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The fact that this was his sixth mug in half as many hours
was both comforting and galling. For if Pitrick utilized
mushale as a transcendental aid, as a step toward relaxation
and deeper understanding, rarely did he allow himself to get
so completely lost in its more addictive charms. Overuse
was an abuse.
The savant was already addicted to power. To become de-
pendent on anything else, to develop an intimacy with any-
thing else like he had with the concept of power, would only
serve as a distraction.
Yet, something had already diverted his attention. Perian
Cyprium, the flame-haired officer of the thane's House
Guard, was consuming his thoughts. Pitrick swished the
mushale dregs around the cup once more, listening for the
soft murmur of the liquid. In frustration he dashed the con-
tents into the fire, then smashed the cup on the andiron. The
low flame turned bright blue as the fermented potion blazed
to life. Swelling not unlike the flame, Pitrick's melancholy
grew to anger.
She had humbugged him, by the gods! He did not know
how, or why, but somehow she had conspired with the fates
to cheat him
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