Ari Marmell
False Covenant
Beneath the sun, the roads are man's,
His work, his home, his town, his plans.
But 'ware the ticking of the clock:
The night belongs to Iruoch.
“But I don't understand,” said golden-haired Adeline. “You told me that you were not hungry this evening.”
“I am not,” said the Marquis Iruoch.
“And you said I had not offended you in any way,” said Adeline.
“You have not.”
“Then why do you seek to murder me?”
“Because I may later be hungry,” said Iruoch.
“Because you may later offend me,” said Iruoch.
“And because I can.”
CHAPTER ONE
If she hadn't already known, she'd never have recognized the lie for what it was.
She'd been here once before, a guest in the sumptuous manor of the Marquis de Ducarte. Now, as last time, the air was heavy with the strands and strings of music, the floor vibrating with dancing couples. Vests and hose were deep, richly hued; magnificent gowns with hoop skirts resplendent in all the bright colors of spring. The servants-though clad largely in blacks, whites, and grays-were scarcely less fancy than the guests; the tables over which they stood were laden with fish and fowl, pork and pastry, and an array of wines that would have put most vintners and taverns to shame. The breath of a hundred conversations pursued the delectable aromas up toward the ceiling, where they swirled around hanging banners and streamers. On some snapped and flapped the sun-and-crown ensign of Vercoule, highest god of Davillon; on others, the rose petals of Ruvelle, patron goddess of the Ducarte line and its current scion, Clarence Rittier.