Warlock by Glen Cook Page B

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 said. “You’re here again.”
    Grauel and Barlog frowned at his use of the familiar mode.
    “I hoped I could look inside the aircraft this time. Under supervision, of course. Nothing secret seems to be going on now. The fighting ships and the big dirigibles