A/N - Er, yes... so it's me again. Before you all draw your swords, may I say that I honestly didn't realise I hadn't updated since last year. This chapter has been mostly written for months, and last night, after reading over the rest of the story, I got inspired and was up until 3am finishing it off! In chapter 25, we have a bit of revolutionary action followed by a riddle and lots of fluff. I hope nothing is too out of character, as it has been a while since I last chatted with Illa! ;)

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Illa didn't hear the soft swishing of boots through powdery snow until their owner was mere inches away from her. Gasping slightly, she spun around in Aubrey's arms to face the newcomer. He looked to be about seven or eight and twenty, and although his nose was too long, his chin too pronounced and his sandy hair too wild for true good looks, he was by no means unpleasant to the eye, and his visage exuded the sort of candid honesty and intelligence that invited confidences. Aubrey, however, did not seem disposed to trust this stranger.

'Who are you?' He demanded rather abruptly, tightening his grip on Illa, as though he half expected the man to make some sort of claim on her. The man laughed good-naturedly, and extended a repentant hand.

'My apologies for the sudden appearance. My name is Aengus Brimm.' Sensing, despite her confusion, that a retention of the maid-and-footman charade would be prudent, Illa took the proffered hand and completed the introductions before Aubrey even had a chance to open his mouth.

'I am Ithaca Delving, if it please, sir,' she said, curtseying respectfully. 'I serve the house of Shadowflax. And this is Fergal Quilter, my...' she paused, smiling slightly, 'my betrothed.' She suppressed a giggle as Aubrey gave an involuntary jerk behind her. 'He's a footman at the palace.'

'I surmised as much,' said Brimm dryly, appraising the livery in which Aubrey was garbed. There was a long and heavy silence before he spoke again. 'I...' he began, suddenly looking sheepish. 'I have been out and about in the city today, and I couldn't help but notice...'

'Couldn't help but notice what?' Illa's curt tone masked her terror. She had given false names merely as a precaution against uncomfortable questions about why two nobles were gadding about in servants' attire, but now it seemed that the split second decision may have been a life-saving one. Brimm cleared his throat.

'The places you went. The things you looked at. The fact that you seemed to know what they meant.' Illa gritted her teeth and rather unnecessarily scanned the frozen park for eavesdroppers before whispering 'the Sjdyrga?' Brimm inclined his head in the affirmative, and Illa, feeling that enthusiasm for the cause might serve her better than frosty caution at this point, added, 'we weren't sure at first. Of course, we knew that something was afoot - I mean, you'd have to be a noble or a deaf, blind mute not to notice that things are changing in Corus - but we wanted to find the source.' Here she broke off and looked at Brimm, who was positively incandescent with fervour and excitement, before trying and failing to repress a true smile. 'And judging from the look on your face, Master Brimm,' she drawled, 'I believe I would be safe in saying that we have found it!' Brimm nodded again, and dusted a few stray snowflakes from his shoulder before commencing his explanation.

'Yes, Miss Delving, Master Quilter; you have found it. I am a recruiter for Ata sim Rasik – Winds of Change – the rebel group, which, as you have discovered, is preparing to implement an egalitarian republican government in Tortall.' Illa gave an inward smile at the accuracy of her reasoning, but kept her face impassive. 'My job is a difficult and often unrewarding one,' Brimm went on. 'It would be fatally dangerous if we were to start openly campaigning for our cause and canvassing for supporters, so my task is generally to watch and wait until someone is able to work through the elaborate web of rumours and clues which provide the only access point to membership.'

'Elaborate web of rumours and clues?' interrupted Illa. 'I'm sorry, but I don't quite see what you mean. We simply heard that the guildmasters wanted a republic and that Ormiel Glasscutter was the leader of the conspiracy, so we decided to scout around his shop a little. Then, by some miraculous coincidence, we found the Sjdyrga, and Fergal recalled that someone had been chiselling something into a tabletop at Nutmeg's this morning. We went back there and...' she paused, waiting for her thoughts to catch up to her mouth, as Aubrey suddenly asked 'It was you, wasn't it?' Brimm barked a short laugh.

'It was. You are clever,' he continued, raising an ironic eyebrow at Illa, 'but not clever enough to realise that everything you saw today, you saw because you were supposed to see it.' Illa felt a spark of indignation, but before she could utter a sharp retort, Brimm went on. 'Glasscutter is a minor member of Ata sim Rasik. He has sacrificed his own safety to act as a smokescreen for the true nature of the society. The rumour about the Guildmasters wanting to overthrow the monarchy is just that; a rumour, and one which we have deliberately cultivated and spread to protect our identity. There is enough truth in it to garner the interest of sympathisers, but not enough to reveal us categorically to the authorities. And the Guildmasters, as a rule, are greedy and power-hungry; few will mourn them if they end up as stormwing bait on Traitors' Hill.'

Illa's head was spinning. She had been called a 'bright political mind', but she wasn't a patch on these people. The whole scenario seemed brilliant; impossibly clever, unapologetically ruthless. But not that clever, noted a small voice in her head. You're not supposed to be here. You are a monarchist – an infiltrator, not a sympathiser – they should never have let you get this far.

'That is certainly true,' she said aloud. 'They have raised their prices and wallow luxuriously in the profits. In fact, I would venture to say that, at the present time, they meet with more resentment than the King himself!' Brimm's rough, humourless laugh echoed alarmingly through the frozen air, and he scanned the deserted park again. Satisfied that they were still alone, he reached into the worn leather satchel he carried, pulled out a slightly crumpled scroll sealed with colourless wax, and handed it wordlessly to Illa.

'What is –' she began to ask, but he cut her off abruptly.

'Do not open it here.' He gave a short bow. 'Miss Delving, Master Quilter, good day.' With that, he pulled his heavy cloak tighter around his shoulders and strode off across the snowy ground. They watched him silently until he reached the gate, whereupon his dull clothing camouflaged seamlessly into the weathered stone walls and his figure disappeared from view.

Aubrey placed his hands on Illa's shoulders and turned her slowly around to face him. Her face was unreadable; his was not. Shock, fear and confusion emanated from his every pore.

'What in Mithros' name,' he asked quietly, 'have we just gotten ourselves into?'

x X x X x

Now, reflected Illa a while later, was the ideal opportunity to cry; to act the typical noble maiden and throw a fit of hysterics, to run about carelessly brandishing sensitive information towards anyone with the faintest vestige of authority. Yes, doing all that would be incredibly comforting, there was just the minor drawback that such a course of action might very well result in rather a lot of people getting killed. She turned almost involuntarily from her armchair by the fire to where the as-yet-unopened scroll was sitting. She had promised not to read it until Aubrey returned from dispensing with his footman's uniform, but her fingers were itching in anticipation of an imminent discovery, and it took every ounce of her self-control to prevent her from breaking the seal and hungrily exploring the contents. Illa resettled herself in the armchair, drew the folds of her dressing gown around her and gazed absently into the flames, trying to redirect her thoughts. Of course, they strayed to Aubrey first. How ironic that just when things had begun to get interesting, something far more important had forced romance to the very back of her consciousness. Her mind whirled wildly through the various events of the day. What had caused the change between them? Surely it must have been more than a passing moment of weakness; gratitude for a shoulder to cry on. Surely she would not have enjoyed it so much if it had been. No, she suddenly realised, it's just that it wasn't until I was faced with my own vulnerability that I could admit to myself how much I need him. She smiled a tiny self-deprecating smile. How much I love him. Never imagined myself saying that, but it's true.

Illa didn't look up when Aubrey entered the room. Wordlessly, he picked up the scroll from the small table where it sat, and handed it to her as he settled himself on the arm of her chair. She gave him a tremulous smile and slid a quivering finger under the wax seal. 'Well, here goes,' she said. Though neither of them could have explained exactly what they expected the scroll to enclose, both felt a curious sense of disappointment at what was revealed as Illa smoothed out the parchment on her lap. It contained only a few words, arranged in a seemingly meaningless couplet.

'Fragrant, in the mace I lie At the Goddess' next dusk.'

'A cryptic message?' snorted Illa disbelievingly, 'Mithros, I know it's serious stuff, but I think they're enjoying this far too much. He knew there was no one eavesdropping in the park. Would it have killed him to tell us then, in plain Common?' Aubrey, meanwhile, had his eyebrows knit as he studied the words intently.

'The mace. Well, that's obviously the Sjdyrga, or more likely Ata sim Rasik itself. But "fragrant in the mace I lie?" That doesn't sound like it has anything to do with strength in battle!'

'You know,' said Illa slowly, 'the mace isn't only a weapon.' Suddenly her face split into a triumphant grin. 'It's a spice – the ground-up seedpod of a particular type of tropical tree,' now her voice took on the school-teacher quality which Aubrey found simultaneously exasperating and endearing, 'and the seed is also used as a spice. Do you know what it's called, Naxen?'

'No sir, I fear my knowledge of botanical science is sadly lacking.' Illa elbowed him sharply in the side.

'Nutmeg,' she whispered gleefully. 'Nutmeg's Bakehouse. Fragrant in the mace I lie. Nutmeg is the mace's sweet-smelling kernel.' She drew a deep breath and blew it out as a whistle. 'My, my. What a singularly appropriate place to meet. But I wonder when...'

'Next Monday evening,' responded Aubrey promptly.

'I'm sorry?'

'Next Monday evening. That was the easy part.' If Illa was at all surprised by this somewhat uncharacteristic display of problem-solving logic, she hid it well.

'How so?'

'The Goddess' next dusk. Monday is named for the moon. The moon is the symbol of the Goddess. So Monday is the Goddess' day, and the Goddess' dusk is Monday at sundown.'

'Right,' said Illa matter-of-factly, after a few moments silent thought. 'Nutmeg's bakehouse, next Monday evening.' Aubrey gave a wry grin.

'When you say it like that...'

'It kind of makes it sound like it's not the beginning of the most terrifyingly stupid thing we've ever done, doesn't it?'

'Exactly.' And they laughed. What else could they really do?

'We need to work on our alter-egos,' said Illa a while later. 'These people are absolutely merciless, if we get caught out, we'll get ourselves killed.'

'So, asked Aubrey, gently tugging a strand of Illa's hair free from its pins and twirling it around his finger, 'who is Ithaca Delving?' Illa tried to wrestle her thoughts away from the teasing brush of Aubrey's fingers against her neck.

'Ithaca was apprenticed to a weaver in Port Caynn,' she stammered, cheeks flushing. 'She came to Corus to join the Queen's Riders, but decided it wasn't for her. Illinen of Shadowflax was advertising for a lady's maid, and Ithaca jumped at the chance. Fortunately,' Illa continued, 'the remarkably charitable and benevolent Lady Shadowflax has been magnanimous enough to give her three days off a week, in which to pursue recreational interests such as revolution.' Aubrey chuckled.

'How impossibly convenient. And what of her betrothed-' Illa blushed wildly '-the rakish and charming footman-of-the-month?'

'Ah, dear old Fergal.' Illa's mouth twisted into a rather evil grin as Aubrey flinched.

'Why, out of all the gods-cursed names on earth, did you have to call me Fergal?'

'It's the first thing that popped into my head,' Illa retaliated. 'What was I supposed to say? I'm Ithaca Delving and this is my betrothed, um... er... I'm sorry, please talk amongst yourselves for a moment while I decide upon a name that will be both appropriate to his station and fashionable enough to appease his ego?!'

x X x X x

At the third bell after dusk, just as Aubrey was beginning to think that it might be a good idea to return to his own rooms, there came a knock at Illa's door. She disentangled herself from him and went to answer it, and a moment later he was somewhat surprised to hear her calling his name. He found her leaning against the frame of the open door and gazing after a retreating messenger, a sealed note in her hand. She grinned at him playfully.

'You must be becoming rather predictable, if they've started bringing your mail straight to my quarters.' She held the note up to the light cast by a nearby lamp and examined it carefully. 'Isn't that the Naxen crest?' Aubrey took the note from her hand and peeled it open. Upon reading the contents, his face split into a relieved smile.

'Yes. It's from my father. He writes that he has received our correspondence and will be returning on Sunday evening.'

'Before Monday,' breathed Illa, 'thank the Goddess.'

'And there's a post-script,' added Aubrey with a smile. 'He implores me by all the gods to do whatever I can to ensure that you are in a fit state for sensible conversation when he arrives.'

'Your father,' said Illa fervently, 'knows me far better than is entirely comfortable.' Aubrey laughed and pulled her close.

'So,' he murmured, lips drifting distractingly from her temple to the tip of her nose, then along her jaw-line, 'what do I need to do, Illa? What do you want me to do?' His lips met hers, softly, tantalisingly, before she broke away and laid her head against his chest, vainly trying to stifle a giggle brought on by the thought of Duke Gareth's reaction to this particular interpretation of his advice.

'Aubrey,' she said, voice quavering with repressed laughter, 'somehow I doubt that that was the sort of thing your father had in mind.'

'And somehow I doubt,' responded Aubrey with a rather endearing smirk, 'that my father was the one I was trying to please just then.' He took Illa by the shoulders and held her at arm's length, eyeing her critically. 'My father will look after himself,' he said seriously, 'you're the one I'm worried about right now. What do you need, Illa? I'll do whatever I can.' Illa reached up tentatively and gently traced the outline of his face. Now, whether she liked it or not, was not the time for rational thought, now was the time for impulse; for meeting the needs of the heart rather than the head, because ultimately, the heart was easier to satisfy. She met his eyes steadily, the tender trust in her gaze reflected in his own.

'Stay,' she whispered. His hands tightened on her shoulders, and his greenish eyes darkened.

'Do you mean-'

'No!' she cut him off quickly, hanging her head to hide the roses blooming in her cheeks. 'I mean, not now,' she stammered. 'It's not... I'm not... There's too much going on. I... I can't afford too many... distractions.'

'So why ask me to stay?' he asked, raising an eyebrow in a gesture that made his resemblance to Nealan of Queenscove more pronounced than ever. But instead of greeting his comment with the caustic reply it so richly deserved, Illa stepped further into his hold, wound both arms around his neck, and ran her fingers lightly through his hair.

'Because,' she replied softly, 'to a certain extent, and within reasonable limits of propriety, I need to be distracted tonight.' Aubrey beheld her in silence for a moment, his eyes shining with mischievous warmth and barely-tempered adoration, before suddenly grasping her around the waist, flipping her up into his arms, and bearing her, bridal style, back over the threshold as she shrieked with laughter. Despite her incoherent protests, he pulled back the eiderdown and dumped her unceremoniously into bed. She looked up at him, eyes bright, magnificent, unbound hair fanned across her pillow, and suddenly all the mirth was gone from her face, replaced by what could only be described as a kind of impossibly innocent desire. Aubrey scrunched his eyes tightly shut for a moment, before giving Illa a small, tight smile and sitting down on the opposite edge of the bed to take his boots off. Yet the tenseness of his back seemed to Illa slightly reproachful, and she felt her resolve weakening.

'I'm sorry-'

'Don't be,' he cut her off firmly. 'We have all the time in the world for whatever we wish, whenever we wish it.' He blew out the lamp, slid wearily under the covers and turned towards her, enveloping her in his embrace. 'Don't you ever be sorry, Illa,' he murmured in her ear, 'I'm perfectly happy just to hold you for as long as you want me to.' Illa smiled against his chest. How was it that Aubrey always knew exactly what to say to make things right? Because they were right, now. From the circle of his arms, all the worries of the past few weeks seemed suddenly trivial; if not utterly inconsequential, then at least able to be easily dealt with. She shut her eyes with a long contented sigh.

'Are you asleep yet?' he asked a while later.

'Should I be?' she answered with a grin, shifting slightly away from him without relinquishing her grip on his hand.

'Depends on whether you want to miss this or not. I have something to tell you.'

'Please, Goddess, don't let it be that he already has seven wives and thirty-five children!' Aubrey snorted.

'Considering the fact that I'm not yet twenty, that would be a fairly significant achievement. No, Illa,' his voice softened, 'I just wanted to tell you that when all this is over...' he hesitated, and the unspoken 'if' swelled like a balloon between them. She squeezed his hand tighter in the dark. 'When all this is over,' he continued more confidently, 'and if you agree to it, I'm going to ask your father for permission to court you properly.' Illa gave a throaty chuckle, and rolled over to nestle into his side.

'You really needn't bother. I'm my own mistress, you know,' she paused thoughtfully, 'but I must say, Da would probably be rather chuffed. After all,' he could feel the gentle mockery in her voice, 'for reasons best known to themselves, the Naxens always marry into northern fiefs. I expect he'd consider it a great honour!'

'Impertinent minx,' scoffed Aubrey, elbowing her in the ribs. 'I'll have you know that my paternal grandmother was from Fief Meron, which is practically in the Bahzir desert. Just goes to show that for all their skills at gossip-mongering, those old dames remain woefully ignorant on the subject of Tortallan geography!'

A/N - I would love to able to update quickly this time, but somehow I doubt it's going to happen. Life is a little hectic at the moment... I'm studying for my final exams as well as rehearsing to play the lead role in a local production of 'The Sound of Music' in a couple of weeks' time. But just visible on the horizon are the long and lazy summer holidays, in which, I foresee, there will be ample time for writing!

And I know I don't particularly deserve reviews, but that won't stop me from asking for them!

Lady Muck xo