Bernard scowled and shook his head. "Aldrick wouldn't do it. And he wouldn't hurt you."
Amara tilted her head, frowning. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I won't shoot him in the back or hurt Odiana."
"Talked about this, have the two of you?"
"Don't need to," Bernard said.
Amara shook her head. Then she lowered her voice, and said quietly, "You're too noble for this kind of work, Bernard. Too romantic. Aldrick is a professional killer, and he's loyal to the Aquitaines. If she pointed her finger, he'd kill you. Don't let yourself believe otherwise."
Bernard studied her face quietly for a moment. Then he smiled, and said, "Amara. Not everyone is like Gaius. Or the Aquitaines."
Amara sighed, frustrated, and at the same time felt a flush of warmth run through her at her husband's... faith, she supposed, that there was something noble in his fellow human beings-even those as cold-blooded and violent as the mercenary swordsman. At one time, she knew, she would have thought the same thing. But that time was a considerable distance behind her. It had ended the moment her mentor had betrayed her to the same man and woman now in the room with Lady Aquitaine.
"Promise me," she said quietly, "that you'll be careful. Understanding with Aldrick or no, be careful of turning your back on him. All right?"
Bernard grimaced, but gave her a reluctant nod and bent to place a light kiss on her mouth. He looked like he was about to say something else, but Amara's little scarlet shift caught his eye and he raised his eyebrows at her. "What's that?"
"My costume," Amara said.
Bernard's grin was not-quite-a leer. "Where's the rest of it?"
Amara gave him a very level look as she felt her cheeks warming, and she turned and walked firmly into the bathing room, shutting the door behind her.
Rook was already sitting in one of the small tubs, bathing briskly. She folded a modest arm across her br**sts until the door was closed. Then she went back to bathing, while watching Amara obliquely.
"What are you looking at?" Amara asked quietly. The words came out far more belligerently than she had intended.
"A master assassin of the High Lord currently on the throne," Rook replied, her tone laced with only the barest trace of irony. "I'd prefer I wasn't alone in the bath with her."
Amara lifted her chin and gave Rook a cool look. "I am no assassin."
"Perspective, Countess. Can you say you have never killed in service to your lord?"
"Never with an arrow fired from ambush," Amara said.
Rook smiled, very slightly. "That's very noble." Then she frowned and tilted her head to one side. "But... no. Your training was unlike mine. Or you'd not blush quite so easily."
Amara frowned at Rook, and took a deep breath. There was no profit in bickering with the former bloodcrow. It would accomplish nothing but to waste time. Instead of replying sharply, thoughtlessly, she began to undress and to bathe herself briskly. "My education as a Cursor did not include... that sort of technique, no."
"There are no bedchamber spies among the Cursors?" Rook asked, her tone skeptical.
"There are some, " Amara said. "But every Cursor is evaluated and trained a bit differently. They intend us to play to our strengths. For some, it includes an education in seduction. My training was focused in other areas. "
"Interesting," Rook said, her tone detached, professionally clinical.
Amara tried to match her tone. "I take it your own training included how to seduce men?"
"To seduce and pleasure, men and women alike."
Amara dropped her soap into the bath in surprise.
Rook allowed herself the hint of a chuckle, but it died quickly as she frowned down at the bathwater. "Relax, Countess. None of it was by my choice. I... I don't think I would care to revisit that sort of situation at all if there was any way I could possibly avoid it."
Amara drew in a breath. "I see. Your daughter."
"A by-product of my training," Rook said quietly.
"Her father?"
"Could be one of ten or twelve men," Rook said, her voice cool. "The training was... intensive."
Amara shook her head. "I can't even imagine."
"No one should be able to imagine it," Rook said. "Rut Kalarus strongly favored that sort of training for his female agents."
"It gives him greater control over them," Amara said.
"Without resorting to the use of collars," Rook agreed, her voice bitter. She scrubbed at herself with a cloth, harshly, almost viciously. "Leaves their wits intact. Better able to serve him."
Amara shook her head. She couldn't even imagine. Her experience as a lover was hardly extensive, consisting of a single young man at the Academy who had dazzled her for three glorious months before dying in the fires that had first brought her to the attention of the First Lord-and Bernard. Who made her feel glorious and beautiful-and loved.
She couldn't even conceive what it might be like for such an act to be undertaken coldly, without the fires of love and desire to heat it. To be simply... used.
"I'm sorry," Amara said quietly.
"Nothing you did," Rook replied. She closed her eyes for a moment, then her facial features began to change. The alteration was neither swift nor dramatic, but when she looked up again, Amara would never have recognized her as the same person. She got out of the tub, dried, and began to dress in her dark clothing. "We're as safe here as anywhere in the city, Countess. The owner knows who I work for, and he's proven himself adept at being blind and deaf when necessary, but the sooner we can leave the better."
Amara nodded and finished bathing quickly, rising to dry off and take up her scarlet "clothing."
"Easier to step into it than draw it down," Rook provided. "I'd better help you with the sandals."
She did so, and when Amara had slipped the armbands around her biceps she looked down at herself and felt more than mildly ridiculous.
"All right," Rook said. "Let me see you walk."
"Excuse me?" Amara said.
"Walk," the spy said. "You've got to move correctly if I'm to pass you off as a new pleasure slave."
"Ah," Amara said. She paced to one side of the room and back.
Rook shook her head. "Again. Try to relax this time."
Amara did, growing more self-conscious by the step.
"Countess," Rook said, her tone frank, "you've got to move your hips. Your back. You've got to look like a slave so conditioned to her uses that she anticipates and enjoys them. You look like you're walking to market." Rook shook her head. "Watch me."