The White Mists of Power by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

softness gave way under her slight weight. Someone of the king’s girth would sink to the floor. “Lord Dakin doesn’t seem to care about those lands his family fought for. If I were here on business, I wouldn’t have time to look at Sir Geoffry of Kinsmail. But right now I can look and wonder–”
    A knock echoed in the room. Usci closed the wardrobe and walked to the door. Alma put her feet on the bed, tucking them under the folds of her dressing gown. Usci opened the door. In the light flickering from the hallway, she saw a man. But he was too short and broad to be Sir Geoffry.
    “The Lady Jelwra?” the man asked.
    Usci bowed his head slightly. “I am her manservant.”
    “Lord Dakin has arrived. He begs an hour to clean up and eat, and then he would like to meet with the lady.”
    Alma stood, her dressing gown swaying against her feet. “At this hour he is lucky if he even sees me.”
    “Milady,” Usci said, “you do owe him the courtesy of a meeting.”
    “And he owes me the courtesy of appearing on time. Hunting men with dogs taking precedence over my meeting with him.” She swept to the door, conscious of her bearing and the commanding tone of her voice. The retainer was young, his skin pockmarked, his eyes wide at seeing a lady in her dressing gown. “Tell your master that I will see him in fifteen minutes, no more. If he does not appear then, I will leave this place in the morning, heading for the palace, and I will not give him an audience. Is that clear?”
    The retainer nodded. “Yes, milady.”
    “Then why are you waiting? You are wasting your master’s time.”
    The retainer bowed slightly, then turned, and hurried down the hall.
    Alma sighed. That was almost too easy. She hoped that the confrontation with Lord Dakin would take more energy. Three years ago, when her mother had died on Alma’s eighteenth birthday, Alma had decided to increase the size of her estate. She hoped that by the time she was twenty-five, she would be the largest landowner in Kilot, someone whose power and prestige the king could not ignore. She had already acquired two modest holdings, a parcel from Lord Stilez, and most of Lord Lafa’s land. She was controlling the river access throughout the center of the country, and the king was already taking notice of her. When she left here, she would go to the palace for another audience, and perhaps some surreptitious advising.
    “Go downstairs,” she said to Usci, “and make sure that Sir Geoffry is not there. I want him out of my way. And keep Lord Dakin busy until I arrive.”
    “Yes, milady.” Usci let himself out the door.
    Alma opened the wardrobe and stared at the gowns she had brought. She didn’t know if she should dress seductively or matronly, be subdued or flamboyant. She almost opted for kittenish, but then decided that her reputation had probably preceded her. She took out a gown that had a high collar, long sleeves, and no lace. Attractive but modest. She smiled to herself, feeling heat flush her cheeks. The battle was about to begin.
     
     
    ii
     
    Seymour knelt on the floor, his arms resting on the windowsill. The shutters were pushed back, and moonlight flooded the room. Byron slept in the bed beside him. Seymour envied him his ability to rest even amid all the noise. They had come upstairs soon after the Lady Jelwra, and Byron had fallen asleep almost immediately. Seymour had lain on his back, listening to the murmur of voices from the common room downstairs, the laugher of drunks outside his window. He hated the noise, the crowds, and the confinement. He wanted to go back to the country, where things were quiet and moved slower.
    If he leaned forward, he could barely see the street below. Two cats started fighting, their screams and hisses rising above the other noise. A drunk kicked them, and they turned on him, crying out as they launched themselves at his legs.
    Seymour glanced at Byron. The noise hadn’t awakened him. Byron sprawled across the