“Is that why your arm seems to be sore?” Morry demanded. “Because you were walking?”

Amberhill frowned. Morry would know just by glancing at him that the slightest thing wasn’t quite right. Even minor pain could alter a man’s posture, and after all these years of training together, Morry knew him as well as he knew himself.

“It is of no matter,” Amberhill replied.

A suspicious gleam remained in Morry’s eye, but the older gent, as paternal as he might be, was still a servant, and Amberhill knew each of these conflicting roles fought to assert itself over the other. The servant won this time, at least for the moment, and Morry did not pursue the matter.

“I was afraid you’d gone and done something rash,” Morry said.

“You know I’m more careful than that. I won’t do the job until the conditions are perfect.”

Morry shook his head. “I’m not sure the conditions ever will be. It’s not a proper sort of—”

“Nothing the Raven Mask does is proper,” Amberhill snapped, aggrieved he must always defend his decisions. He strode over to a table that held a bottle of brandy. He splashed some into a glass and downed it in a single gulp, then poured some more.

“Some things are less proper than others,” Morry said, undeterred. “Especially when they are traitorous.”

“Such things were commonplace centuries ago, and were considered an honorable way for one noble to express disagreement with another, or to show himself as a rival for an intended wife and to benefit from a token ransom as solace.”

“I doubt the women involved ever saw it as ‘honorable,’” Morry said. “In any case, King Smidhe outlawed the practice of honor abductions long ago because it created disunity among the clans. In some cases it was an excuse for them to commit war upon each other.”

“You know as well as I do that honor abductions still go on in remote provinces where the king’s law holds less sway. Coutre, for instance. And to my thinking, there is still a place for some of the old traditions.” It had been a long night already, and Morry’s interrogation was not soothing Amberhill’s irritation. If anything, it added to it. “Did you always question my grandfather’s decisions this way?” he demanded.

“Your grandfather,” Morry replied, stroking his chin, “practiced and practiced his art to its fullest, and was well-seasoned before he attempted some of his more dangerous thefts. Such tasks were extensively planned before execution, creating a seeming effortlessness on his behalf that baffled the authorities. That was the art of it—no one knew just how much work went into it. They saw only the results. A man who could melt into shadows and charm the most happily of married women. A man who could steal a highly guarded gem without being detected. An act of seeming ease that was in fact an exercise of great intellect and the culmination of much sweat.”

“So you are saying I’m an impulsive whelp.”

“That is what you are saying,” Morry replied. “Your grandfather was a man full grown when I came to serve him, and I was just a boy. He’d been the Raven Mask for several years already. Did I question your grandfather’s motives and actions? No. Not at first, but as time went on and I grew in experience, I learned to question him if I thought an endeavor too risky. Usually it turned out everything was so well-planned, I was the one who learned from it. After all those years of serving your grandfather, I should think I have some words of value to share with you. I offer it out of love, and offer it now, especially since you have been the Raven Mask but a short time.”

“I’ve been very successful,” Amberhill said, still irked.

“And I do not deny it, for I have trained you well.” Morry smiled, but it was fleeting. “You must understand, Xandis, that it is only because of my regard for you, and my concern for the young woman, that I raise questions. And certainly I do not trust the plainshield. He will not reveal to us his liege lord. Who is this noble who seeks an honor abduction of the most prestigious lady in all of Sacoridia? The whole scheme smells rotten to me.”

“I will see to the lady’s safety myself,” Amberhill said. “I swear it.”

“Even plans well-laid sometimes go wrong.”

Amberhill tightened his grip on the glass, then relaxed. “I’ve already agreed to this thing, and on my honor, I will finish it. The Amberhill estate will be restored, and the Raven Mask can retire once again.”

“What is the greater honor, I wonder,” Morry muttered, but before Amberhill could retort, the older man stood and said, “It is late and I need my bed.” He started away, but then paused. “Your new boots were delivered today. Good night, sir.”

“Good night,” Amberhill murmured. He watched Morry make his way from the room and into the dark corridor beyond. He was trim and unbent despite his years, and worked hard to maintain himself, mostly by training with Amberhill. Amberhill loved Morry, but as a son will chafe against a father, so he resented Morry’s challenging his decisions.

It is, after all, my decision, Amberhill thought. He’d become the Raven Mask with one goal in mind: to restore his estate. And so he would. As an impoverished noble, he couldn’t hope to win anything but a wife of mediocre status with a scant dowry, and then he’d never be able to establish the horse farm he dreamed of. He would die wanting, his life unremarked upon.

At one time, his family had been very wealthy and powerful within Clan Hillander, owning vast expanses of land. Now he had but a crumbling manor house and the small acreage it sat upon to call his own, despite the prominence of his ancestors. The gold the plainshield offered would help him reclaim much and launch the horse farm, and he’d manage it all scrupulously to bring the estate back to its former splendor.