Foreign Affairs: Chapter 12

He was pacing again. Against all reasonability, Rowan was halfway through his second loop of the expansive palace complex as if that would make the job easier. On the first pass, the bust of Petrocrates outside the Ministry of Healers was a pleasant distraction, but on the next time around, even the long-dead dwarf looked like he had some criticism for Rowan.

Arlene gave him excellent advice on how to face the Queen, so why was it so hard? There were a few dozen little reasons to spend an entire week avoiding her, of course. He didn’t have a convincing opening line to set the right mood. He wasn’t sure what to say and the script he held in one hand was less than half-done. His stomach felt a bit off today. His hair was a little messy due to the length of time he was walking. He dressed himself in his formal clothing and set out before the maids arrived so he wasn’t as comfortable as he could be. He spent so long without talking to Rhiannon that it would probably seem strange to suddenly begin again. There was no good excuse to begin the entire process of speaking to her, fundamentally.

That wasn’t quite right either. He didn’t before, but the Mistheim delegation would arrive today and they lacked a plan of action. It was primarily a social visit but there were schedules to be worked out and points of diplomatic importance which would need to be brought up. Rowan… had every intention to visit the royal suite. In due time. He would just finish this lap since he already started, sit down, review his script and-

Up in the hallway ahead of him, Arlene rounded the corner. It wasn’t more than a second after she caught sight of him before she hurried over. 

“Where’ve you been, Minister? Even your assigned maids couldn’t find you.”

“I’ve just been getting ready to talk to Her Majesty about the whole Mistheim visit business.”

The maid’s wings buzzed and an accusatory eyebrow rose. “Did you not intend to speak with her last week?”

“Well, yes. It’s just that a few things came up.”

“For seven consecutive days?”

“Er.” Rowan waved his script like a shield. “I’ve just been trying to nail my plan down and then I’ll be right along. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two. Less if you have a minute to proofread it for me.”

He was confused to say the least when she spun on her heel and walked away. Even more so when she returned carrying a vase of flowers from an alcove down the hall. 

“I don’t know if a bouquet would be too-”

Arlene took the flowers out of the vase, stood on her toes and poured the contents of the vase over his head. The water was halfway down his back before he realised what happened. 

The days were quickly cooling, but the palace was still warm enough for wet clothes to be an irritation rather than an actual concer— His script! 

He’d worked hard on it! Obviously this draft was committed to memory before he left his room this morning, but now there were unpleasant questions lingering about the exact wording. Did paragraph three start with ‘thus’ or ‘therefore?’ Even the knowledge about the possible questions and counter arguments seemed to be leaking out of his ears as fast as the ink was running off the page! 

His attempt to shake-shakeshake the pages dry was to no avail. Rowan would have to focus on remembering. 

Arlene returned the vase to its alcove, stood in front of him and waited until she had his full attention before her performance began. Her voice shot up an octave and she put her hands to her cheeks in poorly-emulated shock. “Oh! Please excuse this clumsy maid, sir! I’ve gotten your clothes all wet and now we have to get you changed before you catch cold!”

“Ar… Arlene?”

“But you’re so wet! We can’t have you humiliated walking around like this! I know just the spot to clean you up!” It wasn’t even a reaction to what he said. The response was predetermined and the conversation withered on the vine, dragged out into a kind of unlife that could only hope to be half as graceful as Stowell’s grapes.

A script.

Reason returned to Rowan just as the last of the water soaked into his undershirt. He was a professional conversationalist. Nerves were one thing, but he should have known better than to try to assemble a complete stage play of a hard discussion with the Queen. A quick sketch of any possible reactions or possible main points, certainly—that was what he usually did when he had time to prepare for a negotiation—but those were the kinds of papers one left at the drawing table.

Arlene wasn’t risking the return of Rowan’s cross-eyed foolishness. A firm grip on his lapels pulled him in the direction of the Queen’s tower. He didn’t love being dragged to his employer’s office like a naughty schoolboy, but he clearly owed the head maid a debt of gratitude for forcing some sense into him.

There was even less fanfare to entering the Queen’s tower than usual—the guard opened the door as she saw Arlene approach and let them into the dim, velvety sitting room without comment or proclamation.

A stray sunbeam snuck through the curtains and illuminated Rhiannon’s pale skin. She dozed in her seat in the meeting area of the room, wearing little other than an arming jacket draped over her shoulders. Her eyelids were still shut tight as they arrived only a few steps away. It felt ridiculous that his heart clenched as if he was facing a dragon. The woman wasn’t awake or even dressed.

Regardless, Rowan tensed his body when Arlene announced their presence. 

“Your Majesty. Minister Rowan is here to speak with you.”

“Hm?” The Queen stretched out like a content lioness before she bothered to open her eyes. A few blinks, then a flash of yellow as her smothering gaze found him. “Oh, there you are. I was wondering where you’ve been lately.”

“Ah… Things have just gotten in the way. I’m sure you’ve been quite busy yourself.” 

“In the humdrum, dreary way. Has Sophia behaved? I haven’t seen much of her myself.” 

“Things have been quiet.” Which was to say he rarely heard a word out of her mouth for better or worse. He almost missed the nagging. Sophia came up with plenty of good ideas and shared her experience, even though it was wrapped up in a package of contempt. She wasn’t a paragon of patience or tolerance but he wished their relationship was better. 

“Pouting, I expect. She’ll come around soon enough now that there’s work to be done.”

“If you say so.”

A silence formed as the velvet hangings on every surface soaked up the room’s last echoes of sound. He had nothing to add and her thought was complete. Clearly the Queen was still drowsy, or otherwise she might have followed up with the obvious line of questioning about the day’s visit. Should he give her more time to put it together?

…A few beats’ worth of pause failed to generate anything beyond a yawn and a more concerted stretch. Was it time for the other topic or was business most important? If it didn’t sour the mood, figuring out what Rhiannon thought of their encounter and apologising would make the rest of the conversation less prickly, but-

“Was there something you wanted to talk about, Rowan? You’re fidgeting.”

Just get it over with. It was like pulling a tablecloth out from under the plates. Even a hint of hesitation would cause a mess. “There’s a few things. I just wanted to apologise for going a little too far last week.”

“When we had sex, you mean?” 

“Yes. I, er, let things get out of hand. I didn’t mean to touch or speak to you that way so I wanted to clear the air.”

“I didn’t think there was anything to clear the air of.”

“We didn’t spend much time on farewells.” He wasn’t exactly dragged, but the guard in question wasn’t shy about guiding him by the arm. There hadn’t even been time to dress himself.

“I’m not one for pillow-talk so I just send people on their way before there’s any…” A strained frown came across her face and she made a gesture with her hand whose meaning was lost on him, if it had any to begin with. “Odd interactions?”

“I see.” Even if agreement smoothed out an already-awkward chat, he didn’t see in the slightest. What was the difference which made sex desirable but lingering on it intolerable? Guardrails around appropriate behaviour made sense when one slept with as many people as Rhiannon, but…

“Don’t consider it a reflection of how well you did. I thought you were top 20% material at least. I don’t usually get much from men.”

Impressive by her standards and even from a raw data perspective, Rowan was sure. It was only her undelicate phrasing that had the same effect as being struck in the sternum with a framing mallet. Couldn’t she say something more like ‘one of the best’ or at least ‘one of the better’? Now he was embarrassed for even thinking he was capable of taking it too far with her. “Right. Well, thank you for the good evaluation.”

“I didn’t expect the boldness from you, but I appreciated it. I’m glad it’s out of the way so you can open up a bit more in our relationship going forward.”

“As in…?”

“No, I don’t… How do I put this?” She looked to Arlene for help and received nothing but a flat expression. “I’m not interested in a romantic relationship. It’s why I make such a song and dance of never sleeping with anyone twice so nobody gets the wrong idea. There’s only a few servants like Arlene who I make exceptions for.”

“I suppose that explains the kissing, then?”

“Exactly. In fact, I should apologise for giving you the wrong impression by kissing you before then. Neither of us needs to be caught up trying to impress the other for the sake of sex now, so I hope we’ll have a more frank professional relationship.”

Food for thought, with enough gristle to keep him chewing for months. “If I could be frank, then, I wanted to speak about what your plan for Mistheim’s delegation is.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. I was going to impress them with the official crown and armour if my squire ever comes, put on whatever dinner my cook has planned and carry on from there.”

So the plan was non-existent. No doubt there would be some chat about trade and so on, but he lacked the scantest idea of what the political relationship between Mistheim and Dunmuir was. “Your M- Rhiannon. You were looking for more insight on my end, were you not?”

“Well-caught. Speak as freely as you’d like.”

“It would be politically inadvisable to lack any strategy or goals.”

“They’re fairly straightforward gentlemen and I didn’t think there would be much harm in letting things go where they may. Am I wrong?”

“Not per se.” Exerting himself to make sure his eyes didn’t wander anywhere off her face was taking away brainpower from actually speaking—especially when he knew exactly what it was like to have her body beneath his. Rowan took a seat facing half-away and gazed out the small, defensive windows which let the morning sun in. “The concern in situations like these is that someone on our side might slip up if we don’t have an idea of what we want out of the relationship. Imagine if we made it seem as though we weren’t interested in trade but we changed our minds in a year or two.”

She brought a knuckle to her mouth and chewed it without conscious thought. Yellow eyes wandered back and forth like they were scanning an imaginary chessboard. “Then…”

They both turned when the door creaked open. The guard didn’t bother to announce Sophia, much less stop her and ask if she would be allowed entrance. Was that the kind of relationship Rhiannon wanted?

Rowan expected her in formal white, but they must have passed some critical point in the seasons. Today’s dress was a deep blue and left her shoulders bare, complimented by an orange shawl to keep her warm. A second cloth was suspended from a red-gold filigree collar and concealed the ample cleavage the dress might have shown off otherwise, though in typical elven fashion, the skirt displayed a daring amount of leg without concern.

Once she caught sight of him, Sophia made a face as though she’d found a latrine cleaner cooking her breakfast. They worked silently in the office but there was obviously a lot of speaking to be done so close to a major event. 

“Ah, Ms. Sophia! We were just talking about what’s planned for the Mistheim delegation. Do you have time to join us?” He minded his words and tacked on a ‘miss’ in the hope she would stay. She knew far more than he did as far as this entire business went, so her opinion was invaluable. 

“…Fine.” A terse answer, but it was a start. She took a seat and very pointedly kept her shawl on in spite of the heat of the room. 

“Could we go into the relationship between our countries then, Rhiannon?”

“Rhiannon?” Sophia’s expression took a turn for the fouler. A lip curled, an eye squinted. What could he have done? The Queen would probably go out of her way to correct him if he hadn’t used her name. Maybe she’d gloss over it?

“We’ve gotten a little closer since he fucked the living daylights out of me. Isn’t that right, Rowan?”

They’d known each other for decades by the time he was born. Of course Rhiannon wouldn’t give up a chance to taunt her, even if it was to Rowan’s detriment. “I’m glad your opinion of my performance is so high, but could we get back to the original question?”

The elf was too busy trying to process what she’d just heard to bother interrupting. Her eyes leapt between the two of them and her brows alone were on the fifth re-knit by the time Rhiannon started speaking.

“There isn’t much to tell, really. We’re too isolated for raiders to bother and the only visits we get are social calls. They’re not very magical aside from asking their spirits to do things for them, so they really just come for wives and exotic goods. I suppose there’s a general sense of friendliness, since so many witches moved there.”

“If they’re looking for marriage partners, we might be able to make the reception more impressive if we invite a few women to wander around and look pretty. They’ve been at sea for a few weeks after all.”

Sophia hammered out a workable conclusion to her emotions and rejoined the conversation with admirable speed. The situation either fit with her notions of her friend-cum-monarch well enough or Rowan said something monumentally stupid. Perhaps both. “…They only care about their magical talent. Even our less attractive women are stunning compared to theirs.” 

He could see the sense there. Having access to the kinds of spells available to the witches in Dun Peak would be life-changing in a small village by the sea. Of course, he suspected magic was also the reason there were so many beautiful women strutting around everywhere. The old or homely ones he’d met were like Agriculture or the head of the bank—elegant enough he was convinced it was an aesthetic choice. “Maybe I should speak with Tara about gathering up some girls who fit that description then.”

Rhiannon sighed and rested her face on a fist. “I can’t believe I didn’t consider other people appreciating some pretty faces too. I’ll have the maids looking a little more enticing than usual as well, then.”

“Just as long as it seems natural. We don’t want to come on too strong.” What else? Before now, Rowan had never needed or even wanted a single fact about their guests. “Trade? As far as I know they only export heavily armed men.”

“Er…” 

Sophia became the target of the Queen’s wandering eyes and she answered as a matter of course. “You aren’t far off. They’re a net importer of almost everything on their little archipelago. Especially steel.”

“So they’ll be imposing on us, then. Is there anything of value they have besides money? We’ll be in a strong position.” Thinking out loud was more an invitation to turn the discussion over to both women. He wanted them feeling rather clever and in no need of his services when they reached the end of their plans.

Though she was lacking in raw information, Rhiannon was quick enough to rejoin the conversation without trouble. “If they could scare off pirates from our merchant fleet, that would be invaluable. Once it gets going, of course.” 

Don’t mention who the pirates are. Don’t mention who the pirates are. Don’t mention who the pirates are. “An excellent place to step off from. Do you have anything to add, Ms. Sophia?”

“Not particularly. Finance would be telling us to make what money we can to restock the treasury.”

“Good. I’d actually like to make a request while all three of us are here. Would you mind if I sat this negotiation out?”

The words were greeted with blinks. Really, Rowan hoped his deputy would cut in with a snark about how things were under control and how there was no need for him to ever be present again. Maybe they might have even had the discussion about who should be in charge of the ministry he didn’t ask for. 

Instead, Rhiannon gave a slow, cautious response. “That’s… very sudden, Rowan. Might I ask why?”

“My home town has a history with raiders. One of my earliest memories is of Mistheim men being chased out before they could put it to the torch. Needless to say I wouldn’t deal with them well.”

Sophia found a bit of the courage he counted on and folded her arms. “Anything but the official minister would be a snub. Unless I take the position, it won’t work.”

“She’s right, come to think of it.” Rhiannon didn’t even entertain the veiled suggestion. “Can’t Sophia just handle the majority of the chatting while you sit there? The reverse seemed to work for you with the Girians.”

“I can’t say I’m particularly inclined to help the likes of the Minister with his personal problems.” 

There it was. The Queen started with what he wanted to haggle the elf down to. She wouldn’t help with the first suggestion out of pure pride. It was time for damage control and perhaps a touch of bribery.

“Would asking nicely help, Ms. Sophia? I know you’re already far more familiar with their language and customs than I am.” 

“Do you honestly think I’m letting you pawn all the important work off on me—as usual—with a little sweet-talking? You humiliated me, made me choke down your filthy dick and now you stare at me with lecherous eyes at all hours of the day. You would need to debase yourself just as much before I could go back to even passively disliking you.”

The request was fair, if unexpected. Rowan considered himself lucky her plan was one-to-one revenge instead of undermining and sabotaging him every chance she got. They were a team, regardless of their personal relationship.

Rhiannon sat up straight for the first time that morning. “A bit far, don’t you think? If anything, I-”

It wouldn’t do to have the Queen take responsibility, even if this whole mess was based on a misunderstanding. Nobody would feel avenged by the apology of a woman they couldn’t get back at, so Rowan took the risk of interrupting. “I don’t mind if it would make her feel better about our working relationship going forward.”

“Well.” She was more confused than incensed by the lack of deference and relaxed again. “If it’s what the two of you want.”

He knelt down in front of his deputy and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I put you in such an unpleasant situation, Ms. Sophia. I never wanted to humiliate you and I’d like to get along with you.”

“Well… er… It’s a start.” The elf chewed her lip for a moment. To judge from the pink cheeks and strengthening smirk of superiority, he chose his apology correctly. She was enjoying this more than she thought she would.

The split skirt of the dress made Rowan’s job easy. He started at her ankles and ran his hands up her smooth silk stockings.

Sophia began sputtering when he slid his hands up her thighs and under her skirt. “W-what are you doing?!”

“The… other oral part of the apology?”

“Not…! Not like that! I’m humiliating you, not letting you get another taste of my body!”

❈❈❈

Rowan didn’t realise how much he missed the smell of sea air until he stood at the docks with Rhiannon’s entourage. They were a few leagues away from the gulf, but the river carried the scent of brine all the same. 

Rhiannon stood resplendent in her armour and crown, looking all the more regal in comparison to the ill-kempt sailors who disembarked from the ships before her. It wasn’t quite a fleet, but to Rowan’s annoyance it was quite impressive. The majority of them were longships akin to what the small-time raiders used to harass the coast and up rivers, only on a larger scale to traverse the ocean. 

On the other hand, the flagship was entirely unfamiliar. It was flat-bottomed and lacked any sort of central keel—which made the multi-decked monstrosity all the more impressive. Square-rigging two massive sails on separate masts was probably necessary to propel the whole ship at any reasonable speed. Squeezing it this far up the river was a miracle of piloting. 

A man draped in gold brocade strutted down the gangplank of the large ship. The especially-burly entourage and band of pearls and precious stones around his brow marked him out as the King before the announcement was even made. To Rowan’s relief, their language was similar enough to his own that simple sentences like: “Outta the way! It’s King Arngrim Hjalmarsson!” just sounded like a southeast Gislander putting on a silly voice with a mouthful of ale. 

The King stopped at a respectful distance in front of Rhiannon and smiled through his broad moustache. His back bent a few degrees, then shot up straight when he worked out monarchs weren’t supposed to bow. So he was very new then. Rowan filed that little mistake away in the mental cabinet labelled ‘Things I can hold over royal heads in case of negotiation,’ with a duplicate in ‘Things I can say to put enemies on their back foot before I start running.’ Once he regained his composure, King Arngrim held out a hand.

“Pleased to finally meet you, Queen Rhiannon.” A harsher accent than even Rowan’s, but it was Dunmuirian that he spoke in.

The handshake appeared to go off without a hitch. Whether Arngrim was jabbed with her claw-like gauntlet tips or bothered by the citrines studding her knuckles was none of his business.

“Likewise, Arngrim. How was the voyage?”

“Ah, fine enough for fall, I’d say. I’m disappointed we’ll miss your birthday, but I hope to finish the trip before the worst of the winter weather sets in. Even if I’d like to spend the cold months in Bondassara.”

She chuckled. “Pay it no mind. I’m only surprised you’re going so far west.”

“We didn’t traditionally, but we have groups paying us tribute there now. I need to smooth things over with the doges as well.”

“I wish you the best of luck then. A journey halfway around the world can’t be easy when you’ve just taken the crown.”

“I’ve visited most of the ports outside Dun Peak, thankfully.”

“Then I’m glad I’ve arranged a tour for you and your men. My Deputy Minister of Diplomacy will handle that.”

The elf in question bowed as an introduction. “Sophia Willow Penelope Greenglass, Your Highness. Daughter of Duchess Greenglass of Cairn Mór.”

“Charmed, Lady Greenglass. And who’s this gentleman beside you?”

To Rowan’s displeasure, nobody answered for him. Fine. He would do the minimum but he certainly wasn’t bowing to a pirate king. After another beat of hesitation, he settled on a handshake to mirror his interaction with Rhiannon. “Rowan.”

“Of Waterton. Knight of the Steel Stick and our current Minister of Diplomacy.” Sophia sounded like she wanted to add ‘unfortunately’ to the end of her sentence and just barely held herself back. 

King Arngrim took his hand and shook it jovially, a pearl bracelet jangling on his wrist. “Lovely town, as I remember. It’s good to finally meet you.”

The implication made his blood boil but Rowan managed to pare down his anger into a noncommittal grunt. Probably pillaged all up and down the coast in his younger days. Perhaps he even had a favourite treasure he stole from the local temple hanging up as a memento. 

A mirthless, wide-eyed stare was the highest reprimand Sophia could give in front of company. “If you’re not opposed to it, Your Majesties, we might start the tour here…”

The two regents’ attention was almost entirely on each other, just as he hoped. Sophia led a surprisingly thorough tour that distracted the rest of the ‘guests’ from having enough time to approach him. They passed by all sorts of attractions even Rowan was yet to see, so he was interested in the sights and impressed with their guide’s insight in equal measure. 

There was plenty of ’ooh’ and ‘aah’ out of Arngrim’s crew, but they commented on the most off-putting things. The mayor’s complex was like a miniature version of Rhiannon’s palace, with a tall, strong wall surrounding a central courtyard and well-groomed garden. “Practical” was the word he caught after the sailors tapped on the wall and made generally impressed noises. 

Delicate statuary, the dozens of buildings lining the city’s bridges and ornate windows didn’t fare as well in their eyes. “Storm?” one even said as he gestured at a warehouse’s large panes of crystal designed to let light in. It was just like those bastards to be plotting what they’d break into and what they could plunder, even on a tour. He would’ve advised Rhiannon not to wear armour with any other negotiating partner, but he was glad she did now. Men like these needed the awe of power to show a barleycorn’s weight of respect. Try to storm anything and they’d be picked up by their collars and thrown halfway back to Mistheim before they could land a blow on the Witch-Queen.

Rowan didn’t expect much of a reception at the Institute. All he really asked Tara for was a few well-educated single women if she could find any, but what waited was a practical platoon in various states of formality. There were a number of dresses and even ballroom gowns on the daring, but most of the gathered women looked as though military uniforms were the extent of their formal wardrobes. Regardless of their clothing choices, they certainly looked like the band of academics Rowan half-expected to see everywhere when he arrived in Dun Peak. Spectacles, comfortable tweeds and academic robes were in abundant supply and—yes, even Dr. Halske was present, though she very pointedly avoided eye contact and shuffled off to one side without turning her back. It stung a touch that she probably assumed he was the only thing preventing her from getting a research grant. 

Tara strutted out from the crowd at the height of a human woman and made a sweeping bow toward both monarchs. “Good afternoon, Your Majesties. I hope you’re not bothered by so many ladies takin’ up the invitation to spend an evening with the gentlemen.”

“Not at all.” Rhiannon turned her head back to Arngrim to explain. “This is my Minister of Magic, Tara Merrywing.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’ve never met a fairy before.” The King gave her a genial nod.

“Ah, we wander in from Giria now n’ then and a lot of us end up stayin’. I don’t miss livin’ in a tree, I’ll tell you that much.” She got a chuckle from the King, but the man was too slow to think of anything clever to say. Probably had no idea what she said at all and laughed out of courtesy. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Nobody like a Greenglass to tell you where’d be interestin’ for travellers. Have a nice stay, sire.”

The fairy slipped over to Rowan’s side after Greenglass and Rhiannon began answering a question about the Institute’s history in exhaustive detail.

“So, enough girls for ya?”

“More than! How did you manage to get so many together in a few hours?”

“Academic Veterans’ Association gals are always on the hunt for free meals, so I just had to say ‘free dinner at the palace’ in an open space before they were crawlin’ out of the woodwork. I think only a few of ‘em are plannin’ on gettin’ lucky.”

“So we’ll get a few back for their departure banquet?”

“Gonna have to beat ‘em off with a stick if you were plannin’ for privacy.”

Thank goodness. They needed to pad out the Dunmuirian numbers and the continuity of the same attractive women flirting with them would have a positive effect on the sailors’ behaviour. If any made an ass of themselves today, they’d get no attention from anybody once the rumours spread. 

“I really owe you for this one. Rhiannon didn’t have much of a plan for the reception and I think this is going over well.” Several of the sailors removed their hats with starstruck expressions as they made light conversation with a variety of witches young and old. A few discussions even drifted toward a similar Mistheim excursion generations prior. 

“Seems like.” Tara surveyed the crowd with him for a minute. “Heard ya fucked ‘er pretty good.”

“Who, sorry?” An honest question, though he felt like a cad the instant it left his mouth. In the last two weeks, he had encounters with… Three. Sweet Order, he was averaging more than one woman a week now.

“H.M. tall, dark n’ horny over there. You sound a lot more comfortable with ‘er now.”

He sucked a breath in through his teeth. There wasn’t much point lying when Tara knew him so well. “…I’m going to guess everyone knows already.”

“All good stuff if it makes ya feel better. Foot-long prick an’ leavin’ her a droolin’ mess kinda thing.”

“Only slightly.” With any luck, nobody would believe the parts he really did and assume it was unremarkable.

“Well, think of it this way. You’re in an exclusive club. Probably only one or two thousand people in that’n!” She laughed loudly and amicably elbowed him in the ribs a few times. 

“Oh, ha ha. I guess I-” Rowan caught sight of a woman with a red squirrel’s tail as big as the rest of her body dashing toward the monarchs. This was an assassin at best. “Sorry, emergency!” 

Inconspicuously dressed as she was, the guards were ready for danger. Really, she should be thankful she didn’t catch a glaive through the chest on principle. She was still outside ten paces when she was yanked back by the hood of her threadbare robe and the little slip of card reading ‘INSTITUTE INQUIRER’ tumbled out of her hatband. 

“Can I-?” The squirrel woman chewed her lip and reconsidered her wording. No doubt it had something to do with the guard preparing to turn the woman’s pointed hat into a concave one if she spoke out of turn. “Your Majesties, might I ask a few questions?”

“On whose behalf?” The Queen stepped closer and the menacing size difference became obvious. The girl was on the short side and Rhiannon easily stood head and shoulders taller in her heeled riding boots.

“The Institute. Er, Inquirer that is.” Her mouth ran considerably faster than she could think and it was only speeding up now.

Rhiannon lifted the stranger’s chin with one finger. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

“D-uh, Dwyer, Your Majesty. Journal-ist I suppose. I, er… I run an academic journal that prints the news.” A lack of response from the Queen made her supply: “Look out for the weekend news, with extra broadsheets and monthly reviews!” in a singsong voice.

“A novel concept, Ms. Dwyer. Perhaps I’ll have my chamberlain bring a few copies to the palace for my entertainment.”

“Yes, erm…” A sheen of sweat developed on the journalist’s brow as Rhiannon moved close enough for a kiss. “W-would you be open to a few questions about the negotiations? I’m planning to assemble an article on the visit.”

“I don’t suppose you’d mind, Arngrim?”

“No! Not at all.” It was impossible to tell whether the Mistheimer was too oafish to notice what was going on or simply played the oaf to manipulate the situation. 

“Excellent. Would you show the King’s men to the palace, Sophia? There’s no reason for them to stand about on my doorstep.”

Though Rowan couldn’t think of many things more unpleasant than standing outside in the company of the king of the sea raiders, going inside with his unaccompanied men was on the list. All he really needed to do was stand about and make sure nothing too untoward happened in front of Arngrim. Rhiannon was free to take this blushing, stuttering newswoman to her bedroom later.

The questions Ms. Dwyer levelled were friendly at first. Fully expected. Background about the king, the details of his voyage to all the countries along the near coast of the mainland, the climate and lifestyle of the people on the frozen Mistheim archipelago in the distant south. The only thing Rowan got out of it was the delightful news that the spirit-infested magic volcano in the island chain was big enough to wipe their civilisation off the map, should it erupt. 

The next was when his worries began. 

“And so, Your Majesties, what are each of you hoping to gain from these talks?” The journalist’s tone was benign and affable, but her eyes were sharp and her stylus hung just above her wax tablet, waiting for a slip. Rowan needed to remind himself there wasn’t enough at stake for him to interrupt two monarchs to answer himself. The worst that could happen was Rhiannon laying her cards on the table too early and weakening their bargaining position for whatever trade deal or non-aggression pact she had in mind. It wouldn’t even be him negotiating those. 

Arngrim spoke first. “I’m mostly making my rounds, re-affirming old bonds and so on. We’ve never been military allies, but my kingdom and Dunmuir’s have long-standing ties with each other. I’d hate for my short life to come and go without the Witch-Queen knowing my face.”

Dwyer nodded sagely. “And you, my Queen?”

Perhaps she took a hint from the Mistheimer’s measured answer or perhaps she simply had little to say. Regardless, Rhiannon’s response was commendably neutral. “This isn’t much of anything but a social call, as far as I’m concerned. It’s nice to keep up with the goings-on of the world outside my territory and there haven’t been any gentlemen from Mistheim in town for decades.”

“Hm.” Dwyer idly scratched one ear with the end of her stylus. No doubt she hoped for something juicier. “Let’s see… Ah! This is the first time the two of you are meeting, so would you mind giving your first impressions of each other?”

Nope. No no no. That wouldn’t do. ‘First impressions’ were still happening and Rowan wouldn’t blame Arngrim for thinking the Queen ran a city full of boorish newswomen. He smoothly took a step between the squirrel and the regents. “Perhaps your question would be best asked once they’ve gotten to know each other, Ms. Dwyer.” Or asked over lunch on the second week of never, preferably. 

Her lips curled at the interruption and she sidestepped him. “Pardon me then, Your Majesties. I suppose I’d like to finish by asking the biggest question on the public’s mind—Are any closer relations between the crowns on the table? You seemed to be getting along quite well at first blush and Dunmuir has historically been without many permanent allies.”

The squirrel’s tail and ears didn’t fool Rowan any more. This woman was a rat. How long did she follow them? Did she know this kind of thing got people tossed in oubliettes or did she hope to be too brazen for two monarchs to figure out what to do? Arngrim probably killed people like this on a weekly basis. Worry lingered. Someone could give an answer which was up to interpretation, then let her go and spread the kind of misinformation that would take years to clear up. He still had to spend more than nine here!

The King let a hearty laugh loose. “Closer would be nice. Though I’m afraid I would have no plans to marry my late father’s fiancée, even if I didn’t have another woman in mind.”

Enough. The reporter scrawled notes furiously and her line of questioning went distinctly in the direction of gossip-mongering. Rowan plastered a hollow politician’s smile to his face while beckoning the guards to drag her away if necessary. “Thank you very much for your interest, Ms. Dwyer, but we’re a little behind on our timetable. I’m sure all parties would be pleased to answer any further questions you have at a later date, so feel free to send them in the post.”

❈❈❈

The Mistheimers requested a separate room to regroup in before Arngrim wanted to talk. If luck was on Rhiannon’s side, he was lecturing them to not steal or break anything and not just eyeing up things which wouldn’t be missed until they left town. He was a fox in the henhouse. A clever one wouldn’t eat a chicken in front of you, but its actions were always suspect.

The wait allowed the Queen’s party time to debrief and prepare for the informal negotiation anyway.

And informal it would be. The meeting room behind the throne was set up just as Rowan remembered it—ornate but comfortable settees and chairs arranged artfully around a circular rug, and raking light from small, high windows illuminated a table designed more for tea than documents. 

His gaze was jerked away from the space when he was seized by the lapels and pulled nose-to-nose with Sophia.

“What the hell was that out there?!”

“Out where?” Rowan only played stupid on reflex. He knew exactly what he would be mad about, given her position. 

“I would slap you straight across your dullard face if I didn’t think our guest would notice the mark.”

“You could try doing it on his backside instead,” Rhiannon offered.

Sophia’s face contorted into the centre point between a disappointed mother and someone who fell into an outhouse. She glared at the Queen and opened her mouth, but either decorum or previous experience made her shut it again.

“We’ve anticipated this delegation for months and you’re out here prancing about like a spoiled child!” The elf shook him for emphasis, even as she hissed at him through gritted teeth. “Even I played nicely enough with the stupid wood-elves to not brush them off at every available opportunity! Is it so much to ask for you to bow to a monarch, introduce yourself without staring at your boots or at minimum take the olive branch he so clearly tried to offer you?”

“I-!” 

Knew she was right. Between dealing with the king of a country he wanted nothing to do with, handling the stress of planning it anyway, dealing with the journalist and weathering Sophia’s shouting, Rowan was on the verge of exploding at her to defend himself. 

But she was being perfectly reasonable. He would caution any diplomat in a similar position against assuming so much about a dangerous king or letting his discomfort show. Worse than that, he was about to infuriate his deputy—again—over an entirely justified criticism. He asked for forgiveness just this morning and said he was willing to suffer through a bit of humiliation to get there. 

Rowan set his hands over Sophia’s and took a deep breath. “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“And now you’re sitting here and-!” The furrows in her brow deepened, but her face lost the hard edge of anger. “Agreeing with me.”

“Sorry. It was childish and made our job harder than it had to be. I should be glad he didn’t take offence right away.”

She let go of his lapels and smoothed them down. “Then I’ll save your slap for later. DO NOT cause me another problem if you value how much of your job I do for you.”

“Gladly.”

“And consider the first stage of your punishment to be fixing your mess.”

They took their places on a settee beside Rhiannon’s chair and sat in silence while they cooled off.

“I’m glad to see the two of you sorting out your differences,” the Queen offered.

Why did she say that? It was really just an open invitation for one of them to slip a verbal knife into the other’s ribs, like: ‘Oh, it was my fault this time. I’m happy to apologise,’ or ‘I’m glad he sees I’ve been justified from the start.’

Neither of them said anything and let their anger continue fading. A welcome surprise when they were being egged on unintentionally.

“Even I noticed Rowan being a little snippy and you know I don’t have an ear for these things. Is there anything I missed during the tour, by the way? I didn’t notice much aside from Arngim playing the gentleman.”

Sophia needed a big breath to steady her voice before she could speak. “A few things. He’s travelling further than their kings usually do, so he’s likely concerned about how quickly things are changing. He may even be worried about his colonies on the south coast of the continent. Gisland and Bondassara are bound to push into the area in the next few decades, even if Tredour doesn’t try to take them back.”

“I suppose the war’s been the status quo for the boy—pardon—man’s entire life.” Rhiannon twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “What else?”

“Quite a lot of talk of sailing and how pleased he was his people could be back in the capital, but that’s to be expected. They’ll want to come around every year or two like they did before. I’m interested in why they came here first out of all his destinations. He needs to go further east as well as further west, but he sailed straight here without even stopping by… oh, what did the Gislanders name their new capital?” 

‘Rhiannon’s Folly’ was what most people in Gisland knew the capital as. Once the war ended, they needed a name not tailor-made to antagonise Dunmuir, of course. Rowan was privy to several of the many meetings held to decide, and they’d been awful. Shouting matches over which saint or hero, whether a deposed royal house should be in the name, arguments over whether the Duke whose territory the capital was in should get final say… The only option which mollified enough of the complaints was halfheartedly naming it after the ancient capital Rhiannon destroyed.

“New Gisdorf,” Rowan answered.

“That’s the one. As a king, he’s telling the whole world we’re his most important allies on the continent.”

The Queen set her jaw in determination. “I’m hopeless at picking these things up. Thank you.”

“It’s just a skill you practise.” Rowan spoke more for Sophia’s benefit. She had enough experience to be far more cautious than the Queen had been during the tour and might be able to talk some sense into her. “Speaking of skill, we should be looking out for the newswoman we met at the Institute. She knows what she’s doing.”

“…Ugh. Just what we needed. Right, first of all-” she glared at Rhiannon over the top of her spectacles. “Do not sleep with her.”

“What, do you want her first?” The Queen laughed. “I didn’t know you were finally giving women another try, Sophia.”

“Ha. Not all of us want to bed everything that wears a skirt.”

“It makes a world of difference when they’re between your legs. No offence, Rowan.”

Sophia slapped the table to regain the Queen’s wandering attention. “The point, Your Majesty, is if you answer the wrong questions it will put us in a very precarious situation. I’m sure our present company is well-aware of how talkative you get with the right amount of stimulation.”

A dramatic sigh slipped out of Rhiannon’s mouth. “Fine. I’ll do everything in my power to avoid it, but I’m not pleased about it.”

“You could fill a bustling village with people you’ve slept with in the last five years. It’s one girl.”

“I’m just saying she’s awfully cute. Rowan saw.”

Rhiannon wasn’t wrong. Dwyer was much different from the elegant ladies he was used to seeing now, but that was refreshing. Intelligent, clearly not overly concerned with procedure and appearance, even her tail was quite cute in its own way. A shame he was likely to play every nasty trick he could on her to keep important people from being harassed and embarrassing stories from being published. “Regardless, Your Majesty. The ‘first impressions’ question could have spoiled our negotiations here with even a tiny slip of the tongue from either side.”

“Alright, alright. Arngrim will be along any moment now. Get ready.”

❈❈❈

“His Majesty Arngrim Hjalmarsson, King of Mistheim.”

The King and a wizened old man nodded to the guard who announced them and entered. After a nudge from his companion, Arngrim even stopped resting his hand on the horn-and-pearl encrusted sword on his hip. The elder would be the real negotiator to win over, even if his King technically had final say. All the better for the real diplomats if the monarchs just sat there and wordlessly smiled at each other.

Rhiannon led the charge, standing up and striding across the room to shake his hand. It was eerily smooth and quiet for the amount of armour she wore, even if it was some famed smith’s masterwork. “No trouble with your men, I trust?”

“None at all. Your woman who brought us here seemed to have no end of hospitality for them.”

That was a good thing. Aside from being the only civilised way to receive a royal visit, it was the best way to impress them. Mistheimers took the courtesy of hosting with deadly seriousness. The finest food, drink and furniture the host could provide always went to the guest. If they’d sworn a stranger would come to no harm under their roof, they were expected to uphold their oath to the death—even if the King’s army was there to arrest a man they’d known for ten minutes.

“Oh, really?”

Tap. Tap- No. Rowan forced his hand away from his leg and the familiar habit. Rhiannon making the incredibly minor slip wasn’t a threat of any sort. All she did was fail to accumulate an extra sliver of goodwill by pretending she had a hand in the decisions. Deep breaths. Sophia and Rhiannon would be spearheading everything and all he had to do was play his part as a minister-shaped decoration.

“I’m not surprised. Arlene has such a way with these things that she’d chase me off if I tried to help.”

Arngrim chuckled. “I’d like to thank her personally before we leave, then.”

“I’m sure the servants would be overjoyed by your gratitude, Your Majesty,” Sophia said. 

“I’d hate to upset the people who decide what goes in my drink.” He chuckled, then gestured to the old man beside him. “I’d like to introduce my family’s closest advisor. Runolf Pippasson MacCairn.”

“An honour.” Runolf didn’t so much bow as he allowed his ancient back to bend a little further than before.

“Sophia Willow Penelope Greenglass. Aren’t you normally named after your fathers, Mr. MacCairn?”

“Only as a matter of preference. Pippa NicCairn might mean more to a Dunmuirian than Flosi Adilsson.”

Rhiannon’s face lit up. “Oh! Captain of my predecessor’s guard when I was a young girl, wasn’t she?”

“Correct, Your Majesty. My mother sends her regards.”

“Send mine back, by all means.”

While the two smiled at each other, Rowan seized his chance. He needed to apologise for brushing off the King, as he promised, but in a way that wouldn’t lose any face.

Rowan made sure to speak slowly and exaggerate his accent as though he was struggling. “I’m sorry ‘bout earlier. I’m not used ta Dunmooryan speech yet. Didn’ mean ta be rude, just couldn’ understand.”

Both Mistheimers looked at each other and shrugged. As good a hint as any his ploy had worked.

“Ms. Greenglass ought ter do a better job’n me. Right intelligent woman.”

“If she’s earned your confidence, I’m sure we’re in excellent hands.”

Sophia took a long breath in. Whether it was a suppressed scream, relief or something else, he was sure he’d be told in vivid detail after the meeting. “I shall do my utmost to live up to your expectations, Your Majesty.”

Nods were exchanged all around and the group settled into their seats. The meeting room was in its guise as an informal space today—the overstuffed chairs arranged in a circle around a low table lent the room an intimate atmosphere suited to the unserious negotiations ahead. This was a social call, but there were no meaningless meetings in politics. Even if few substantial promises would be made, each side would concern itself with feeling the other out. 

“I’d like to begin, if I may.” King Arngrim cleared his throat. “Witch-Queen Rhiannon, my Kingdom mourns the loss of my father, but we must also deliver our condolences to you. Though your union with King Hjalmar never came to fruit in his lifetime, he was still bonded to you as your fiancé.”

Rhiannon nodded graciously. “Though I only met the man once, I’m glad to hear he lived a long life and raised a fine son.”

“One of our translators took the liberty of rendering a section of his death-poem into Dunmuirian as well. We thought it was important that you heard it.”

“By all means.”

The advisor withdrew a wooden tablet from beneath his sealskin cloak and read its contents aloud:

O King, where doth your wandering heart lie?
In distant Dunmuir, your affections fly,
To Rhiannon, Witch-Queen,
About whom we sing,
Though they only met when he was knee high.

Though much can be said of Hjalmar,
The King travelled not often far.
A shame it has been,
For his betrothed was a Queen,
The continent’s raven-haired goddess of war.

Across broad grey seas,
Rhiannon may do as she pleas. (“es,” Runolf added. “Doesn’t quite work in translation.”)
A Witch-Queen magnanimous,
Her acclaim is unanimous,
‘Cept Gisland, at whom her court sneeze.

“The whole poem is over an hour in the telling, so we won’t bore you with the full length. His spirit was well pleased by it, though.”

“Ah, good,” the raven-haired Queen in question said.

“In that we all appreciate the effort you took in translating even a snippet.” Sophia’s interjection was more than welcome in face of the Queen’s lack of grace. No, what shocked Rowan was the kick angled at Rhiannon’s foot as well. It seemed… out of character for both of them. They implied they spoke to each other now and then, but both seemed far too serious to engage in horseplay.

Rhiannon caught the hint, though. “Of course. Not to mention the effort it would take to craft a poem so long and complex.” 

‘Long’ and ‘complex’ both generated smiles of appreciation on the Mistheimers’ faces. Headache-inducing poetry was one of the cornerstones of their culture, as Rowan and his deputy knew all too well. 

“On the night after my father’s burial ship was set adrift, it was struck by lightning.” King Arngrim announced. “A very auspicious sign, I hope you’ll agree.”

“Certainly. I’ve heard spirits of lightning are quite lucky for your people.”

Sophia found the perfect spot to slide in a detail on the Queen’s behalf. “Perhaps King Hjalmar’s transformation into one will prove as fruitful as your thrice-great grandfather’s. His son was the first of your dynasty, was he not?”

Runolf tempered his smile, though his King failed to do anything less than grin. “Very astute, Lady Greenglass. If that’s the opinion of a seasoned auguress’ daughter we may have yet more reason to hope this trip is productive.”

Though both monarchs were smiling idly at each other and looking regally disinterested, this was it. Every conversation until now was merely testing the waters, but now both sides were circling each other. It wasn’t just Sophia who had information. 

She didn’t baulk at the jab. “Well, if you’d like to bring up business after coming so far, we’re all ears.”

They were caught. The Dunmuir side appeared entirely happy to continue on and have the trip amount to nothing but a pleasant social visit, but there was a critical point that Runolf needed to stake their position on to bring up. Age brought a certain amount of impatience—the man probably wanted to check the last few things off his list before his career ended—but this was different. The (relatively) young King Arngrim needed Dunmuir’s aid for his country, though whether it was for the solidity of his claim to the throne, a grand project or something else was still up in the air. 

“As long as it wouldn’t put a damper on our visit, I suppose there are one or two things we could discuss.”

“By all means.” Rhiannon sounded both coy and confident, but Rowan was beginning to understand it was just her natural state. He sincerely doubted she had any idea what was going on, yet she managed to make it seem as though this was her plan from the beginning. “It’s pleasing to find other parts of the world are able to ask us for what we can provide again. Even if the oldest men of your country don’t remember our relationship, I do.”

Runolf pushed up the cuffs of his tunic as though the responsibility he hefted was physical. “I doubt there would be any opposition, but we’d like to reaffirm our kingdoms’ open ports policy of old. My mother tells me the exchange of people and ideas was a very productive arrangement.”

“I understand your grandfather was certainly appreciative of having a few witches around for his magical needs, when geopolitics allowed.” Rhiannon’s comment subtly implied they got more out of the deal than Dunmuir did. Clever.

Sophia cleared her throat and gave her faint smile an apologetic veneer. “But there lies the problem, Your Majesty. Allowance.”

Well-played for a country in Dunmuir’s position. Even if Gisland thoroughly trounced the witches’ navy during the war, they weren’t so confident as to be permissive in their treaty terms. De jure, Rhiannon only surrendered her right to build warships for fifty years, but the opinions of the dukes along the strait which led to the open ocean meant that any ships from Dunmuir were unwelcome. The scattered fishing and merchant vessels left were confined to the small pond of the local gulf.

The Mistheimer’s moustache twitched. A surprise or just unpleasant? “Well. They certainly let us through, so perhaps…?”

“Perhaps, though our nobility may have concerns about how one-sided it would be.” Sophia gazed out the window as if she wanted to illustrate a collection of duchesses with their noses pressed against the glass. “Only until we had proper freedom of navigation to your ports, of course.”

“That’s-”

“We need not rush to a decision. Patience is one of a Witch-Queen’s virtues.”

Oh, yes. Patience aplenty. They could happily wait generations if that was what it took for a better outlook. 

“King Arngrim would prefer a speedier resolution—if I understand correctly, Sire?” Runolf didn’t dare break eye contact with Sophia. He could feel the discussion getting away from him.

Arngim jolted out of his regal disinterest. “Ah. Yes, of course. I’m eager to see an old friend brought back into the fold, not least of all being how unstable international politics are at the moment.”

The old man adjusted his cloak rather roughly. Even the King’s own advisor thought he was a bumbling idiot. “Yes. If I may be so bold, Lady Greenglass, what would you suggest Mistheim’s part in this… discussion with Gisland is?”

“Oh, I doubt much would be needed. Just sending someone official-looking who could nod along with whatever Minister Rowan says would be enough.”

“…As long as it doesn’t create any undue friction. Having a stable balance of power as it was in my mother’s day is in all our best interests, after all.”

“Quite. We’ll certainly be happy to discuss the ports issue once our little roadblock is cleared away.”

Runolf’s tight fists uncurled. Ports were the important point to him and he was resigned to minor quibbles now that he was beaten. “On the same subject, perhaps it would be easier to have a fixed delegation in our capitals to coordinate?”

This was the prelude to a permanent embassy. It made perfect sense—they would perform similar diplomatic duties to Rowan and his mystery counterpart in Gisland. Spying included. 

Sophia took a long breath in. “Perhaps it would. I’m afraid we’ve already lost the woman I was grooming to become our Deputy Minister of Diplomacy to our delegation in Gisland, however.”

“A little foreign experience could benefit her, given your emerging circumstances.”

Well-caught. It was obvious Dunmuir needed to expand its sphere of influence again, if they didn’t want to be stuck with Gisland as the middleman for the majority of their trade. And of course, eighty years was a long time, even for a witch. Rowan knew for a fact the crop of diplomats they had now were junior at best before the war started, with most not working in politics or even born yet. 

“You might be right,” Greenglass conceded, “so long as you keep our woman busy. Do you get many visits to Bláttbý?”

Runolf wavered at the surgical jab. Mistheim was halfway to Sicorath in the western direction but so far removed to the south that they were on the cusp of unlivable permafrost. Anyone who wanted to interact with Mistheim would find their local occupied zone instead of mounting an expedition to the south pole. 

“Increasingly.” Not a substantive promise, thus not exactly a lie. Who knew when the visits by foreign dignitaries might suddenly and unpredictably drop off? Not Mistheim.

Sophia let him sweat for a few beats so he knew she was aware of the misdirection. “Then the benefit will be mutual. I’m sure Her Majesty would grant such a request?”

It was probably a warrior’s instinct which alerted the Queen that there was tension in the room at all. A drop of diplomatic bloodlust in the elf’s voice made her posture straighter and her eyes sharper. “Why, Sophia. Even if it didn’t benefit us at all, I would still be happy to. The Witch-Queen has always been the grandmother of the continent and protected the young leaders. In fact, you mentioned you had trouble in Bondassara, Arngrim?”

The King nearly choked on his spit when the attack suddenly turned on him. He’d only passively listened until now and was caught with his metaphorical pants down. “I wouldn’t say trouble! There’s just a bit of tension I’m looking to dispel and suspicion to lift.”

“If it doesn’t go well, let me shoulder some of the burden. I’d be happy to mediate.”

The room froze as they all processed what just happened. Rhiannon hadn’t given any indication to anyone that she was capable of this. Even Sophia looked surprised, and if Arlene was right, they’d known each other for more than a lifetime. 

Misheim was already on the back foot as the approaching party, and now they were being cast in the role of a spoiled child. This would be an absolute nightmare to come back from without a poisoned piece of cheese being dangled in front of their noses.

No. It was a biscuit from old granny Rhiannon. And since you’re already here, dear, would you mind chopping some firewood when you’re done eating? Oh, and the roof needs a few new shingles as well, if you wouldn’t mind. In fact, she’ll put on a pot of tea, since she needs you here to redo the whitewash…

The reality of the situation settled onto Arngrim like a cloak made of lead. “We certainly appreciate the sentiment, Rhiannon.”

“Of course. We’re here to support each other, are we not?”

“Naturally.” His mouth sounded dry.

Granny Greenglass had biscuits too. “If you’ll forgive my tentative agenda, Your Majesties, would we also like to broach the subject of trade while we’re here?” 

“No!” Runolf barely held himself back from shouting when his king spared him a glance. They planned to until now. “No, I believe it can wait until Dunmuir has proper freedom to conduct its own trade. We would hardly want a relationship where one side holds all the bargaining power.”

“Your courtesy is appreciated.” Sophia turned her head and smirked towards Rowan. Well?

She was showing off now. Not a wasted word this entire discussion and with the Queen’s help, she twisted Mistheim’s arm nearly out of its socket. 

Though Rowan did have reason for concern. Foolish as they typically were, Mistheimers were spiteful. With things left like this, the negotiation would feel so one-sided that they wouldn’t dare come back without blackmail or something Dunmuir desperately needed. If either ever needed the other for anything, it would become a decades- or centuries-long wrestling match for control over the relationship. 

Raising an eyebrow was about all he could do to communicate the idea in front of the people in question. Sophia proved herself more than capable enough to follow his logic.

She rolled her eyes at him, but the message got through. She brought her attention to Rhiannon and cleared her throat. “May I reveal our hand to our guests, Your Majesty?”

The Mistheimers leaned forward involuntarily.

“By all means,” the Queen answered.

Sophia turned her head back to the guests and readjusted her spectacles. “As I understand it, a number of our witches may be accompanying you back to Bláttbý?”

Runolf cleared his throat at the directness. “It’s no sure thing. Entirely their own free will, you understand.” 

“And we are in no position to stop them, of course. But the idea of trading diplomats struck a chord with me. May I suggest we contract a number of your people for a bit of work?”

Runolf could smell the concession and clasped his hands together in a show of friendliness. “What sort of work?”

“We’ve recently come into a rather large supply of witchwood that will be delivered to us in the spring. In anticipation of your help opening up trade, a few shipwrights might help us make the most of our materials.”

The old man’s eyes went wide. He would be kicking himself for shooting down the trade idea. Mistheim could have had a practical monopoly on the international export of the wood for a few years while Dunmuir rebuilt its navy. 

“We would pay their usual rate and lodge them, of course.”

“Dunmuir has been nothing but generous since we arrived here. I see no reason to deny such a fruitful request.” The words were regal, but Arngrim’s delivery was rushed.

Runolf was counting the coins and warships already. “Indeed, Sire. It would be excellent for them to practise on such a difficult material as well, should it eventually come to market.”

Sophia gave them her nastiest smile. “In time. I’m sure we can come to an agreement when we discuss trade in the coming years.”

The business talk swiftly petered out afterwards. The specifics of the delegations would be worked out after both sides were properly prepared to accept foreign diplomats and Mistheim’s shipwrights had to be contacted before they could give Dunmuir names or figures. 

All that remained was their side presenting a gift for Rhiannon’s birthday. How they managed to get her measurements out of the country was a mystery, but they presented her an expensive dress in just her size. It was all gold clasps, fine furs or the amiant wool they were so proud of. They must have babbled for half an hour about the life cycle of the fireproof sheep who grazed on their great volcano. Common misconceptions none of their audience knew about were trundled out and dispelled in the same breath. 

The motifs and crude shapes weren’t particularly interesting or beautiful to Rowan’s eye, but Rhiannon seemed pleased by the gesture (likely a result of the dramatic display of casting it into the fireplace and having it come out unharmed.) In any case, she accepted the gift graciously and promised to return the favour on Arngrim’s next birthday. There was much dramatic bowing on the part of the royal underlings, then finally, they left.

❈❈❈

With the Mistheimers taking a day off to shop and explore the city, Rowan’s next day was nice and peaceful. He took breakfast in his room to avoid any stragglers from the delegation who might be interested in speaking, then walked to the ministry office. 

It would be a good day. There wasn’t an overwhelming amount of work on the schedule and he had plenty of praise for Sophia’s performance the day before. He would butter her up a little, hope her mood evened back out to a workable level, then slip away to the Lily. He owed Tara a drink or two for pulling through with guests on such short notice.

His deputy’s words echoed in his head as he searched for any other ways he might get in her good books. ‘Pawning off all the important work’ was a little harsh in his opinion—he did quite a lot of paperwork and correspondence personally—but she really was the one who handled the day-to-day business of the ministry. He was only vaguely aware of a few junior diplomats’ names and rarely spoke to them unless they asked for his help. Now that he thought about it, he probably came off as quite a disconnected overlord to these women who had more experience than he did. Not the sort of thing Rowan could fix overnight, but he would make an effort today. 

Walking straight past the usual door felt strange. Going through his office was the only way he’d ever entered the main hall of the ministry, but he didn’t want Sophia to criticise his approach or talk him out of it. 

He pushed the entrance open and was met with a room much the same as his office, though a few times larger. High windows provided enough natural light for paperwork, with decorative wood panelling most of the way up to the tall ceiling lending the space a dark, formal atmosphere. A maze of desks and tables holding filing systems wound their way around a support column the most efficient way they could in a room which wasn’t quite rectangular. That was the price for being part of the palace’s main circular loop.

A beat after Rowan walked in, all eyes snapped to him. This early in the morning it was a smaller crowd than it usually would be, but even four women staring was a heavy weight to bear. They were probably nervous about why their absentee director was showing his face for once. 

Don’t lock up and glare. Open eyes, gentle smile. No fiddling with your belt like you’re about to take out a note bearing bad news. Meet their eyes—genial nod toward the butterfly-winged fairy with the especially grim expression. Just find the right words and don’t keep them waiting too long. Maybe ‘nothing bad, don’t worry’? Definitely not. That would make it seem like he had an important message. Hm.

“Just stopping by to say good morning, everyone.” Far from perfect, but it was… 

The word ‘serviceable’ fled his mind as all of the diplomats scrambled to their feet. They greeted him with bows and a half-dozen mumbled repetitions of ‘good morning’.

“No need to stand! You can keep working if you’d like, I only wanted to see how you’re getting along.”

“…Just fine, Minister. Is there anything you’d like help with?” Finally. A proper sentence came from a person rather than the group in general. The fox-tailed woman in question was the most senior of the diplomats present and likely believed she was throwing herself under a runaway cart. 

“It’s funny you bring that up, actually. We’ve caught up splendidly thanks to your efforts and I expect I’ll be done with preparations for the apple business by this afternoon. If anything’s proving troublesome, feel free to send it on to me.” No need to tell her they might be shipping one of them out to Mistheim just yet. She didn’t need to shoulder heavy expectations when the quick verbal agreement might fall through. 

The room’s tension evaporated. The deer and cat collapsed back into their chairs, the fairy floated back down to her miniature desk on the windowsill and the senior diplomat wiped her brow. 

“I was worried this would be something like the marriage again, Minister.”

“Sorry for last time. I’m hoping for no dramatic rescues and sudden parties for a while.”

“No, no! We’re all glad you managed to pull off a miracle so quickly, but… after the Queen’s birthday, perhaps?”

Rowan chuckled. “If I’m lucky, you won’t have to do anything aside from shuffle paperwork for nine more years. Anyway, do you know if Sophia’s in yet? We had a few things to talk about.”

Rowan realised his mistake too late and the eyes which turned to face him were wider than when he came in unannounced. He was supposed to know the first of her three names declared quite a bit of intimacy. ‘Fucking’ was the choice word the elf herself used. Oops. 

“Do you, um… mean Lady Greenglass?”

There was nothing left to do but own it. Hesitating and sputtering would make him look worse than just letting them come to their own conclusions and correcting them as they came up. “That’s right.”

“She came in a few minutes before you did.”

“Well, thank you then. I’ll talk to you all later.”

The rumour mill started turning before he was even all the way through the door to his office. He couldn’t make out what the whispers were about, but he could guess. 

Sophia didn’t look up from the letter she was writing when he closed the door. “I hope you haven’t been filling their heads with nonsense. It took a considerable amount of effort for me to not intervene.” 

“I appreciate it.” Rowan smoothed out the length of his robe and sat. “If I had to criticise myself, all I really said were a few generic words of encouragement.”

“Hm.” Only the scritching of her quill punctuated a moment of silence as he dug out the day’s reports. He was halfway into reading the first when she spoke again. “Unusual that you’re suddenly interested in doing your job. Are you feeling threatened after yesterday?”

“I think you did fantastic work and you’re free to take the minister position if you can convince the Queen to give it to you. I was only ever supposed to be an observer and liaison.”

“Hm,” was her answer, though more self-satisfied this time. “If you were half as pleasant as this on a daily basis, this ministry would run flawlessly.”

Rowan bit his tongue. No talking back, regardless of how easy it would be to poke holes in her argument about who was the more pleasant of the two of them. He’d given up on her introspecting enough to notice how unpleasant she was herself. Too old and stuck in her ways to budge there. 

“In fact, I can’t say I even feel like delivering the slap you’re owed at the moment.”

How magnanimous. He hoped she’d just get it over with while she was in a good mood and not taking out the contents of a bad day on him. Maybe she’d forget about it. Or at least neglect to use slaps across the face as a currency to measure her good graces. “I’ll do my utmost to keep you feeling that way, then.”

“Good.” She wrote a few more sentences. Rowan started to think the conversation was over when she made the last stroke with the finality of an executioner’s sword. “I’ve been thinking about what your punishment should be, since you begged me for one.”

“I see.” Not exactly what happened, but she could view it that way if she wanted. Even if she did nothing else, she was taking full advantage of her ‘provoke Rowan’ pass in a way she didn’t on normal days.

“What do you think you deserve?”

There were several types of negotiators. A social to analytical scale, then friendly, assertive or accommodating—at least the way Gisland’s school of diplomacy taught it. What a question along those lines meant was Sophia had perfectly nailed down his type and asked the most poisonous possible question for it.

The only way to win this particular mental game was not to play. “Entirely up to you, Ms. Sophia. I wouldn’t be able to imagine what you thought was appropriate.”

She set her pen down and looked at him through the top of her spectacles. “Really?”

“Really.”

The elf turned up her nose, but couldn’t help cracking a smile. She was enjoying the mental foreplay of toying with him before she sprung whatever she obviously planned beforehand. “Shirking your duties yet again, I see. If I’m to take over your job as minister, you’ll have to get used to taking orders from me.”

Just let the irritation flow past like water off a seabird, Rowan. “The only thought I’ve managed is paying you back one-to-one. You didn’t seem interested in the idea.”

“You’d wait in a queue that went around the palace twice if you thought there was half a chance you could sniff my used panties at the end of it. Hardly a punishment, wouldn’t you say?”

“If you say so.” He spent a few drops of willpower not to tack on: ‘Get to the point, damn it.’

“I’m not convinced you’d manage to actually please me, either.” 

Was she really bragging about her skill with her mouth, sidelong as it was? Either Sophia bounced back more quickly than he imagined or she really was angling for repayment in kind. That would be the easy option, frankly. So…

Rowan stood and moved far enough around the table he could lean on her side. “You might be surprised.”

The sputtering it caused proved his guess wrong. Still, calling her bluff and seeing her turn cherry red was a reward in its own right.

“You cheeky-! When my family was in El-Jawha, we would’ve had men like you on a chain in the corner with a veil over your mouth to remind you not to speak to your betters.”

So the trend of scantily-clad dancers in face coverings crossed the gender divide in Sicorath. Interesting. “Well-”

“In fact, I’ve changed my mind! Strip.”

“What?”

“Are you thick? I know the Queen taught you that little trick right after ‘roll over’ and ‘beg.’”

Don’t make any kind of crack about her having firsthand experience with regard to thickness. “If that would really make you happy.”

The mental delay the sentence caused let him remove his robe and unclasp his doublet in peace. She needed to chew on the idea she was the one initiating this nonsense before she could justify it to herself. By the time she made it to ‘I don’t need to justify anything to the likes of him,’ his shirt was halfway over his head and the “Just do it” was a superfluous mumble.

Being bare-chested in front of her didn’t bother him much. Maybe being a bit more muscular and eliciting an impressed gasp would have been nice, but Rowan was getting used to at least this amount of casual nudity. 

No, the difficult part was the bottom half. 

Stepping out of his boots and standing on the office floor in socked feet was when the strange feeling started welling up. Instinct whined at him about how this wasn’t the venue for this and you weren’t supposed to take your clothes off at work, regardless of how he tried to tell it he already knew. 

Removing the socks didn’t help any. Sophia stared at him, blatantly suppressing a smile and waiting for the smallest hint of hesitation. She jumped on the beat he took to bring his hands to his belt like a starved leopard.

“Don’t tell me you’re starting to feel shy.” The damned old hag had two lifetimes’ worth of practice on her chiding mother’s voice and it showed. “I thought the big, strong man would be able to do something as easy as show himself off to the most attractive woman he’s ever met. You certainly didn’t have a problem with it when that filthy thing of yours was standing up.”

Sweet Order, preserve his patience. “The big, strong man was starting to wonder if the exotic beauty wanted a show. Maybe I should be dancing around a little?”

Her eyes narrowed at the shot. “I don’t think there’s a woman alive who would be interested in your comedy routine of trying to slip out of your pants while doing an unspirited bassa danza solo.”

“I’m sure you’re already planning to teach me the dance your slaves in Sicorath did, should I make another blunder.”

“Keep running your mouth and you won’t get your clothes back until you manage every step perfectly. You’ll be naked for months.”

Bickering made it easier to yank off his pants out of spite alone. The underpants should have gone with them, if he’d been thinking. As it was, the wool hadn’t even puddled on the floor yet before the next barb was leaving his deputy’s mouth.

“Oh, why don’t I keep that underwear of yours for a day or two? We’ll see how you like it.”

“I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for not matching them to my outfit.” 

Rowan undid the drawstring and took off his last barrier to the cool air of the room before he could have second thoughts. All he had to do was not think about how his dick was on full display and go about his day completely normally to annoy Sophia. Pretending it didn’t bother him was the best way to get under her skin.

He set his underwear down in front of her and did his best dead-eyed impression of Arlene with his hands on his hips. “There. Satisfied?” 

“I… suppose it’s a start. You’ll be staying like that for the rest of the workday to teach you a lesson in humility.” The elf looked him over from head to toe and allowed herself a barely-noticeable grin. “And I suppose proof of your filthy thoughts about me will be on full display.”

Then the order of the day was to avoid an erection at all costs. Even the most benign kind caused by sitting down too long would be misconstrued and used as evidence of bad intentions. Despite how heated the conversation was earlier, he did still want to win Sophia back over.

“I really don’t have any, but if it puts you at ease.”

“How you thought you could sell such an obvious lie is a mystery to mortals and deities alike. Don’t think I don’t take notice every time you run your slimy little eyes over me.” She gestured with her quill and the feather came dangerously close to brushing the end of his dick. “I catch you a few times daily staring at my mouth like you plan to jam that into it again.” 

That rarely happened any more and she had no proof he- Rowan took his seat just as the thought was getting away from him. “I look at your face when you speak to me. Nothing nefarious.” 

“I’m sure. I shudder to think about what kind of slavering beast you’d turn into if I wore lipstick.”

Rowan sighed and looked over the papers on his desk. While it would be an excellent look for her, there was work to be done which could distract from the odd feeling of the whole situation. Authorisations were the easiest thing currently waiting. 

One Junior Diplomat Dazzlemist applying for a month of vacation in the spring to visit family in Giria… Ah, the fairy. He removed the ministry seal from its drawer but hesitated. There wouldn’t be any problem with asking Sophia about it while he waited for the wax to melt, surely. 

“Anything significant coming in the spring?”

“Anniversary of the truce, lumber shipments so the Girians are likely coming back… Nothing else planned for certain this far out. Is this Dazzlemist’s application again?”

“That’s right.”

“We give it to her every year. Go ahead.”

“Alright.” He dripped enough wax onto the page to accept the seal, then made the imprint. 

“Give me anything related to personnel. I get the distinct impression you couldn’t put names to faces or vice versa.”

“I’m trying to work on it.”

“Fine. You can read them quickly and seal them once I’ve sorted them into accept and reject.”

The work proceeded quickly as they settled into routine. Authorising use of funds and personnel, reserving rooms in the palace for negotiations or dinners, bookkeeping for the budget… Someone even dropped off Tara’s schedule on his desk while he was out with the King yesterday. Buried under the more important work was a copy of one of that newswoman’s broadsheets reporting on the Wearns’ wedding. Just what he wanted to get a handle on what they were dealing with. 

Rowan looked the article over with more than his fair share of trepidation. It was even worse than he could have assumed. An uninformative title to catch one’s attention and content with the same standard of veracity as a middle-aged gossip spinning yarn with a group of bored housewives. All set off, of course, by a writing style that made him wonder whether Ms. Cavallari was running a discount on printing exclamation marks and synonyms for ‘shocking!’ 

It toed the line of libel, to be frank. No wonder she wanted to ask such intrusive questions to the monarchs, when this rag was her average fare. 

“Have you seen this?” He waved the creased sheet in Sophia’s direction.

“Unfortunately.” She didn’t even bother looking up. “Throw it out when you’re done, won’t you? If I have to read speculation about ‘strategic elf reserves’ one more time I’m liable to vomit.”

“I can’t tell if she thinks I’m the most handsome man on this side of the continent or the foulest womaniser.”

An eyebrow was cocked in his direction. “I wouldn’t count on anyone other than yourself holding such a flattering opinion.”

“…We’re going to have to get rid of her.”

“I’m aware. Feel free to share if you have any ideas beyond chaperoning the Queen through any interviews.”

“Not unless we can get enough blackmail material to shut her up or discredit her.”

“Maybe you could get your little spy ring to dig something up. The Archduke’s probably given you enough to spare one or two dozen on a side project like this.”

“All yours are in Gisland, I suppose.” 

No clever response to that one. 

Rowan stood up and stretched. He was developing stiff legs and a crick in his neck from reading too long. With the desktop just about cleared off he could move on to the inbox—which was just as overstuffed as usual. 

Request for reconstruction aid, land complaint, the apple woman again, Dwyer making a formal request for an interview with the regents (discarded without response)… ah, this request for time off over the winter would go to Sophia. More aid requests to send to finance, report from the embassy in Gisland, official complaint of vagrancy levied against a mountain tribe of- 

Flicking through the envelopes brought Rowan’s ear just close enough to the mail slot to hear voices on the other side. Good to know the junior diplomats got along with each other enough to chat between tasks. There was enough suspicion at the ministerial level for the entire country.

“Are you sure you heard right?”

“What else could it have been? You heard him when he came in earlier!”

“Still…”

“Then listen in!”

Ah. Even without any other context it was obvious they were talking about him. They had every right to talk about what went on in the office and it was stepping over a line to eavesdrop on their opinions. Rowan was their manager—nominally speaking—and he certainly expressed his fair share of grievances earlier in his career. 

Naturally, knowing anyone who opened the mail slot would see his stark nudity helped the decision along. He sorted the rest on the way back to the desk and set the correspondence for Sophia on the corner by her elbow.

“Minister.” She glared up at him over her glasses. No. The stare wasn’t thrilling, interesting, exciting or worthy of notice. He broke eye contact before an unfortunate situation arose.

“Hm?”

“Would you kindly keep your filthy cock away from my face?”

Down, boy. The worst possible course of events was getting an erection that slapped her under the chin. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Do they not teach you what shame is in Gisland or is this a defect with your bloodline?”

Of course he was embarrassed. No matter how much he tried to put it out of his mind or focus on other things, the feeling of being exposed lingered. Any visitor who walked into the room would instantly see him. Would he hide under the desk and pray they went away? Even the odd glance from Sophia made him self-conscious of his body. What would happen if he dropped hot wax or ink or a piece of paper on himself? Arlene could walk in at any time and raise an eyebrow that would say more variations of ‘you’re a moron’ than he could with five deep breaths. If Sophia got too mad, she might take his clothes and just leave him here alone. He wouldn’t even be able to get back into his room without the key on his belt. Even if he made a mad dash in the middle of the night and snuck past all the guards and servants (who he’d be stuck interacting with for nine more years) he’d be stuck. 

The sole thing stilling a tide of self-conscious fidgeting was professional pride and the gut feeling he would lose this confrontation if he blinked. Normal. What would a free spirit unconcerned with their own nudity say? Rhiannon was the obvious model there, regardless of whether taking her approach to life was well-advised.

“You’ve seen it already so I hardly-”

“WHAT?!” The shout that filtered through the ministry-side door caught them both off guard. 

It may have been morning grogginess or the strangeness of the situation distracting from coherent thought. Perhaps even the light breakfast. Whatever the reason, connections were remarkably slow to form in both diplomats’ heads. 

“Oh,” they simultaneously sputtered when they reached their conclusions. Rowan sat down and covered his lower half almost as quickly as Sophia jumped to her feet and rushed to the door. 

“Miss Dhubhaig!” One of the diplomats let out a noise like a trapped deer before the handle was even turned. “Shall I ask what the commotion is about or would you prefer a lecture about your habit of eavesdropping like an idle swineherd right away?”

“Aye- er… no! Yes to the first, no to the second your ladyship! T’weren’t nothin’, I just knocked over my inkwell!” 

“Really now? And if I came to check, I wouldn’t feel an overwhelming desire to send you back to farm turnips on your mother’s estate?”

“No M’lady! No more neeps! Er, please!”

Sophia hurried through the side door into the main hall and began delivering a tongue-lashing Rowan was thankful he wasn’t on the receiving end of.

Had they peeked through the slot and seen him? Was this his fault for ignoring the conversation? He couldn’t have done anything about it in his current state and Sophia would’ve probably just laughed at him.

It was a few more minutes of sitting in shamefaced silence with his hands over his crotch before the elf returned, her own cheeks as hot as his. 

“Put your clothes back on.”

“I… Alright, I don’t have any complaints.”

“You will when I figure out what your replacement punishment is going to be,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Probably a bad time to ask if she planned to give his underwear back, too.

❈❈❈

Arngrim (thankfully) didn’t have the time to wait for the week of celebrations held in honour of the Queen’s birthday and so the next day was to be a dinner for just the Mistheimers. It was as formal an affair as they could have for a small party on short notice—the kitchen was preparing eight courses, a band would be present, garlands of hazel and holly were hung and so on.

They would use the throne room as their dining hall to receive royalty, with the high table sitting on the throne’s dias. Ironically, Rowan had always considered it one of the less interesting spaces in the palace. It was mostly a stark white to make petitioners feel as though they floated in a void, making their appeal to a distant goddess seated on a cloud. Most of the interesting tilework and stained glass was up so high that nobody standing on the floor could appreciate it, and the floor itself was bereft of the vases and paintings which enlivened the other halls. 

The variety of lush greenery, aged tables, gigantic rugs and heraldic banners which now decorated the room brightened the place up in a way he never expected. Cloth and plant alike did wonders to smooth the sharp, cold edges. 

Rowan was taken aback when someone stopped by to ask him for a banner. The palace’s herald was very kind and very insistent when she explained ‘Hero of Gisland,’ ‘Lord Grand Minister of Gisland-Dunmuir Relations,’ and ‘Knight-Commander of the Order of the Iron Rod’ all granted him the right to bear personal arms. After she explained his failure to promptly register said arms was causing a significant number of problems, he hesitantly agreed to display a banner with the Archduke’s colours on it as a stand-in. 

Perhaps the copy of it the palace kept was a recent acquisition to account for the new diplomatic situation. The most comforting thought was this particular strip of fabric was from before the war. But really, the banner was almost certainly a trophy from the battlefield. What that advertised about Rowan’s personal relationship with the Queen was… Not worth considering, perhaps. He expected to be used as little other than a footstool and/or dog when he was sent to Dunmuir, so Rhiannon’s treatment of him was lax if occasionally terrifying.

But she wasn’t the monarch he was worried about. Despite his position as the King of Mistheim’s advisor, they were told that old Runolf was a common-born sea captain who earned a position of trust. He sat at the head of the Mistheimers, but propriety excluded him from a seat at the high table. And thus the seating arrangement was a little lopsided. To Rhiannon’s right was the visiting King, and on her left was the Royal Registrar, in her position as keeper of the seal and head of the Queen’s ministers. 

That left him and Greenglass—technically also foreign nobility—on Arngrim’s right to fill out the table. So for the majority of the evening he would be at the midpoint between a king he didn’t want to speak to and a woman with a bone to pick with him. The herald insisted he sit between them only because his position in the Dunmuirian hierarchy outranked Sophia’s and she’d already put up the banners.

Fantastic.

Obviously he could intellectualise and imagine being at the head table of a banquet. But when he sat down, experience caught up with imagination. From a spot at one of the regular tables, Rowan always felt like they were laid out for the pleasure of the people of the high table—now he felt quite the opposite. He and his fellow diners were laid out shoulder-to-shoulder like they were decorations on a shelf and the dias added to the effect. The intention wasn’t for them to talk amongst themselves, but just to watch over the people drinking and having lively conversations and be impressed by what the palace cooks had made in their honour. 

The view was nice, he guessed.

Sophia groaned and balled up her skirt in her fist, though she was careful not to let an expression show on her face. “Is she serious?”

It was already a bit strange to see a small collection of maids bringing in the food instead of the apprentice cooks. The observation might have never left the back of his mind if they were dressed as the palace maids usually did. With his attention drawn to the servants, he grasped who Sophia’s ‘she’ was.

Black and white, certainly. Those were the colours they wore for formal occasions and evenings. Everything else was off, though. The long, elegant and practical skirts were gone, replaced by something shorter than even the more daring pieces he saw walking around town. Their garter straps were fully visible, suspending stockings made of net in lieu of actual cloth. It looked less ridiculous than he would have imagined, but they clearly served no purpose beyond highlighting the legs. 

The tops were… well, as low as the skirts were high. The bounce he saw from the wolf woman who set a dish in front of him planted a seed of doubt about whether there was anything under the thin linen. It sprouted and grew to tremendous size when the maid winked at him. These had to be the girls with ‘extra duties’ in the Queen’s bedchamber, just cavalier enough to heed a request for such a thing.

He leaned closer to his deputy so she could hear his whisper. “That’s not my fault, is it?”

“I don’t think my distaste for you is a secret, Minister,” she hissed, “so believe me when I tell you nobody else in the world could take the words ‘attractive women’ and twist them so much that ‘dress the servants like they work in a brothel’ was what they got out of it.”

Even a complete moron would notice something was amiss. Thus far, the Mistheimers were either openly gawking or keeping unwavering eye contact with their dates from the Institute. Perhaps they were taking hints from the Queen and King at the front of the room, who were ogling and oblivious respectively. 

Apparently it needed a king of morons to miss. “Well, Rhiannon, it’s wonderful to see you in our gift before we leave. How do you find the dress?”

“Wonderful, Arngim. The fur is very pleasant on the skin. What did you say it was, again?”

“Floðsormr. It’s a sort of sea serpent with an eel’s face and a seal’s fur coat, only about the size of one arm.”

She chuckled. “They sound halfway between a selkie and a mink. I didn’t expect a fish to be as comfortable as a silk lining.”

“Aha. Typically the style is worn with a shirt underneath, but you seem to be making it work for you.”

Rowan had seen so much casual exposure and nudity from Rhiannon that he hadn’t even registered how deep the dress’ neckline plunged. The fur disguised it to an extent, but her chest would spill completely out of the garment if it was cut much further back. Very much her taste, to put it another way.

“Oh! Like the old tunics. I’ve seen a few paintings of my grandmother wearing those.”

Arngim kept his eyes on a very short leash and sighed with relief. “Exactly! We aren’t up to date with the latest Dunmuirian fashions, but our women do try to capture the elegance of the witches of old.”

“We’re honoured. Feel free to feast your eyes on as many of my subjects as you’d like, if you care to.”

Their conversation fizzled out into a tangent on Mistheimers’ dress and how it related to historical fashions (since they didn’t have a creative bone in their collective bodies) and Rowan’s attention lapsed into comfortable appreciation for the food and drink set before him.

The banquet was easy enough. Arngrim spoke intermittently to Rhiannon—when lukewarm responses to talk about politics failed, they carried on a much more lively conversation about armour, tournaments and spending quality time with their common-born soldiers. Nothing of concern or worthy of intervention. All Rowan had to do was lean back a bit when the King decided to direct his questions about local and foreign politics to Sophia.

The food was delicious—all manner of meats and freshwater fish might even give the guests the idea that Dunmuir wasn’t troubled in the least by a de facto trade blockade.

No, the problem was the drink. A miracle of either alchemy or sorcery made the rotating variety of fruit wine so remarkably palatable that the taste of liquor and sense of danger was completely removed from it. After the second course, the consequences of loose drinking were beginning to catch up with Rowan. Two—well, maybe more like three—glasses shouldn’t have made him as woozy as he was.

She did it again.

In retrospect, Rhiannon ordering the wine fortified with aqua vita was entirely in character. She did it for the Girians and he had to convince her (and ask Arlene very nicely to double-check) not to do it at the Wearns’ wedding. 

All he could do was bite his tongue, talk to the Queen about it later and slow down. The drunker he got, the less he could manage to care about the guests’ drinks being spiked. On the other hand, Rhiannon was likely drinking a monstrous amount every day. Maybe he could start with that.

It seemed all the guests were having the same experience with the drinks as he was. The lower tables became more rowdy with every round and one intoxicated witch even tried to climb onto the table. Rowan silently thanked her colleagues for yanking her back into her seat. The Mistheimers were… behaving. Though by the seventh course it could turn at any moment, especially when their King was getting notably red in the face.

“So, Rowan,” Arngrim began while Rhiannon was preoccupied with fondling a maid’s thighs, “D’uh… Do banquets normally have such strong drinks here?’

Every childish instinct in Rowan’s body told him to ignore the question, deflect or avoid speaking to the King somehow. But—he learned his lesson once already. Not to mention that Sophia was already giving him a nasty stare out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, I couldn’t say just yet. I’ve only been to a few and liquor like this was generally served to honoured guests. We certainly can’t distil to this quality in Gisland.”

“Ah.” 

‘Ah’ indeed. Rowan didn’t expect his curiosity to be sated so quickly or easily. The King skewered his last piece of the squab roast before a servant took his plate away. 

“So how is Gisland doing?”

“Well enough. I don’t know if you heard, but a new Archduke was elected and as far as I know, we’re recovering from the war now.”

“Mmm… And your hometown? I know Waterton is separated from most of the troubles in this part of the world.”

“It’s fine as far as I’m aware. The trouble in Tredour hasn’t spilled across the border, so the only problem is the occasional raid from the sea.” There hadn’t been one since Rowan was a boy, as far as he was aware. The odd drunk Bondassaran corsair or unruly sailor from Gisland’s fleet, perhaps, but Arngim could take his meaning however he wanted.

“Really? There shouldn’t… I’ll talk to my people and take care of the problem. Don’t you worry.”

“They’ll be happy to see the end of it, I’m sure.” As would the rest of the southern coast of the continent if he agreed. The piracy and raids were so bad in places that colonies of Mistheimers sprung up like scabs after a nasty burn. No doubt they were desperate to get away from the polar cold which hung over their ashy collection of islands. 

The conversation ground to enough of a halt to give Rowan the illusion of safety. A nibble of his dessert (a delightful sweet pudding with blackberries), and then a cautious sip of the over-strength wine.

“I’m glad you gave up on the silly voice.”

The wine caught in Rowan’s throat, spurring on a coughing fit. “What- er, I don’t know what you mean.”

Arngrim just smiled. 

“He’s just being bashful,” Sophia cut in. Thank Balance. Maybe they’d been at each others’ throats these last few days, but she set it aside for the mission. “You should have seen how he stooped and begged me for lessons when he discovered his mistake with you. I worried that he planned to clean every pair of my shoes with his tongue.”

Never mind. 

“I’ll admit he’s an excellent student to be able to turn an awful drawl around so quickly. He is still slow to pick up what other people are saying, though, so we pray you’ll forgive him for his dullness.”

Arngrim raised an eyebrow. No surprise or even a hint of belief the veracity of her statement showed on his face. Just something like: ‘Are you going to say anything about that?’ Knowing Mistheimers, he probably expected Rowan to knock her senseless and drag her off to the bedroom for a lesson of his own.

“You may be the finest teacher alive, madam. A real worker of miracles,” was his response. There wasn’t the dimmest spectre of a chance he was giving either of them the satisfaction of a prickle.

The King shrugged. No show to go with dinner tonight. “Then colour me impressed. Perhaps I could trouble you for a day of tutelage on my Sicorathi, the next time I visit.”

“If it would please Your Majesty.”

“I hope we’ll have ample time to chat next time.” The groan of an old man full to the brim escaped his mouth as he pushed his chair back. “But for now I think I’ll excuse myself. I’ve drank enough to put me in a coma until noon tomorrow.”

He said his farewells to Rhiannon, patted Runolf on the shoulder, then sauntered out of the room with a pair of his soberest men to guard him.

Sophia folded her napkin and set it on the plate before her. A tension left her body and her tight, clipped diction slackened with the effect of the wine. “I’ll be leaving ‘s well. Behave yourself, won’t you, Minister?” 

“I don’t know how much trouble I could get into with the foreign king gone.”

“Hm.” She wrapped herself more tightly in her shawl and rose. “Your Majesty? I’m retiring f’r the evening.”

Rhiannon remained graceful as she half-dozed in her seat. Rowan had lost track of how many refills she had beyond the already large number the rest of the party was served, but she was clearly on her way out of the waking world. It came as a surprise when she managed enough willpower to take note of Sophia. “Is that an invitation, or are you just looking for a good-night kiss?”

“You’re foul.” The elf retreated from the dias in a huff. She might have even left the room without incident, had poor Professor Halske not caught her eye. Given her skin tone and name, she was probably from Giria and that was good enough to make her a target for a drunken Sophia’s displeasure.

Halske was immediately on the defensive, panicked but quiet enough Rowan could only make out defensive gestures and a wobbling lip.

The lecture (though slurred) included such magnificent lines as: “Stop simpering!”, “How old are you?”, “You are an elf, are you not?”, “A thousand people more intelligent than you have had every idea you’ve ever had, but don’t you think for a second that absolves you of the duty to see them through,” “I don’t care if you were denied, do it again,” and the coup de grace which nearly had Halske flee the room in tears: “You’re an embarrassment to every race with pointed ears. Pick yourself up and get to work, you self-pitying puddle of slime.”

Rhiannon scooted her chair closer and threw an arm over Rowan’s shoulders. The long sleeve of her dress battered his face, but he did get to appreciate the silky fur lining for a moment.

“She has a unique way of encouraging people.”

“I caught her harassing a beggar the same way. Gave him more money than he’d ever seen in his life and threatened him into getting a job.”

“It’s adorable how she can’t be honest, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t think either of us adore anything ‘bout the other.”

“You might be surprised.”

Rowan toyed with his goblet. He was sobering up now, but his hazy mind didn’t offer up anything useful or clever to say to that.

“Tonight went well, all things considered.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” She patted his cheek condescendingly. How the hell did she manage to keep her voice so even when she was drunker than he was? 

“Think it’s mos’ly been good.”

“You and Sophia put in plenty of work to make sure it did.”

“Jus’ her, really.”

“Nonsense. You’ve been good for her, I think.”

“What d’you mean?”

“There was… something before. Immaturity isn’t quite it. Selfish doesn’t make sense… Agh.” She ran a hand through her hair as though the idea might fall out of her head if she jostled it enough. “Something. But she’s better now. Doing the kind of work I always knew she could. Compare this trip to when the Girians came.”

“Worried that’s how I’m acting now.”

“I can confiscate your underwear and give it to her, if you want?” She laughed loudly, but with the room so filled with drunks, the extra noise went unnoticed. If she knew Sophia had already taken a pair for herself, she’d have a laughing fit so bad Rowan might be accused of trying to assassinate the Queen. “Maybe it wasn’t your best work, but at least Arngrim doesn’t think you’re being nasty behind his back. I worry Diana caught wind of the truth there.”

“Should give ‘er a proper welcome when she’s back in spring. Maybe have Sophia apologise.”

“If the next apology is exciting as hers was to you, I want to be in the room.”

Rowan hid a cringe by taking a sip from his goblet. “Don’ know how t’ feel about the mess there.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

He nodded dumbly. Keeping secrets was half his job even before spying factored in.

“I was mad, but I’d never ask her to do anything so egregious. She had your cock halfway down her throat before I even knew what she was planning.”

“Really?”

“I’ve never seen her show remorse for anything. Now, I’m not complaining, but…”

So Rhiannon ignored most of her ‘quirks’ as expected behaviour. Rowan couldn’t blame her, since they were old friends and Sophia was a skilled diplomat when motivated. Only… He would have sworn the whole thing was set up by the Queen. There seemed to be expectations the elf understood well. “I thought you were jus’ teasing her ‘bout not knowing.”

“She’s turned down any fun with or in front of me a million and one times, so I don’t hand her harebrained ideas like fellatio as an apology. I wondered if she had a sexual thought in that head, but here we are.”

“Felt like-” The words came out wrong. Frankly, he was too drunk to properly articulate himself and too sober to want a part of this discussion right now. “Ugh. I don’ know.”

“That good with her tongue, then?”

Another drink buoyed his courage to escape the Queen’s grasp. “Your Majesty, I wouldn’ dare t’ dictate anythin’ to you, but I wish y’d find y’rself with nothin’ else t’say ‘bout this.”

“Why, Rowan.” Rhiannon’s grin bordered on unsettling, then she laid a hand on his thigh. “I didn’t think I’d ever get you drunk enough to have you tell me to shut up.”

What kind of demonic possession was he experiencing to have the gall to assemble those words into a sentence? There wasn’t even any thought behind it, just the feeling of his consciousness fading halfway into sleep for a moment. “I wasn’-!” 

Her eyes drilled into him until the very thought of arguing his innocence or trying to defend himself faded. She was amused. Whether it was the amusement of a Queen not used to politicians telling her what they really thought, or the amusement of a cat watching a mouse vainly try to escape was anyone’s guess.

“…Why d’ we have t’ drink so much at these events?”

“I think it’s entertaining. All these stuffy people planning to sit around and be very serious end up accidentally having fun.”

“Jus’ concerned ‘bout how much you drink. I’m halfway to passin’ out n’ you had three times as much.”

“You’re starting to sound like Arlene. She’s the reason they’re always giving me this.” She flicked her silver goblet and it rang. “Dumps the entire drink out onto your lap if you fill it more than halfway.”

“Mus’ be bad if they gave you a magic cup.”

“Oh, it’s just a little dwarven trick supposed to teach you about greed or something. Nothing but clever metalwork.”

Interesting trivia he’d like to investigate later, but hardly the point. “Tryin’ t’ watch out for you. Even if nobody says anythin’, you wouldn’ be the first warrior who drank ‘erself to death.”

“Hmf. Weren’t we talking about Sophia, Minister Spoilsport?”

“I was hopin’ I got y’ off the topic, actually.” A quick sip of his drink couldn’t hurt.

“I’d like to see the two of you get along better. And do you know what?” Rhiannon kept her nails short for reasons Rowan could easily guess. But even with just a little nub of nail, she managed to make his thigh tingle as she ran her hand up it.

“…Yes?”

Her breath reeked of alcohol, but she wasn’t shy about coming a finger’s breadth from his face as she laid a hand over his dick. Didn’t she say she wasn’t going to make a move on him?

“She wants this worse than even she knows. You should be more aggressive with her. Maybe next time she asks you to get naked in front of her as ‘punishment,’ you give her what she really wants.”

“Tha’s delightful,” Rowan cautiously removed the Queen’s hand from his lower half before she noticed any engorgement. “But I’m not in the habit’a takin’ big dives off’a drunk’n speculation. Say y’were wrong?”

“I’m not telling you to force yourself on her.”

“If she wants me s’badly as you say she does, she can ask me. She’s old ‘nough t’ be my mum’s mum’s mum. I don’ wanna assault one’a y’r friends or play games with a someone who—by all accounts ‘cept yours—can’ stand me.”

“So you just want to make her beg.” Rhiannon teetered on the verge of laughter at her own assumptions. Begging was the only way Sophia would be getting anything from him other than a stern rebuke and his job done the same as usual. The Queen noticed him chewing his lip and let loose a snicker.

Time to drop this subject like a hot iron. Another taste of his drink delayed the conversation until he could think of an out. “Speaking of beggin’, have y’ seen my prayer beads anywhere? Think I dropped ‘em las’ time I visited y’r tower.”

“Prayer beads?”

“I usually carry ‘em on my belt, but…”

“Black and white?”

“Mhm.”

“Goes in a loop?”

“Yeah.”

“And polished stone?”

“That’s right.”

She chewed her lip for a moment. It was a mystery whether she thought she was being sneaky, but it wasn’t subtle when she lifted the skirt of the next maid who passed them. Regardless, the quiet yelp the girl made when Rhiannon snaked her hand beneath blew her cover. 

“…I’ll get back to you when we find them.”

Did… No. Don’t think about it. Don’t consider possible meanings for even a second. How kind of the Queen to promise to search for a lost item. Lucky him. They were probably just under a chair in her sitting-room and she would find them once the maid went and looked for them. That’s all it was. Rhiannon was just signalling someone to go look for them. Right.

Maybe he would just finish his wine.

❈❈❈

Drunk. Damn it all, drunk despite his best efforts. At least Rowan didn’t have to climb the stairs this time. The wall was there if he needed a handrail and the halls were deserted, so he wouldn’t have guards gambling on whether he could make it to his feet again.

The gears in his mind turned slowly, with the unhappy creaking of a riverboat too far out to sea. Nobody around. Wasn’t there…?

The documents. The former Minister of Magic’s documents, that was. He was supposed to destroy them, but he hadn’t even had a chance to look at them much, so far.

Maybe that was an overstatement. He hit a wall months ago when he realised most of the text was encrypted, but he hadn’t double-checked all the writing for hints just yet. And codes could be cracked, given time. He even knew a few himself.

If he was going to steal them, now would probably be the time. Hide them in his room, spend a few weeks of off-time going through them, then toss them in the fire when he finished. Yes. 

Office. Where was that? Ah. Very close, actually. He drunkenly stumbled past the turn to get to the residences from the throne room and was in the ministries hall already.

Why was he drunk while trying to do spy work twice now? No. Silly question. Why was Gisland asking him to do things he could only work up the courage for when he was up to his ears in liquor? That was it. Life was hard enough here without betraying his host. Having sex with her hadn’t made Rhiannon much less frightening.

And yet the nasty little professional in his head kept his feet moving while the moral part of his brain battled itself. He was already at his ministry with a job in mind.

Rowan tottered up to the office door and stumbled in before an ill-timed maid in the hall caught sight of him. It was a stroke of good fortune in itself that the door was unlocked. Other than the servants, the only one who even had a key was-

Sophia.

Worse still, she was looking straight at him. His side of the desk faced the door and she leaned over it with her hands on the tabletop. Was she looking for something? There wasn’t anything incriminating in his desk, was there? 

No, not really. The worst he had was a response letter from his mother advising him to be patient with his deputy and not do anything rash just yet. If anything, digging through his personal letters would make Sophia look like the villain.

Well, it was too late to back out of the room without grabbing anything. Leaving the second she caught him would be far more suspicious than: 

“Jus pickin’ up some letters ‘n’ work.” Not masterfully articulated, but it had a kernel of truth.

“Oh, I’m sure. C’mere.”

His inebriation strengthened the prickle of indignity he felt, but enough sense remained to restrain an argument or snide comment. He circled the desk, then collapsed into his chair.

“Tryin’ to see up my skirt now.” It wasn’t even a question, just a statement to any deities that might be watching and have half a mind to strike down such a cheeky man. The exposure was all on her side, of course. This wasn’t the only party dress she had with side slits so high that you could see the tops of her stockings and a glimpse of bare thigh above. 

“Drunk.” He settled for. Hopefully she could pick up the blend of ‘I’m tired’ and ‘if I try to lean on the desk like you are I’m going to start knocking things off’ the single word signified. 

She grunted and didn’t even bother to turn her body toward him. Silhouetted as she was, he could appreciate her figure in a new way. The bare shoulders of her dress guided his eyes down the swell of her breast before the hint of skin lower down called attention to a shapely rear end.

A drunken wobble pressed her crotch against the desk and elicited a sigh. “Ah… S’what are you even here for?”

“Letters ‘n’ work.”

“Which ones, stupid?”

“The… uh…” Shit. His brain was fogged up with liquor and the sight of a pretty woman. He’d trained for this. Kernel of truth, maybe? “Documents from the war.”

“Y’never did… ah… Your job on those, huh? Leave it aaall to Sophia to clean you an’ your mess up.”

“Jus’ stuck. Too many codes.”

“Mine had more. You should’ve made your report on the rest of it ages ago.”

“Sorry.”

“Piece a’… a-ah…” 

It was hard to tell with her long dress, but Rowan’s wandering eyes caught just a hint of gyration in her hips. Sophia’s breathing was heavy and her face crimson. Now that he was paying more attention, he could even smell…

“Are you…?”

She ground herself against the corner of the table more openly and let out a sweet moan. “So… so what if I am?”

He… didn’t have an answer to that. “Jus’ didn’t expect you’d… mess with yourself in front of me, I guess?”

“I can… ah… do whatever I want in my office.” She flipped part of her skirt over the top of the desk to grind her crotch harder and faster against the corner. “You walked in on me, anyway. Prob’ly wanted t’ steal all the secrets you could.”

“Wha?” How did she know? The alcohol kept him dopey enough not to panic, but it was equally hard to think rationally. No—she only suspected he was a spy. Always had. That wasn’t something he could do anything about. 

“Reports from th’—mmm— ambassador in Gisland I bet. Tryin’ to figure out what we know.” She dug her fingers into her own breast, not shy now that she was caught. 

The scent of Sophia’s arousal and rose perfume was overwhelming now. The situation was finally hitting him. She was losing herself as she explored her own body and he was tempted to join her. If what Rhiannon said was true, she might enjoy it if he shoved her to her knees and stuck his cock in her mouth to shut her up. She might loosen up a bit if he helped get her off every now and then. 

“I c-can see you fffucking leering at me with that filthy prick of yours standing up, you animal.” 

Stupid thoughts like those plagued him. What did she expect to happen? “Sorry, but some woman is masturbatin’ in front of me. Usu’ly means something.”

Her legs trembled and she bit down hard on her lip as pleasure made her sharp tongue slower. She only paused momentarily before she began anew, with hazier eyes. “…May…oh…Maybe you should thank whatever backwards god you worship for the opportunity to watch, then. You can stroke yourself to this memory for the rest of your life and pray someone half my calibre touches you again.”

“Y’know what? Sure.” Her voice caught in her throat when he pulled down his pants. 

The alcohol dulled the sensation of a slap across his face. 

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Takin’ your advice. Thought you wanted me to do more of that.” Watching her already made him uncomfortably hard. His first few experimental strokes were a relief, though doing it under her close attention gave him the same flutter of embarrassment he felt undressing in front of her. “Besides, it’ll give you somethin’ to watch, too.”

It took her a long few moments to process her thoughts—at least partly because she didn’t once stop grinding herself against the table as she watched his hand. “…Can’t believe I’m going to have to put up with you yanking that ugly thing like a monkey at all hours of the day.”

“My office, too.”

She delivered another slap. “I can tell you’re fantasising about what you’d do if that gave you the power to fuck me.”

“Hm.” He wasn’t before, but his cock throbbed when he imagined her crawling under their desk and using her mouth for something other than backtalk again.

Sophia must have noticed his eyes drifting to her lips. Why else would they have curled into a smirk before she took her wand out?

The next moan was loud and theatrical. She wanted every speck of his attention to go to the length of wood she rubbed across her mouth, then ran her tongue down. No doubt she intentionally used the same rolling pattern that she wetted his cock with not so long ago.

She let the wand sit on top of her outstretched tongue for a moment, the wet shaft glistening in the low light. Smouldering eye contact dared him to take his hands off himself and grab her, push her down, force himself into her wet and ready hole.

And she was secure in her conviction that he wouldn’t dare. Crossing a duchess’ daughter would make life afterwards almost impossible. Forcing himself on the Queen’s favourite wasn’t wise either, despite what Rhiannon herself suggested. It was all a mind game to prove he was the wild animal she accused him of being. He would lose if he blinked or did anything he would regret later. 

When the desired reaction failed to materialise, she lifted the wand off her tongue and allowed a strand of drool to follow it. “Shame you’re beat out by some stick I could find on the ground anywhere.”

Rowan sincerely doubted the masterpiece of wandcraft she used was ‘off the ground anywhere.’ Fine, exotic wood was carved into a handsome taper, then banded and capped in electrum which served a decorative purpose as much as a magical one.

Sophia shifted more than just her hips for the first time and sat on the desk directly in front of him. It put her at just the right distance to set one brown-booted foot under his chin. She pushed his gaze up so that all he could see was her face and exposed shoulders at the end of one long, stockinged leg.

“Maybe if you beg I’ll let you see something better to stroke your nasty prick to.”

Between the drinking and his intelligence being drowned out by lust, Rowan would admit his willpower or cleverness were not where they should have been. In the back of his mind, the ever-quieter voice of the professional shouted that he should turn the liability for the scenario back on her. Make her beg and leave her wanting. Every classic trick in a book he knew by heart.

But execution? He’d be lucky to get out a half-coherent sentence at this point. All he had left was to poison his compliance.

“Oh, please, Sophia. You’re the prettiest girl in the whole entire world and I get unbearably horny every time I so much as see your bare wrists. Every time I see a piece of wood, it reminds me of your beautiful bronze skin. Every time I look at my penknife, your long, wonderful ears appear in my mind and I spend hours licking it.” She was frowning. Good. There wouldn’t be any suspicion that he really did find those features charming. “In fact, I’ll admit it! Every time I’ve laid hands on an elf, I was imagining you. I only slept with Arlene because her blonde hair-”

It took her a few tries to hook her boot around the chair’s armrest and pull him close enough to slap him again. 

“She’s nothing like me.” She planted a foot on his chair and ran her hand from the cuff of her boot up and over her knee. Her fingers pressed into the meat of her thigh before they rose high enough to tease the flap of her skirt to one side. It revealed an expanse of rich, caramel skin above her stocking and the garter strap keeping it up.

Through intention or dumb luck, her clothes sat just so—it was impossible to tell whether she was wearing underwear at all. 

“You aren’t getting anything this substantial with a woman that short.”

“True.”

“And I know for a fact you stare at these every chance you get.” She sighed loudly when she squeezed her breast. “Her tits just can’t compare. I thought she was a boy when she first wandered into town.”

Arlene wasn’t that petite. There was a noticeable swell under her clothing and Rowan knew from personal experience that her small chest could bounce in the right circumstances. 

Sophia’s eyes drifted to his dick for a meaningful moment. “You certainly couldn’t get that between hers.”

“Are you offering?” The comment was only clever by accident. He’d be happy to end this standoff if it wasn’t him capitulating. 

“Don’t flatter yourself. Maybe the next time I need my boots licked clean, I’ll let you watch me play with them.”

“How generous.” Was she planning to make a habit of masturbating in front of him?

She teased up the hem of her skirt so a hand’s breadth of hanging cloth was all that covered her. “Now say please so I can get this over with.”

“Oh, please, Sophia. I’d wait in a line that went around the palace twice to get the opportunity to see between your legs.”

“Maybe if you were sincere instead of clever for once, I’d let you.”

“You’ve made me so hard.” Rowan jacked himself faster and groaned theatrically. “I can’t stand it any more. I want to see you so badly and I can’t stop thinking about how sexy you are.”

“…Jackass.” She tossed the flap aside and revealed a pair of lace panties, the fabric already soaked through from her earlier fun. “Probably disappointed I don’t go around without these.”

“Dangerous with how much leg you show.”

“And yet you haven’t even seen this much without begging.” She pressed her wand into herself and the delicate lace yielded easily, clinging to her lips and making a tantalising impression of what was beneath. 

Rowan’s thumb brushed his glans and he twitched at the sudden stimulation. “Nh- Guess I’m lucky.”

“Shut up. Your stupid voice is turning me off even more than your face.”

A hitch in her breath evolved into a loud sigh when her fingers finally snaked beneath the waistband of her panties. From this close he could hear the slick sound of her folds as she worked her wrist up and down.

Sophia quickly became absorbed in her own world. The curses she whispered to herself turned more incomprehensible as her wrist sped up and her back arched further.

…Wasn’t Rowan doing something? Before all this, that was. He didn’t come to the office with the intent to have a mutual masturbation session with Sophia, even if it was intolerably exciting. 

If there was, her moaning was drowning out the thought process he needed to remember. What the hell, it wasn’t as if he could get out of this situation at this point anyway. This was… fun was the wrong word. Good. Exciting. Why not just see it through? 

It wasn’t long before she had enough. She laid back on the table, knocking over a stack of papers, and nearly kicked him in the face as she wormed one leg out of her underwear. She kept the other leg on, leaving them to dangle off her thigh.

“Not taking these ever again.”

“Didn’t want to take them in the first place, y’know.”

“You think about me all day. There’s no chance you didn’t use them as masturbation material like you are now.” She spread her labia open and showed off the delicate pink of her insides. “Or is this what you spend so much time thinking about when you’re supposed to be doing half the amount I do around here?”

If he wasn’t before, he would be now. Every stroke of his cock felt like one that could be balls-deep in her twitching, dripping elf pussy. He could see every bump and fold that would stretch around and squeeze his girth.

Her soaked fingers slid further up and her legs shook as they brushed over her clit. She flicked her fingers over it until her breath came out ragged and unsteady. She pulled her hand away just on the cusp of orgasm and spread herself again. She dragged her pinky up, over her hole, and rested it on her pink, swollen nub. 

“Thi… this is the clitoris, by the way. Doubt you could find it.”

Sophia ground the heel of her palm over it for emphasis before a pair of fingers finally plunged into her waiting hole. All of the sensations Rowan imagined earlier were given life as he heard her insides suck and squeeze her own fingers.

Her wand rolled around the tabletop as she fingerfucked herself, bringing her spare hand to her mouth to suck on her fingers. The glance down to his cock on top of that tested the outer limits of his willpower.

How fast would those fingers move if he jammed himself into her throat again? Every moan as she worked the both of them would vibrate around his shaft and do a far better job of wringing him out than his hand. Those bright green eyes of hers would go wide, then roll back into her head as he used her throat as a cocksleeve.

The saliva running down her hand only strengthened the thought. She was thinking about it too. Not a single doubt was left in his mind when the speed of her wrist, tremble in her hips and the depth of the fingers in her mouth were so directly connected.

Sophia couldn’t continue the tease any longer. Even muffled with her own hand the moan was loud and shook in time with the spasms of a long orgasm. 

She laid on the desk in a breathless stupor for only a few moments before her hand snaked back between her legs.

“Are you still going?” Rowan asked. The delusion about fucking her throat brought him nearly to the edge, but he hardly wanted to be the one cumming when she was going for a second round.

“Aww, poor little boy. Can’t make it past one round with his droopy little dick.”

“I get the feeling you’d make fun of me if I was as quick as you.”

“If you haven’t gotten up to five in a row, have you really lived?” She picked her wand back up. “Now then, I think I need something in me that’s actually going to last.”

She did a much more thorough job of preparing her wand this time. Her tongue ran over every spot at least twice, then rested it beneath the shaft as she slid the wider end into her mouth like a cock. And sweet Order above, she knew how to suck one. It left her lips with a quiet pop and left a shiny trail on her chin, then stomach as she ran it down her body.

It rested between her labia for a moment before she slowly worked the thick end into herself. Whether the next bout of trembling was another orgasm or just her body adjusting to the girth, she seemed not to care as soon as it was all inside. 

“F-fuck…” Sophia rocked her hips as she adjusted to the girth inside her, the cool ridges of the handle’s metal bolster resting against her clit. “Nh… Needed this…”

The wand came out slowly at first. Each groove on the handle made her eyelashes flutter and the final ridges on the end cap made her throw her head back with a deep, throaty moan.

“Are you really going to five?” Rowan hoped not. He wasn’t in much better shape than Sophia, riding the edge as he was both blessed and damned to keep watching. His head was spinning, eyes were hazy and his dick was leaking precum. Quick as she was, he wasn’t convinced he could hold out for her to finish a marathon.

“You just… sit there and keep jacking that fat, disgusting prick, you little cuck.” She pressed the wand back into herself, biting her lip hard enough to turn the skin white. “And beg me to squirt on your stupid—ah—face.”

Annoyance flared up. The cocktail of arousal and frustration made Rowan’s internal monologue slip out, fouler than he intended. “I don’t think you need my help. You’re moaning like the neediest slut I’ve ever heard.”

“I’ve… I’ve never needed you for a damned thing.” Her legs shook, but stayed open. Try as she might, her troubled face and shaky voice gave away the thrill she felt. He could work with that.

“I’ll say. You’re taking your wand like an expensive whore.”

A quiet moan escaped her lips which straddled the line of deniability, then she bit her lip in frustration. “…I guess you’d know. Sir needs to pay somebody to stroke him and tell him he’s a good boy.”

His cock throbbed at the image of her standing behind him and whispering sweet nothings as she put her hands to work. That little…! “There’s plenty willing to do it for free. I can think of at least one slutty little elf who can’t keep her eyes off my cock.”

“Will you please hurry up and stick it in already, Sir? I’m aching for you.”

“Wh-?”

“Is that what your little Girian bitch said?”

“Maybe. Now weren’t you busy masturbating for an audience, you little Sicorathi bitch?”

Her breath hitched and the wand began moving again. “I started before you came. You’re the one who wants me to watch.”

There was a thrill in openly jacking himself to her. But it was obvious she felt the same way. “I’m just paying you back with a show.”

“Who’s—mnh—who’s the slut now?” Her hand returned to her mouth and she stifled her moaning by loudly and sloppily sucking her fingers.

The little fucking tease. A held breath came out of Rowan’s mouth as a growl. “You.”

“Is that the best you can do, Sir?” She talked around her fingers and he couldn’t help but remember her muttered apologies with his cock down her throat.

“I’m… gh…” Yes. The answer was yes. All Rowan could do was tighten his core and try not to finish before she did. 

“How’s it feel to be beaten out by a makeshift dildo?”

“Don’t care. Wouldn’t fuck you anyway.”

“Liar. You’re about to burst just thinking about it.”

“…Bitch.”

“K-keep talking.”

“Slut.”

“Fuck…”

“You want me to watch you.”

“Sh-shut…!” She panted and moaned like a bitch in heat, pulling her hand away from her mouth to furiously rub her clit back and forth to push herself over the edge.

He couldn’t help himself. Just as she screamed in ecstasy and tensed her entire body, he erupted himself and sprayed her legs with cum. 

The wand falling out of her still-quivering pussy and hitting the ground was like a bell which woke him from his stupor. All the shame that should have been there from the start came rushing in at once.

What the hell was… anything in the last hour? What were they doing? How did they somehow both agree that masturbating to each other was just a normal, competitive thing they did? 

Sophia was completely spent, draped over the table and breathing softly. She’d fucked herself to sleep.

Now was the time. He would just grab the documents he came for, then slip away before she woke and had the same revelation he did.

…She’d be furious he’d gotten cum everywhere from her panties to her boots.

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