webcrawl/APGTE/Book-6/tex/Ch-036.md.tex

\hypertarget{charlatan-ii}{%
\section{Charlatan II}\label{charlatan-ii}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``To be a mage is to seek to master yourself so that through this
you might master the world around you.''}

-- Extract from ``The Most Noble Art of Magic'', by Dread Emperor
Sorcerous
\end{quote}

Sister Maude left after delivering her ultimatum, as if it were done
thing, and behind her chaos erupted within Olivier's family.

Father was hesitant, Mother belligerent and Roland seemingly just in
deep shock. It occurred to the Olivier that, until this moment, no one
had ever really made it clear to his younger brother that magic could be
seen as anything but good. He was not certain whether he should be glad
of that or not: sometimes callouses were for your own good. Olivier's
parents began to argue, Mother talking about calling in favours and
rousing the town while Father called it black madness, talking instead
of trying a bribe. Olivier led away his little brother, who did not need
to see or hear any of this, bringing him to his room. The shouting could
be heard through the door, but he was no magician to be able to solve
that.

``Ollie, what are we going to do?'' Roland quietly asked. ``We can't
fight the priests, Father's right.''

There was no denying \emph{that}, Olivier thought. The temple in
Beaumarais was nothing impressive, a simple house of stone with pretty
side gardens holding within a small cloister that served as both a
hostel for travellers and lodgings for the few lay brothers and sisters
who occasionally spent a handful of seasons here. Sister Maude was a
stout woman in her forties, who rumour placed on the wrong side of a
political squabble in the faraway city of Maupin to the west -- a month
and a half away by horse -- as explanation for why such an obviously
well-educated priestess had been sent to a border town like theirs. The
men in House livery she'd brought with her were lay brothers reportedly
from Apenun, the kind that came here in a retreat for a year before
returning, and besides a young woman and an old one they were the only
other people of the House in Beaumarais.

It wasn't that physically the priestess and her fellows couldn't be run
out of town. Sister Maude's grasp on Light was weak and she was not in
great shape, while none of the others could call on the blessings of
Above. Father alone using what few dangerous spells he knew would be
able to clear out the lot of them fairly handily. The trouble was that
the House of Light stood behind them, and the House could not be
threatened or bullied: if Sister Maude was sent packing, she'd be back
in three months with a dozen priests and a company of horsemen from
Apenun. There might even be a royal magistrate with them, someone who'd
be empowered to seize property and pass judgements. If it came to that,
Olivier's family would lose everything they owned in the span of
moments.

In principle, the ancient rights of all Procerans colloquially known as
\emph{Salienta's Graces} meant that not even a prince could take a
single blade of grass from a farmer without the matter being brought to
an elected magistrate and the law being made to speak. In practice,
though, royal magistrates -- those appointed by the authority of the
royal house, if rarely by the ruling prince personally -- were allowed
to ignore the Graces and render judgement when it came to treason,
heresy and royal dues. Out here in the Valleys there was no elected
magistrate anyway. Not enough people to warrant it. It was the ones in
Apenun that received petitions, but none had come out as far as
Beaumarais in living memory. And should Sister Maude call in a royal
magistrate over `heresy', though, even appealing there wouldn't do a
damned thing.

They stuck together, all these powerful sorts, like a covenant of foxes
running the henhouse.

``There has to be more to this,'' Olivier told his brother quietly.
``Our arrangements with the House have been holding for more than two
decades now, why force what will be an unpopular measure? Something must
have happened.''

``I know Mother met with someone quietly and after nightfall, about a
week back,'' Roland said, frowning.

``To sell green brews, you think?'' Olivier asked, brow rising. ``She
doesn't know any recipe that'd bring down heresy charges on our heads.''

Green brews, or \emph{hedge alchemy} as some books referred to it, was a
reference to potioneering practices that were as much folk wisdom as
sorcery and were of sometimes dubious efficacy. Some bordered on black
arts, like potions empowered by animal sacrifice for fertility and
powdered human bone in philtres that fixed arthritis, but no reputable
wizard would be caught dabbling in those. No where anyone might be
looking, anyway. Most were harmless, besides, and folk wisdom had
sometimes become accepted as such for good reason: there were a lot of
useful tricks to be learned from old tales.

``It was healing call,'' Roland said, shaking his head. ``Though I don't
know for what. Father went into the laboratory as well, but not long
enough for him to have cast anything.''

``It'll be in their records, then,'' Olivier mused. ``I'll have to take
a look.''

His parents were very methodical about marking down all they sold and to
whom, Mother in particular. She was a better brewer than spellcaster,
and she liked to follow up on the health of those who'd drunk of her
potions -- especially if she was using a different version from the
usual recipes.

``The lab's lock is magic,'' Roland reminded him. ``You'll need me.''

Olivier turned to look at the door and the muted shouting still going on
behind it. As good an opportunity as they were going to get, he
supposed.

``Let's go,'' he agreed, and his brother's brilliant smile almost made
the whole mess worth it.

---

They snuck into the laboratory with, in all honesty, more caution than
was strictly needed. Of their parents where was no sign, though Olivier
made haste in finding the bookkeeping tallies anyway. No need to take
risks when his little brother was with him, not if he could avoid them.
He did not need to look for answers long -- three entries from the last
was a name that had the young man wincing. Master Nicholas, who'd been
given a potion to see to the sickness that'd taken hold in his leg for a
full silver. Double what the brew was actually worth, and maybe a third
over what his parent would usually charge for it. Roland looked over his
shoulder, and after glancing at his face the younger boy's eyes
narrowed.

``The name means something to you,'' Roland stated.

``It does,'' Olivier agreed, ``but let's get out of here before we speak
of it.''

They scurried out and headed towards a small thicket outside the house
where they could speak in privacy and feign boredom games if their
parents came. Roland was visibly impatient, not used to either the
excitement or having to wait for answers.

``Master Nicholas and his kin handle the gardens for the House of Light,
as well as the vegetable fields that feed Sister Maude and her lay
guests,'' Olivier said.

``So why did he come to us for healing?'' Roland frowned. ``A priest
could do the brew's work without issue.''

``Because he's in a dispute with Sister Maude over wages,'' Olivier
said, fully brought into the know by the occasional dinners he still had
with Master Laurent's family. ``Some of the flower garden work was done
by the two lay sisters for leisure so Sister Maude wants to pay less
than the full wage, and there was some sort of argument over the
vegetables as well.''

A petty enough argument: Sister Maude had taken vegetables from the
fields early, going against the arrangement of allowing Master Nicholas
first pick as part of his payment, but done so taking vegetables the man
never chose and not the prettiest of their kind either. The man now
refused to work at all, and in retaliation Sister Maude was refusing him
healing. Mayoress Suzanne, who'd been the one to speak of the bickering
at dinner over a good bottle of wine, had done so while obviously
considering the whole affair an amusing anecdote. Bruised pride, nothing
to be worried of. Olivier now saw differently.

``We've sold that potion to people before,'' Roland said. ``Regularly,
too. It was one of the first recipes I learned.''

``If we sell one to a shepherd who will spend his days in the valleys,
it is a trifling thing,'' Olivier patiently said. ``After all, if that
same shepherd was in town he would head to the House instead. But Master
Nicholas was \emph{refused} healing by Sister Maude. There is a reason
he paid higher than the usual price.''

And so the House of Light found itself threatened by the emergence of
relief beyond its gates. Otherwise Master Nicholas would have been
forced to bend his neck in that dispute, eventually, and then after
being assuaged Sister Maude could have shown mercy to repair the
relationship. But now a family of practitioners had helped someone she
was quarrelling with frustrate her: that was not simply a transaction,
in the Sister's eyes, it was a \emph{challenge}. One she must answer, or
her influence in Beaumarais would wane.

``She's coming after us because we healed someone,'' Roland heatedly
said. ``Because of coin. That is \emph{foul}, Olivier.''

``I imagine the power matters more to her than the silver,'' he replied.
``But it's true. I've heard that out west mages cannot heal at all, by
decree of law.''

He now understood why much more sharply than his previously nebulous
grasp of the forces at play. It was rarely a comforting thing to have a
glimpsed at the ugly fingers pulling at the strings from behind the
curtain, but blindness had a way of costing more than discomfort.

``People won't stand for this,'' Roland insisted. ``We have friends too,
and people who owe us favours. There's things Light can't do, they need
us for those.''

It certainly wouldn't be a popular measure to drive out Olivier's
family, which forbidding it to practice wizardry for coin would
essentially ensure. Still, in the end the family could move to another
town -- they'd lose the house and the laboratory, the ties with spring
peddlers and the gathering places for ingredients, but the trade itself
could continue elsewhere. It would be the townsfolk of Beaumarais who'd
find a lot less convenience to their lives, especially with Roland being
a blooming young enchanter already capable of very useful things. Sister
Maude's influence would wane regardless, Olivier considered, because
she'd be seen as a petty tyrant who'd robbed the town of useful and
respected tradesmen for no good reason. Did she perhaps mean to only use
the ban to put fear into his parents, and then lift it before they were
forced to leave? It would be a risk, even so.

There was more to this than he understood, Olivier decided, and only one
place where he might get answers shedding light over the matter.

``I'll head to the temple,'' he said. ``There is more to this situation
than we know.''

``And why would she hear you out?'' Roland said, skeptical.

It'd not been meant to be hurtful, Olivier reminded himself, the way
he'd phrased that. The underlying implication that Olivier wasn't even a
mage, so why would his word matter in this?

``I have a letter of commendation from another priest,'' the young man
replied. ``She'll hear me out, and when she does I'm sure an agreement
can be reached.''

``We shouldn't have to agree to anything, Ollie,'' his little brother
insisted. ``We're not wrong, \emph{she} is. If she just left us alone-''

``That's not how the world works, Roland,'' Olivier said, a tad sharply.
``You can't solve everything with a spell or getting stubborn about
being right. \emph{Everyone} thinks they're right -- and if you never
try to see it the way others do, you're going to end up fighting all of
them.''

His little brother's cheeks reddened in anger and he looked away,
mulish.

``I didn't mean to raise my voice,'' Olivier said, feeling his stomach
sour. ``I'm sorry, Roland. But this needs to be fixed and getting angry
won't do that.''

``I know,'' Roland quietly said. ``But you do know it, don't you? That
they're \emph{wrong} about this.''

``I do,'' the young man agreed, clasping his brother's shoulder, ``but
we can still try to turn it into a right.''

---

When Olivier arrived with Brother Albert's letter of commendation in
hand, it was to the mild awkwardness of being received by one of the
very men in House livery who'd come to visit his family home as an
unspoken threat. Taking a closer look at the man in question, he noted
some faint scars -- blademarks, if he was not mistaken -- and what the
son of an alchemist skilled in healing recognize as a broken nose that'd
been healed well enough it was barely noticeable. Between that and the
ramrod straight stance, the man screamed \emph{soldier} to him. Not
exactly your average lay brother. Without introducing himself, the
scarred man disappeared into the house with the letter -- not asking
permission to take it, either -- and returned only some time later.

``You are invited to have a cup of wine in the gardens,'' the man told
him.

``How civilized,'' Olivier drily said. ``My letter, please?''

He received it and felt the man's eyes on his back as he took the side
path and passed through the field of flowers and flowering bushes that
surrounded the cloister. He'd not asked where it was to be received, but
the answer presented itself before long: between a few beautiful
magnolia trees, a small wooden table and two seats awaited. A young
woman in austere lay sister's robes stood behind it, a hand folded her
back, ready to serve the wine for guests. There was no sign of Sister
Maude, though making the likes of Olivier wait would hardly be unusual
for a woman of her stature. The young man made his way there, eyes
straying when he noticed that the lay sister -- this would be the young
one, not the aged -- was really quite striking. Grey eyes, long and
braided blonde hair: she seemed of age with him, or perhaps slightly
older, and by looks half a princess out of story.

``Sister Maude invites you to sit,'' the young woman smiled as he
approached. ``She is seeing to House duties but will be along shortly.''

``I come and go at her leisure,'' Olivier replied. ``We journey as the
Heavens will.''

The blonde lay sister hesitated for a moment, then recalled the answer.

``And ever head towards their grace,'' she firmly replied.

Not a lay sister meaning to take vows, then, Olivier decided. She'd been
in the cloister for at least a year and she was still so unsure when
giving the Traveller's Blessing? No, this one was not wanting to trade
sister's robes for a Sister's.

``It would be hopelessly impolite of me to sit while you stand,'' he
said. ``Will you not take a seat as well?''

``That is very kind of you,'' she replied, ``but it would be improper
for one of my station.''

\emph{If you're not from a good family, I'll swallow whole a stone},
Olivier thought. Etiquette wasn't something nobodies knew, it was the
little rules the powerful had made so they could tell each other apart
from the rest.

``The easy solution is for me to stand as well, then,'' he lightly
replied. ``It is a beautiful day to enjoy a garden, anyhow.''

Grey eyes studied him and the hint of a smile emerged.

``How obstinately gallant,'' she said. ``I am Alisanne, a lay sister to
this temple.''

``Olivier de Beaumarais,'' he replied. ``I dabble in this and that.''

``What brings you to this House, Olivier?'' she smiled.

It was a pretty smile, he thought, which made it dangerous. Young men
did a lot of foolish things to make pretty girls smile.

``I hope to resolve a misunderstanding,'' Olivier said.

``A diplomatic way to speak of strife,'' Alisanne replied.

``Strife,'' he said, meeting her eyes, ``is what happens when reason has
lost. So I speak of a misunderstanding, because I do not believe any
involved in it to be unreasonable.''

``A bold statement,'' the grey-eyed woman replied.

There was a flicker of something like interest in that gaze, and it had
him restless. Pleased and irked all that once.

``I lack for much,'' Olivier de Beaumarais said, ``but never that.''

Whatever else might have been said was not to be, for Sister Maude
emerged from the garden path. The older woman's bearing was calm, her
gait measured, but Olivier saw unease under the surface. That spoke to
discomfort about her decision, he decided, since \emph{he} hardly
warranted anything of the sort.

``Young Olivier,'' Sister Maude smiled. ``It is a blessing to see you,
even in these tense times.''

``Sister,'' Olivier replied, bowing. ``It is a blessing to be received
in any time.''

He made the bow exactly as low as \emph{Manners of the High and Noble}
indicated he should when speaking to the head of a temple.

``What a mannerly young man,'' the older woman said, tone warming.
``Please, do be seated.''

He waited until she'd claimed her seat before doing the same. Alisanne
poured with grace, first allowing Sister Maude to sniff and taste the
vintage to see if it suited and only pouring full cups when the older
woman nodded her assent. Courtesies were exchanged over small sips,
slivers of politeness that meant little in and of themselves but stood
as an expression of goodwill. Of respect. It was a gesture one did not
bother offer when there was no common ground to be found, so it was
promising to have gone through it at all.

``I was surprised, my son, to hear of your visit,'' Sister Maude
eventually said. ``I had thought that after the regrettable events of
the day your hours might be otherwise occupied.''

``My family is still reeling for the surprise,'' Olivier amiably agreed.
``But it is not my place to intervene in the conversations of my
parents, and so I am left with free hands.''

``It is a shame,'' Sister Maude mused as she eyed her glass, ``that you
do not have such a place. You have grown into a sensible young man,
Olivier, and even as a child you were of virtuous leaning.''

The sole without the Talent in a family of the talented, she meant, and
she'd spoken like there could be no doubt that having magic was some
sort of a \emph{taint}. Perhaps not a sin, no, but the mark of a
propensity to sin at least. He could understand why his brother's teeth
had clenched with anger, when he'd caught scent of the sentiment lying
under all of this, but the anger did not burn in him. Olivier had been
outside too long for that.

``You flatter me,'' the young man said. ``I have ever been too concerned
with earthly matters, in truth, and it is they who bring me here. I come
here so approach you on behalf of my kin, Sister.''

The stout woman's face cooled.

``It is a pious thing for a son to seek absolution for his parents,''
Sister Maude said. ``Yet such matters are between the sinner and the
Heavens, not for us to intercede in.''

He'd lose her, Olivier thought, if he came here asking for forgiveness.
Even if he offered reparations, bribes like Father had been mulling
over. This wasn't about coin, it was about power. If they'd been at odds
with a merchant, whose power flowed from gold and goods, those might
have been an answer. But the House of Light's strength did not come
coin, it came from authority -- an authority his parents had threatened.
Yet Olivier had been wondering at the sudden and radical decision, the
ultimatum thrown in the face of his family without warning or even
attempt at negotiations. This would not be without consequences for
Sister Maude, so why \emph{was} she doing it? The answer, Olivier now
grasped, was standing besides the table after having poured them wine.
The lay sister Alisanne had not been dismissed, as someone in her
position usually would have been past the initial courtesies being
exchanged.

The beautiful girl was related to someone important, Olivier suspected,
and Sister Maude saw her presence here as a way to escape the priestess'
exile into stewardship of a nowhere temple in the Valleys. It made
sense, now. The old lay sister was likely a tutor or guardian of some
sort, while the three lay brothers with soldiers' scars were household
guards. It even explained why the highborn Captain Alain, who'd led the
riders from Apenun who came to clear out the bandits over summer, had
visited the House so often when he was hardly the pious sort. He'd been
courting the favour of a highborn girl who'd been sent here as a lay
sister for some reason. Alisanne was likely from Apenun herself, then,
he mused. And she could not be of middling birth, if an older nobleman
with a military command had been courting her goodwill.

Of course, Sister Maude would only see her fortunes change if Alisanne
spoke favourably of her host when she returned home, which made the
lingering troubles with Master Nicholas a much grander affair than any
had suspected. Was the Sister trying to gain esteem by acting
decisively, showing authority and prestige to impress her highborn
guest? It was a graceless way to play the game, but it was true she had
little choice now that she had been so cornered by the situation. She
could not let a family of petty wizards thwart her, or she'd pass for
the fool of that story. The source of this conflict, Olivier considered,
was a struggle of power: the House and his family were seen as rivals,
each wielding influence in competition. The deeper layer was that Sister
Maude needed to achieve \emph{something} by this crisis, or her hopes of
escape would be dashed.

Good, he thought with a smile. This could still be salvaged.

``Ah, I am afraid my careless words led to a misunderstanding,'' Olivier
said, dipping his head in contrition. ``I come not seeking such an
intervention but instead bearing an offer of partnership with the House,
Sister Maude.''

The utter surprise on the woman's face gave him the leave to continued
speaking.

``As you might know, my brother has begun to enchant and my trading has
seen me accumulate some coin,'' Olivier said. ``Our family intends to
open a shop in town that will serve as an apothecary and a provider of
such enchanted tools.''

A lie, the last part, but a plausible one. He could feel Alisanne's eyes
on him but he had no attention to spare for that heady gaze.

``Are quite certain,'' Sister Maude delicately said, ``that now is the
proper time for such a venture?''

``You cut to the heart of the matter,'' Olivier smiled. ``Indeed, I am
afraid that such open sorceries where faithful townsfolk like those of
Beaumarais live might lead to unwarranted fears. Which is why I would
humbly petition that the shop would be opened in partnership with the
House, and naturally under its supervision.''

There could be no conflict between the power of the House and his
family's if they were one and the same. That meant taking the
subordinate's position, and paying for that privilege to boot, but that
would also mean that anyone troubling the shop would also be
antagonizing the House of Light. No more humiliating than paying taxes
to the prince so his soldiers would clear out bandits, if looked at a
certain way. \emph{And when Alisanne goes home, it will be with the tale
of how the clever Sister Maude made her wizard foes submit and gained
revenue for her temple without lifting a finger.} Everyone conceded but
everyone won. That, and he saw a longer game on the horizon. One that
might finally let him reconcile his blood and his calling. The priestess
considered him for a moment, over the rim of her cup.

``And how,'' Sister Maude finally said, ``would such an arrangement be
made formal?''

Just like that, all that was left was the haggling.

---

Neither Father nor Mother appreciated his `meddling', they made very
clear, not that it mattered after Roland came out and sided with him.
Neither of them could enchant, and both knew it was only a matter of
time until he could match Father in raw strength. If they antagonized
their younger son, he could simply turn to the older for the coin to
start his own shop. In the end their choice was between a slugging match
with the House of Light or letting Olivier have his way, and while both
cost pride one would cost them a lot more than that as well. Hardly
blind to the resentment he'd earned by forcing their hand, Olivier found
himself belatedly grateful for one of the conditions Sister Maude had
pushed: namely, that he himself was the be the owner of the shop along
with the House instead of any other of his family.

The priestess had phrased it as recognition of his entrepreneurial
spirit and the silver he'd be sinking into the shop, but they both knew
it was because this way she could avoid being in business with
practitioners directly. Regardless it was Olivier's name that was signed
onto the formal contract Master Laurent drafted, as \emph{Master Olivier
of Beaumarais}, and it meant that there was no lawful way to displace
him from the arrangement. Sister Maude herself would not involve herself
into something as mercantile as running a shop directly -- it would be
frowned upon by her fellows -- but she sent a representative to speak
for the House of Light and help around the shop.

Olivier was not particularly surprised when grey-eyed Alisanne in her
neat lay sister robes was the one who was `assigned' to the duty.

Regardless of his suspicions regarding her the young man found that
Alisanne knew her letters and could keep a tight ledger, both of which
were godsent as he tried to get everything in place for an opening
before winter. She was even willing to help with handiwork when in the
right mood, which struck him as unusual for one of her likely birth.
Shelves were filled with potions, herbs hung to dry and as Olivier moved
into the shop back home Roland put his whole back into learning
enchantments. His younger brother had begun to tear through his lessons
at impressive speed, to Olivier's mild surprise. Roland was talented and
dutiful, but he'd always enjoyed his leisure time. No doubt the girls of
the town would miss him, now that he spent all his hours pouring over
books or shut in the laboratory. It was only when his little brother
coincidentally began to always arrive at the shop to speak with Olivier
or bring over herbs when Alisanne was there that the reason revealed
itself. He'd not been the only one to notice, either.

``By his reputation in town, I would not have thought him so hesitant to
approach me,'' the grey-eyed sister told him one evening.

``You \emph{are} quite striking,'' Olivier absent-mindedly replied, most
his attention on the ledger before him.

He only realized what he'd said moment later, and furiously pushed down
the blush even as he cursed his loose tongue. He scratched his quill
through hellebore, of which he already had seven stalks.

``Am I now?'' Alisanne slyly replied, coming to learn against the table.

``And almost transparently highborn,'' Olivier added, to put her on the
backfoot.

The fair-haired woman shrugged.

``I never pretended otherwise,'' she said.

``Which does have me wonder what you are doing in the likes of
Beaumarais as a lay sister,'' Olivier said, brow rising.

He'd not expected an answer, but he was pleasantly surprised.

``I was judged to have impolitic opinions and too little will to refrain
from speaking them,'' Alisanne said. ``My mother thought a religious
retreat in the mountains would help me learn\ldots{} temperance, and my
father was disinclined to fight her over the matter.''

``You're from Apenun, I believe?'' he said.

``How relentless you are in your questioning,'' she sighed. ``I much
preferred the blushing flattery.''

``I've a curious nature,'' Olivier admitted.

``So do I,'' Alisanne said. ``And worse, I am easily prone to boredom.''

She offered him a smile, then, that he suspected he would much dislike
see offered to another.

``You have yet to disappoint in that regard,'' she told him.

``I will,'' Olivier frankly told her. ``My wanderings are seasonal, and
I've only so many stories of old ones to tell. Besides, this shop will
keep me more tethered to Beaumarais than I was before.''

``How easily you dismiss the possibility that \emph{you} might be the
most interesting part of you, Olivier,'' Alisanne replied, amused. ``On
our very first meeting, I witnessed a country boy ruthlessly read and
manipulate a woman trained in the halls of power of the House of Light
so that she might serve his interests. Do you believe such a thing is
frequent?''

``I simply found a compromise that benefitted everyone,'' he said.

``It is the most genteel and noble manner of mastery,'' Alisanne said,
sounding as if she was quoting someone, ``that which benefits both the
master and the mastered.''

``I am the master of nothing,'' Olivier said, rolling his eyes. ``And
the sum of my coming ambitions is becoming a passable shopkeeper.''

``I don't believe that for a moment,'' the grey-eyed woman said, leaning
in as she considered him with serious eyes.

She was close, he saw, and a strand of hair had slipped her bun to slide
along her cheek. The urge was there to tuck it away, though Olivier knew
that if his hand went to her cheek he'd not be able to stop himself from
kissing her. It was difficult to think, the air around him seemingly
thick and his skin tingling. He forced himself to anyway.

``Yet I'd be a poor shopkeep indeed, if I traded something for
nothing,'' Olivier said.

``Why, Master Olivier,'' she said, ``what manner of a deal might you be
trying to offer this poor lay sister?''

He almost choked when he realized exactly what that coy smile was
implying, even though he knew she was teasing.

``Your full name,'' he said. ``I'll tell you, in exchange for your full
name.''

``There is more to me than that,'' Alisanne said, tone cooling.

Part of him wanted to bend like a reed in the wind at the hint of her
displeasure, but he pushed it down. If she wanted to learn his secrets
she would have to share hers.

``I share only stranger's faith with strangers,'' Olivier said. ``For
even the most splendid tree has roots.''

The fair-haired woman's brow rose.

``Sherehazad the Seer?'' she asked, sounding impressed.

``The quote was somewhat butchered,'' he said, ``but the sentiment
stands.''

Father had bought the book believing it to be full of Wasteland spells,
as it was Praesi, only to find after translation from Lower Miezan that
it was repository of eastern poetry. Alisanne slowly nodded.

``It is somewhat clumsy to compare a woman to a tree, even by foreign
verse,'' she said sounding amused. ``But we have a bargain.''

She offered her hand and he took it -- using surprise and the grip she
jerked him closer. Lips against his ear, she whispered.

``Alisanne Lassier.''

Lassier? Where had he heard that name before? Olivier withdrew an inch,
looking into her eyes with an unspoken question, and she chuckled.
Whatever ill mood had first taken her at his words it had clearly since
faded.

``My mother rules Apenun,'' Alisanne told him. ``My uncle is the
commander of Prince Arsene's personal guard.''

``Ah,'' Olivier murmured.

She was of higher birth than he'd suspected, and he'd suspected fairly
high.

``And you?'' she said. ``What is it that you are plotting in the guise
of a shop, Olivier?''

He bit his lips.

``I am not certain it will work,'' he cautioned.

She was unmoved, and visibly, so he continued.

``This shop is not a shop,'' he murmured. ``It is haven for those with
the Talent, its safety guaranteed by the House of Light itself. I have
legal right to hire workers as I see fit.''

Alisanne's eyes brightened.

``You think more will come,'' she said.

``When word spreads,'' Olivier quietly agreed. ``And I intend to help it
along.''

``I was right,'' Alisanne said, smiling that smile. ``Not boring at
all.''

It would be trouble, Olivier knew. But he'd never been good at staying
out trouble, and so he found himself kissing Alisanne Lassier quite
ardently as the ledgers were left to gather dust.

---

If he was to be lucky, he'd thought, one wizard might risk the paths and
come to Beaumarais during winter. Instead there were four practitioners
before the first snows fell, and one more came before the ice took.

\emph{Trouble,} Olivier de Beaumarais thought.