"What should I egg-spect from a bistard," Emmaline returned spitefully, though in truth she had spent worse nights. More than once she had slept in haylofts or stables and once she had been forced to sleep in a bracken thicket to escape a vengeful mark whom had taken being left at the altar with an unreasonable irritation. Idly, she wondered if she could find the time to brew the itching powder that Kasimir most richly deserved. She narrowed her eyes and resolved to make the time.

The bath and the change of clothes was revivifying, though it did little to cool her irritation with Kasimir. Ranald's two gifts, the desire to flee and the desire to profit warred within her as she brushed her hair.

"Kissymere!" she barked, "Ai need a ladees maid to 'élp wiv mon 'air!"  There came an inarticulate growl from the parlor which Kasimir was converting to a bedroom/guardroom by dragging a bed in from some adjoining chambers.

"Eet would be inconseestent wiv yur fathair's 'onair if ai wasn't presentabluh," she added for good measure. There came a much put upon sigh and the sound of tramping feet. The problem was that her brush with the Count had made her a figure of far greater interest at court which meant she could extract much more gold from her noble marks. On the other hand, all the gold in the world didn't do you any good if some insane cultist decided to cut your throat. Why had the wanted Oderick dead? He was a Knight and a great warrior yes, but you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting some swaggering idiot who fit that description, the proof of which was currently defiling her parlor. It had to be the note but who had the note been from, and what did it reveal?

Emmaline cocked her head to make sure that Kasimir had gone, then waved her hand and muttered a few arcane syllables. The mirrored glass in front of her clouded, then resolved to the grisly scene of the murder. She swallowed back bile and forced herself to examine the scene. This was from her memory rather than a true depiction of the scene, but the human eye caught more than its conscious mind realized. There was the note. The paper was fine, well milled, not the cheap pulp on which novels were printed. She peered at it and made a gesture with her hand. The note rotated an floated upwards. Most of the writing was blurred save for one word. Selsmark. 

"That is more than enough," a voice said from behind her. The mirror collapsed to reveal a pimply young man in palace livery. He lunged for her but she twisted aside, avoiding the thrust of a long straight poniard. He rushed her anyway pinning her against the mirror as she gripped at his arm, trying to keep the knife from her throat. She tried to scream but he grabbed her mouth with his hand, muffling her shriek.

"Sorry, but we got to kill you and the Count's bastard, Magister's orders," the youth grated as he inexorably pushed the tip of the poniard towards her throat. She could smell his fear, fear and perfume, an odd spiced scent that made her slightly nauseous. Emmaline bit into his hand, tasting blood. He cursed and yanked his hand way then swung a round house punch at her head. Rather than screaming Emmaline yelled another arcane word and ducked. The youth let out a startled cry as his hand vanished into the mirror. Emmaline snapped another word and ended the spell. The youth screamed like a gelded hog and fell backward, his left arm now ending mid wrist, the hand trapped inside the mirror. For a moment it was as neat as an anatomy cross section, the blood began to spurt from the neatly severed artery. He started at the amputated stump in horror for a moment, then screamed in rage and drove the dagger at her desperately. Emmaline fell from the chair, landing on her well padded rump and kicked the stool into her attacker. He half leaped half fell atop her and she managed to avoid being stabbed only by virtue of turning the blow with a high heeled shoe that she had been about to put on.

"My hand!" the assassin howled, still spurting blood all over the chamber. He stabbed downward viciously, but Emmaline managed to roll away, kneeing him hard in the groin and doubling the man over. Desperately she sprang to her feet and ran for the door. The assassin followed, half stumbling half leaping but he loss of blood was overtopping his adrenaline. He fell to his knees, trembling and pale, and glared at her with an implacable hate.

"You will not..." he collapsed onto the floor with a clatter, the dagger rolling free of his fingers. Kasimir burst through the door, sword in hand, a frightened looking maid in the doorway behind him.

"What in Holy Ulric's name... Guards! Assassin's in the palace!" he roared, fairly shaking the timbers. The hue and cry was taken up by others and for the second time in a day the halls were filled with thundering feet and clanking mail. Emmaline sat on the floor, stunned for a moment and then began to cry.

"Are you hurt?" Kasimir demanded.

"Non Non but mon mak up eez ruined," she wailed.