She slipped quietly into the busy room through the servitor passage, anonymous in the grey and dark crimson livery of the House staff, and placed the goblet of wine on the arm of the throne at the speaker’s right hand. Not waiting for acknowledgement, she turned to leave, and had made it halfway back to the door before realizing that the court had fallen silent – and that her feet no longer touched the ground.
“My lord genarch? Have –”
“A moment, if you will.” He raised the goblet to his lips, and sipped delicately at the contents.
“Bloodroot… and salts of viridine,” he said, amused. “Quite delightful.”
With a casual twist of the fingers, he spun her in the air to face him.
“Surprised? I am a Sargas, my dear. And I suppose as a guildswoman in good standing, you won’t be inclined to tell me who paid for this attempt?”
The mask of the servitor fell away, and the assassin, resigned, looked out of her eyes. “No, my lord genarch. We kill for the contract; we die for the contract.”
“No matter. Tell my cousin that next time he wishes to attempt a bid for the genarchy, he should not suggest using the 548. I forgive and applaud ambition in the family. I am somewhat less tolerant of wasting fine wine in the process.” Another idle gesture lowered her once more to the floor. “And now you may go. Depart in peace, Uldar of the Lakhasskúël.”