The voice was the same. Deep. Controlled. But carried a different weight. The weight of the original. The weight of the man who sat in the shadows and watched his duplicates work while he attended to other matters.
The scout turned.
The corner of the chamber was dark. The candles didn't reach it. The lamps were aimed away. It was a deliberate pocket of shadow, a space carved from the light, and within it, a figure sat.
A chair. Carved stone. Draped in fur.
The master sat in it.
His body was the same as the duplicates. Broad. Muscular. The scar on the left temple. But his posture was different. The duplicates were active, moving, thrusting, performing. The original was still. His eyes were narrowed. His chin rested on his fist. His expression carried the patient, calculating focus of a man who was watching a game he had played many times and was interested in the new move.
Between his legs, a woman knelt.
