that would—”
    â€œIt’s all right,” Lila said heartily. “We were done with our discussion anyway. How are you feeling, Tourant?” She propped her chin on her fist. “You look a little under the weather.”
    â€œMe?” Tourant blinked his bleary eyes as if unable tofocus. “You! You’re the one who . . . how are you feeling?”
    Lila shrugged. “I’m fine. But it looks like maybe you should call it a night.”
    â€œYou’re drunk, Tourant,” Destin said icily. “Why don’t you do as she says and go somewhere and sleep it off?”
    Tourant ran his tongue over his lips. Did it again. Frowned. Pulled his tankard toward him, and sniffed at it. He reached for Lila’s, and she pulled it back, out of reach.
    â€œKeep your hands off my ale!” she said. “Go lay down before you fall down.”
    Tourant pointed a shaking finger at Lila. “You—you—you switched drinks on me.” He turned to Destin, a wounded look on his face. “Lieutenant Karn, I—”
    Karn. It was as if the room had gone silent around them, leaving that one name ringing off the walls. Destin Karn might keep a low profile, but his father’s name was known throughout the Realms.
    Karn planted both hands on the table and leaned in toward Tourant. “Imbecile. Have you lost your mind?”
    Lila saw death in Destin’s face, and wondered how far her own usually reliable sharp’s face had slipped. “Ease up, Lieutenant Rochefort,” she said. “Tourant’s just a little confused is all. He gets that way when he’s drinking. No harm done.”
    â€œBut . . . she switched drinks on me,” Tourant persisted. “See for yourself.” The cadet shoved his tankard toward Rochefort/Karn. The lieutenant snatched it up and hurledit into the fireplace, where it shattered, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.
    Temper, temper, Lila thought, picking a