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Merlin Athrawes Chamber,
Charisian Embassy,
Siddar City,
Republic of Siddarmark.
The angry, shingle-lifting background bluster of snow-laden wind roaring about the eaves only made the sudden, profound silence in the modest bedchamber even more complete. The slight sound as a coal settled on the hearth seemed almost deafening, and Merlin Athrawes stood very still, shoulders against the door he’d just closed behind him, sapphire eyes gazing intently through the fire-flickered dimness at the slender woman in the single chair beside that hearth.
The woman who had just called him “Ahbraim.”
Which, he reflected, made the question of how she’d managed to get by the alert sentinels guarding the Charisian Embassy here in the heart of Siddar City rather secondary.
The firelight struck subdued highlights from her dark hair, and the heavy, utilitarian coat hanging from his coat tree — like the boots and heavy woolen stockings she’d slipped from slim, pedicured feet and set before the fire — was soaked with melting snow. She was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever met and he could smell the subtle sweetness of her perfume, but neither of those were what held him so still.
“Why,” he asked after a moment, in a tone which sounded considerably calmer than he actually felt, “did you call me that, Madam Pahrsahn?” He cocked his head, expression puzzled. “I assume it’s a reference to Master Zhevons?”
“You really are very good,” Aivah Pahrsahn — who had once been known as Ahnzhelyk Phonda, among many other names — said approvingly. “Why, you could almost — almost, I say — convince me. But you can’t, you know. I’ve been watching you for too long.”
Well played good sir!