• Simon slipped quietly into the restaurant and smiled. It was a noisy place, and one slender man drifting through the crowd would attract no attention. His black hair was swept back in the style of the minstrels, giving anyone who saw him the much-preferred explanation for the harp on his back—the other possibility, of course, being that he was a mage.

    The place was crowded, as usual. It was a restaurant well known for the skill of its chefs. A lesser-known fact was that it was the current meeting place for the Emperor’s spies. Simon knew that, but then, he wouldn’t be much of a spy if he didn’t.

    He knew the man at once when he came in. Wearing arrogance like a cloak, he carried himself in a way that only those who considered themselves above the law and untouchable could manage.

    The Emperor’s spymaster.

    He strode towards the table he had chosen, which happened to be the one Simon had sat down at.

    The spymaster glanced at him, taking in his rough appearance and the harp on his back. His lip curled. “Begone, minstrel. I claim this table for the Emperor’s business.”

    Simon stood silently, and moved to another table—one where he could easily keep the man in sight. He could, with just a word, destroy that man’s future. He was the personal spy of the Commander, who was second in power only to the Emperor himself, and yet he had been dismissed like a common peasant.

    He smiled and sat back in his chair as though he were just that. After all, what was the use of being a spy if people knew who you were?