"She is young," said Mearch, a remark which, in an age of
penta-centurions, adult human beings of 200, 400, and even 700 or more
years old, was no idle comment.
"She is that," Ibi mused, staring idly past Mearch at the crudely hewn
stones of the far wall. "Well, Master Royal Armorer? Will you get on
with it?"
Abruptly, Mearch turned to Ibi and hesitated significantly, before
saying to the old Scribe, "How much?"
Ibi stared blankly back at him a moment, until enraged comprehension
filled his features.
"Forget it, Mearch," Ibi rasped in a gravel voice fraught with caustic
skepticism. "She's royal property, and if you so much as petition the
Emperor for her hand, you'll find there are bureaucratic punishments
against which you shall find no proper shield or defense. I have no
intention of losing her services so soon after training her up. She is
brilliant."
"But--" Mearch faltered. "She would become my most favored wife, and I
have but six now!"
"What you ask is unthinkable! She is not for sale and you are not to
molest or entreat her in any disrespectful manner, or you'll be hacking
your way out of a dungeon cell with your fingernails, if they're not
pulled out by the roots first. Is that clear?"
"Aye," said Mearch, looking back at Si'Wren with eyes which were
curiously lacking in their customary boldness.
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