Tallis smiled, bowed, and scraped as he excused himself. He would have genuflected and licked slug droppings if it meant he could get out of the room any quicker. Six Practicals from Silan stood in a rough circle, murmuring and nodding to one another without a care for who else was in the room. Tallis had had about all he could take of bowing and mock acquiescence to the terms of the treaty with Silan. 
Tallis had spent a large part of the meal retraining his gag reflex. The thought that keep him upright and sober for the experience was knowing that sooner or later they would grow tired and move on. They'd pretend to smile, tapping out messages to each other in that hand code they thought no one else could understand. Then they would excuse themselves to share drinks around the hearth as though nothing had happened. While no one was looking, Tallis, in his role as a minor representative of Camille, was all but forgotten by even the hosts of the house. So far out in the country, their host lacked the intrigues of a court to prepare them for someone like Tallis. This left Tallis free to sneak out and get on with his real business.
Tallis walked along the corridor, smiling and bowing his head to the servants that passed.
"Are you not well?" a young man asked, stopping Tallis. The man was balancing a tray on his arms that still gave a cloud of steam and a nutty scent.
"Fine, thank you," Tallis said, waving a perfumed handkerchief. "That room is a bit stuffy, especially with all the hot air," he said, giving the boy a knowing wink. The young man just grinned all the wider for having shared a moment, puffing up his chest as he returned to his duties.
Tallis felt better for it. It was always nice to give the youth a moment where they felt special. Tallis waited, watching the young man strut his way down the hall. When the boy had rounded the corner he took out the towel he had lifted from the waiter's pocket. He'd feel guilty about this later, but it would be enough to divert attention when they discovered the crime. Eventually, they would believe the poor boy's confession. By then, someone would notice that there was one less member of the Camille court accounted for and new questions would be asked.
Tallis turned the corner and slipped into the shadows. There were house guards milling about, but most of them were too busy grousing to do their duty. Silan had sent their own guard with the delegation, armored and carrying staff weapons.
"Peace talks indeed," Tallis muttered to himself. The Silanese were no more interested in peace than Tallis was interested in a lifetime of buggery in prison.
A clicking noise broke the silence. Tallis stopped mid step, foot hovering in the air. With care he set his foot down, gently applying pressure until he could support more of his weight on it. Taking a deep breath, he sucked in his portly frame. He could feel the blood rushing to his head and tried to melt back into the shadows. For a long moment, the room was silent. In another part of the villa, he could hear the clatter of dishes as the kitchen got to work on preparing the evening meal. Pots clattered. Someone dropped an earthenware jug, shattering it. These sounds echoed up from below, muffled by the floors and thick curtains. Except for the insistent beating of his own heart they were the only sounds Tallis could hear.
'I'm getting too old'. It didn't matter how many times he reminded himself, he still took the jobs. He still found himself sneaking in the shadows and jumping at any noise he heard.
The clicking sound came again, closer. Louder.
Tallis looked around the room again, his gaze finally resting on the window. The tension drained from him, his held breath escaping in a wheeze. A dragonfly buzzed against the window, its wings thrumming against the glass pane. Tallis watched the pane shake and rattle, clicking.
'Old indeed. Old fool.' Tallis moved quickly now, crossing the dark room and easing his way into the next. The altar stood at the far end, framed in the flickering light of lanterns. In the room below him, the part continued on in his absence. He could hear the deep voices of the Silan delegates getting into a heated discussion. 
At the altar he set aside the cloth coverings, revealing the ancient book protected beneath. With care he opened it. The spine cracked, the air rich with the scent of aged paper. He turned the pages quickly, eyes skimming over the lost words. If only he had the time to study them. The secrets he could uncover, the history he could recover. The riches he could reacquire. But that was not to be. Not today.
Tallis started to turn the page, then stopped. What at first had looked like a blank page was really a thin onionskin paper covering a detailed illustration. Pulling back at the onion skin paper gently revealed a map. Familiar lands were marked in unfamiliar script. Tallis bit at his lip, making up his mind. He slipped a small knife from his waist and cut the page from the book, stuffing it in his pocket. He closed the book reverently, covering it again with the cloth and turning around to find the round face of a child staring back at him. At that age, he never could tell between boys and girls. Girl, he decided, her features too soft for someone that would grow up to be a provincial brute.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, staring up at him with large, wide eyes. 
Tallis switched smiles like an actor changing masks.
"Neither should you, I wager," he said, scooping the child up in his arms. She hung against him without a fight, returning his gaze. "What do you say we return downstairs and keep this a secret?"
"You won't tell Neviss I came in the house?" she asked. Tallis recognized the name as one of the priests that owned the estate.
"I won't tell," he agreed. Taking her hand in his, he led the child downstairs.

Almos lifted the square of his chin towards the sun and smiled. The yellow glow filled the cabin, leaving him with a warm buzz. Just outside the tight confines of the capsule, the wind whistled through the canopy of the flyer.
"She whistles, but she don't know the tune," he murmured to himself.
"What?" the girl in his lap shouted. Her frail voice was soft beneath the vibration of the canopy membrane, her shouts still barely a whisper above all the noise. She had her head on his shoulder, her lips near his ear. Bright red hair cascaded down his arm, the ends curling up. Looking down at her, he could see the hint of cleavage, the swell of her breasts rising as she breathed in deeply.
"Old punchline," Almos shouted back. Her brow crinkled in a frown, neck twisting to look up at him. "Nothing important, just something we used to say when I was learning to fly." 
"It's exhilarating," she shouted back at him. She gave him another stunning smile, her teeth white and bright.
"First time?"
She nodded, eyes widening as she stared out at the deserts surrounding the city.
"I've only ever seen the flyers from afar. I never thought I would be in one. There is so much to see from up here."
Almos gave her a squeeze, catching a whiff of hot sand and nut oil. A warmth spread in his chest. For a moment he thought about asking her her name, and then she shifted, her backside pressing firmly against his crotch. 
The flyer dipped, bringing Almos back to his senses. Gripping the rudder control in his hands, he steered the flyer back up. They caught a thermal, riding it above the lapping waves of sand below.
There was a freedom in flying, a freedom that could free him from the physical world at times. For a moment, it was even possible to forget about the willing girl squeezed between his thighs. Up here he was removed from the chaos of the bustle of regular life. The girl twisted again, leaning away to press her face against the glass and stare out. Almos slipped one hand off of the rudder control, resting it gently against her thigh. even through the thin layers of her dress, he could feel the taunt muscle and soft flesh beneath. A hot blush colored the back of her neck, her skin almost matching her hair for shade.
"They say," he said in her ear, just loud enough to be heard, "a child conceived this high in the air is considered touched by the gods." The lines were well practiced and she responded accordingly, her lips drawing together as she leaned up to kiss him.
#
Karnigan was waiting when he landed.
Almos helped her climb out of the cramped cockpit, but he kept his eye on Karnigan. The other man watched, his brows furrowing in the slightest frown. Almost turned to say something to the girl but she was already gone.
He caught a glimpse of her pulling the loose ends of her shaw close to cover crimson cheeks as she rounded a corner and disappeared.
Almos turned back to Karnigan and walked towards the other man. He put a hand out, reaching and gripping the other man's outstretched arm above the wrist and giving it a squeeze. 
"Karnigan, what fresh game have you?"
Karnigan forced a smile, showing his tiny teeth between tightly stretched lips. Almos pretended not to notice the grimace. Karnigan was little more than a local attache, someone who's job it was to make sure Zinizarians like Almos were well taken care of.
Karnigan gave a small bow, inclining his head forward.
"Flight commander."
Almos pulled at the leather gloves on his hands, freeing each finger before tucking the glove in his pockets.
"What is it, Karnigan?" Karnigan glanced over at teh flyer, then back at Almos. "What, you want a turn to ride in the sky with me?" he asked, slapping Karnigan on the shoulder good-naturedly. "I'm afraid you're not my type, old man," he said, laughing. Karnigan flushed, his dark cheeks turning peach. Almos laughed again, putting an arm around Karnigan and drawing him along as he started walking. "Tell you what, Karnigan. Help me get some entertainment for later, something to pass the time away, and we'll see what we can do to get you up there some day."
"Entertainment?" 
"You know, girls. I know you have girls around here, I've seen them hiding in the shadows. More like the one that just went up with me if you can."
"No. Yes," Karnigan said, flustered. "But no. I was sent to retrieve you," he finally got out. Karnigan jerked his shoulder back, removing Almos' hand. "You are needed downtown."
"Now?" Almos asked, still working the buckles on his suit. "Tell them I will be along when I'm ready."
"It is not so simple," Karnigan said, pulling at the hem of his tunic to straighten it. "You are to appear before the magistrates. They want you before the afternoon respite is finished."
Almos unbuckled his flight suit, shrugging out of the thick canvas. On the ground it was hot enough to seek shade and chilled wines to pass the afternoon. Despite the heat below, flyers often came back with frost still clinging to their undercarriage. Almos scooped up the garment and draped it over his arm.
"No time like the present, then."
Karnigan gave a ceremonial bow, ushering Almos to follow him into the city.

Dharsham closed his eyes, but the purple streaks of lightning were still there.
"It's a rough storm out there," his father said from beside the fire, sipping at his drink. Dharsham barely heard him, his attention on the raging storm outside. Overhead, the rain began beating against the roof, echoing in the small room like the hooves of a goat army.
"You know it's going to be a mess come morning, son," his father said, his speech slurring. "It don't matter how much it rains, the sheep'll all be covered in their own shit."
His father tended to be more talkative when he drank these days. Before ice fever had taken his mother, his father had been a quiet man. These days, he took more to the bottle than the flock. Dharsham spent many nights out on the mountain, the stars his blanket. Better the cold loneliness of the mountain than a night in the tiny cottage with his father.  But not a night like this, with a mad tempest blowing through the peaks of Storm Spitter. He'd as likely drown as catch the chills, and if the cold and wet didn't get him than a mudslide would. No, on a night like this, even his father's words of enlightenment were almost welcome.
Something crashed against the side of the cottage, clay cups rattling where they hung on the walls. He heard the creak and moan of his father rising up out of his chair, wood and bone protesting before he fell back and landed with a huff. In the darkness outside, movement caught Dharsham's attention. Between flashes of lightning a tall shape appeared and disappeared near the sheep pen. It might have been his imagination. Or it might have been sheep rustlers. It wouldn't be the first time theives stole from the small farm during a storm.
Dharsham's father struggled to his feet again, stumbling towards the window.
"Someone should check on them," his father said. The scent of his breath made Dharsham's eyes water. The old man prodded Dharsham in the shoulder with a stubby finger. "Go on," he said. "Check on the sheep."
Dharsham nodded, choking back the knot of fear in his throat. He pulled on his parka and stumbled out into the rain without a word, his feet sinking in the mud. He glanced back, watching the rectangle of light close and cut him off from the dry fire and warm sill.
Their little farm was no stranger to harsh weather. But with all things, there was a time in the year for the storms just as there was a time for the thinning of the herd or the traveling to markets. It was the wrong time of the year for a storm this fierce to be buffeting against their mountaintop home.
To the east of their home, the arid deserts of Zinizar spread out to the horizon. Dharsham had heard from a wandering tinkerer that the daytime sun in Zinizar could melt the hair on a man's scalp. Dharsham reasoned this was why so many men in Zinizar shaved their heads. To the south were the green jungles that led to the sea, where the Daughter of the Second Sun made her home in mythical Camille. To the north was Silan and Quirnot, home of fantastical machines and harsh, cold winters that drove the snows south.
In the path of all three sat this mountain, the dividing line in a thousand generations of bloodshed. It was here that the storms rose up along the cliff faces to clash and battle it out in the skies above. This was where the storms were born, earning the peak the moniker Storm Spitter. But in all his short life, Dharsham had never seen a storm as bad as this.
He made his way across the yard to the pen. Heavy rain pelted him in the face, stinging his exposed skin and plastering his clothes to his chill bones. He'd have been drier if he had just dipped in a river, he reasoned. Dharsham bent his head low, struggling against the muddy slope. He cursed his father's paranoia, the rains, and everything else he could think of. The sheep were probably huddled under the lean-to, wet but safe, he reasoned. And then what could he could do? Sit in the rain with them, while his father sat dry and drunk inside? Dharsham stopped, his feet sliding in the mud, and leaned against a muddy slat of fence, staring into the enclosure.
The pen was empty.
Lightning flashed across the sky, a brilliant streak that lit the world brighter than the midday sun. In the shadowless light, Dharsham felt his skein run cold. In the bright flashes of lightning the boards of the pen were dark with blood. Wet sinew dangled still between the slats. Instinctively he felt for the small knife at his side, seeking comfort from the familiar bit of steel. It would offer little protection, but it went far to calm his nerves.
Dharsham had worked with his father in the spring, culling the herd, butchering for meat or market. He was no stranger to the work of an axe, or to the sight of an animal laid out. What remained on the fence made his knees grow weak. There were no wolves on Storm Spitter, no large predators. The nearest settlement was a Norlith trading town that the nomads inhabited in the warmer months.
Dharsham turned apprehensively, his fingers pulling the tiny blade free. Tiny or not, it was a claw that fit his paw perfectly. Around him the wind howled, carrying with it something else, a sound he was more familiar with. The rain started coming down harder, reducing his ability to see to nothing. Blindly he reached out, his hand following the rough wood of the fence as he felt his way along, ears straining to hear the sound. He stopped after a few paces, holding on to the fence post to keep from sliding in the mud, and listened again.
There. The bleating of a lone sheep, trapped somewhere nearby.
Overhead, lightning flashed again. Between one blink and the next, Dharsham caught a glimpse of something moving, a shadow against the bright sky. Dharsham jerked back, his feet slipping out beneath him. Pain lanced across his backside as he fell, wet wood splintering beneath his weight.
Dharsham struggled back up on his elbows and found himself staring back at a pair of eye, glowing with feral intensity. Sharp teeth gnashed out at him and Dharsham shoved back, digging feet and hands in the mud as he tried to pull back. The black shape loomed closer, a rush of fetid breath hitting him as it struck out again. Dharsham found enough traction to half raise himself up before he slipped again. His head struck a rock and ushered in the darkness.