Updated, Parts 1 & 2

1	Baroness Effriel Lloryn of House Hartwater of the Spring Court leaned back in her seat and very carefully raised the cut crystal goblet to her lips. The wine was warm, and grains of sand drifted in the bottom of the elegant bowl, but she sipped it anyway. The bottle had been brought a long way, and it wouldn't do to reject a diplomatic overture like that.
	“The ancient treasure vaults of the Most Holy Caliph are the lesser by one bottle,” rumbled the Ambassador seated on an ornate cushion across the table from her. “We trust this is an adequate offering of peace?”
	Effriel eyed him from over the rim of her glass, sipping the light wine again. It wasn't half bad, actually, despite being warm. Like the Ambassador, it was clearly a thing come out of fabled Summer.
	The Ambassador had a stern, rough-hewn face, eyes green and gold-flecked framed by an imposing brow and blunt, leonine nose. His chin was strong; his jaw, long. His face was surrounded by a mane of coarse, dark hair that swept back from behind his small, round ears and receded into the tawny fur that covered his long, broad-shouldered frame. He lounged across the cushion his retainers had placed on the floor, forepaws crossed over one another, long, chitinous tail curled around behind him.
	Effriel swallowed her wine and nodded to the manticore, before placing her glass down on the inlaid surface of the elegant table between them. She cast her eyes around the rim of the table, at the assembled retainers and functionaries involved in or merely watching the proceedings: nymphs, largely, on her side of the table— a few elves from minor Houses here and there— and a collection of ghuls and djinn ranged on either side of the manticore— and one figure wrapped in an all-concealing cloak, who lurked behind the others. The Ambassador didn't spare any of them a glance.
	“Honoured guest,” Effriel began. “This vintage is more than satisfactory. When our business is concluded, I'll be sure to send you home with bottle from my personal cellars as thanks.” The manticore made no sign that her words interested him, and she squelched the smallest frown of distaste before it could appear on her face.
	“But to business— and *to* business—” she raised her glass. “— House Hartwater appreciates your coming so far to discuss this endeavour. Our trade routes stretch from the western shore to the edge of the Great Desert, and our caravans carry the finest goods along the best roads in Elfland—” the Ambassador grimaced at that, but Effriel forged on. “— and where they go, wealth follows— for our trading partners and for us. Until now, only Spring markets have been open to us, but access to Summer goods in exchange for Spring ones can only enrich us both—”
	“Enough,” he rumbled, and Effriel stopped speaking and took a sip of her wine. Manticores were notorious for devouring those they considered rude, and as an ambassador, this one ostensibly had diplomatic immunity. It wouldn't stop those closest to her from seeking clandestine revenge, but revenge wouldn't un-eat her.
	“Your House will have access to one market,” he continued, and his voice sounded like he was speaking through a tin pipe. “This market will be on land ceded to you.”
	“That's very generous,” Effriel began, surprised, but he continued without pausing. The cloaked figure bent down and whispered in the manticore's ear, but he ignored it.
	“As I have no doubt your... presence... is needed here, you will administrate from afar with the help of one who knows the land, and her... companion.” The manticore made a frown of distaste at the last word, flashing his three rows of triangular teeth.
	“I will leave you to make the arrangements with your new... assistant.” he said, and then stood up, scorpion tail swaying from side to side. He stretched once, and then turned and padded out of the room. His ghuls and djinni hastily took up his pillow and followed after him, leaving Effriel alone in the room with her retainers and the lone cloaked figure, who bowed low and said in a voice like crackling logs on a fire: “My utmost apologies, esteemed one.”
	Effriel dismissed all of her retainers, and then sipped her wine until she and the cloaked figure were alone in the room. Then she continued sipping, and wondered just where the hidden blade was in all this. Nobody simply gave away land— particularly not to someone they found as distasteful as the Ambassador had seemed to find her.
	“When can my House take control of this land?” she asked, after a moment.
	The cloaked figure hesitated before answering.
	“Ah... not your House, esteemed one. You personally. I'm afraid Khazak took something of a disliking to you.”
	Effriel nodded as though she understood.
	“So, because of this...disliking... he gave me some of his land. And two retainers. I assume one of them is you?”
	“Not... not quite, esteemed one. I am not anyone's retainer. He has only given you one companion, and that is his sister.”
	“Of course,” said Effriel, seeing it now. She wasn't familiar with manticore internal politics, but  it was the kind of power play that she expected at Court. “If she's forced to stay here to assist me with this land, he can... what?” she said. “Steal *her* lands? Her title?”
	“Nothing so avaricious,” said the figure. “He merely wants to be rid of the 'family embarrassment'.  And as a point of fact, she has no lands or title— those will now be yours.”
	“That's... I don't know how the Laws of Summer work very well, but can he do that? We *are* actually getting some land, yes?”
	“As I said, *you* get the land.”
	“Right. I get the land. So why is that evidence of dislike. I'm getting the land.”
	The cloaked figure sighed, and pulled back its hood, revealing a delicate, feminine face the colour of smouldering wood, and a shock of coiling, crackling hair of flame.
	“I think you are very lucky,” said the woman, the ifrit. “But Khazak considers it an unkindness, because to take the land you must wed his sister.”
	Effriel laughed, short and sharp.
	“I'm already married,” she said, eyeing the ifrit. The burning woman grimaced, and looked away.
	“It doesn't matter,” she said after a moment. “So are we.”

                                                          * * *

	“Let me get this straight,” Effriel's husband said, combing out her long, wet, golden hair with an ivory comb. She sank down further into the gleaming porcelain bath and leaned her head back into his careful ministrations.
	“You have to wed a manticore or you won't get the land that contains the new market that the House merchants 'desperately need', except the manticore is already married to someone else, and so are you. That's fine, though, because according to manticores, you can take multiple wives.”
	“Essentially, yes,” said Effriel, feeling the knots of tension engendered by the abortive negotiations ease out of her in the warm water. “It sounds like some kind of joke, but I assure you no one's laughing. I had a long talk with the Head of the House afterwards— he won't let me refuse.” Her husband made a disgusted sound, but they both knew there was no arguing with one of the High Lords. She sighed. 
	“Still,” she said. “It's not as though this has to be anything more than a political arrangement— neither of them is happy about it either, so you don't have to worry about my affections being stolen away.” 
	“Never,” he said.
	“And as we're both brides,” she went on a moment later. “I suppose no one's expecting an heir in the foreseeable future, either.” He arched an eyebrow at her.
	“No one but your mother, Arnwyr, and she can go on expecting as long as she likes,” said Effriel. He smiled, and then became serious again.
	“You haven't met this manticore yet, have you?” Arnwyr asked. “Only your— what to they call it? Sister-Wife?”
	“Yes,” said Effriel. “And no, I haven't. That's tomorrow— and *we'll* be meeting the both of them, Husband.”
	“I wasn't sure I'd be allowed,” he said. “I don't know anything about manticore engagements.”
	“I don't either, but I'm not hosting the meeting without you.” She leaned forward, pulling her long hair through his loose grip, and stood up, water dripping from her naked body. Her skin was pale, her legs long and slender, her breasts high and full. Her eyes were a sharp blue, framed by a delicate face, and her ears tapered back to two points. She turned and looked over her shoulder to where Arnwyr sat on a stool at the edge of the porcelain tub.
	“Whatever arrangement I'm forced to make, ours is the marriage I *chose*,” she said. “Now take me to bed, while it still belongs to just the two of us.”
	“As you command, Baroness,” he said, smiling as he stood too. His broad, calloused hands found her hips, beaded with the water still dripping off of her, and he lifted her out of the tub.
	Instead of putting her down as she'd expected, he twisted her around, and she squealed when he threw her over his shoulder. He planted a kiss against her waist, then a series of them, short and quick, and she clutched his back to keep from falling as he carried her out of their bathroom and into the bedroom, one hand wrapped around her thigh to hold her in place.
	“This isn't quite what I had in mind,” said. “But I'm not complaining.”
	When they reached their canopied bed, he flopped her down onto the mattress, and the hold she still had on the back of his shirt pulled it up over his head when she fell. His startled cry as it covered his eyes was gratifying, but even more gratifying was the look on his face when he pulled it all the way off and saw her reclining against their pillows with her arms over her head, damp breasts glinting in the candlelight. She smirked, and crooked her finger, and he crawled in after her.
	He started kissing before he made it all the way to her face— first her feet, and she curled her toes and waited, biting her lip— then, a line of kisses up her calf, calloused fingers gentle on the back of her knee. He cupped her hips and his kisses jumped upwards, to the left of her navel, and trailed upwards, between her breasts. She took hold of his chin when he came close enough for her to reach, and pulled him the rest of the way up to meet his kisses with kisses of her own, her tongue darting out between her lips to taste him— smoke on his skin, and the faintest trace of hot metal. His hands found her breasts, massaging gently, drops of water now gone cold rolling on her skin, and his fingers brushed her nipples teasing but never stayed for more than an instant. 
	She groaned her need against his mouth as the sensation brought heat to her skin, and broke their kiss to nip playfully at the pointed tip of his ear. He grunted when her teeth brushed the sensitive flesh, and tweaked her nipples in earnest in retaliation. She hooked one leg around the back of his knee, and slid her hand between them, exploring his ear with her tongue, nibbling in the lobe. He caught her hand in one of his own before she could touch either of them, and pulled it up over her head, pinning it. He pulled away from her mouth and sank back down to her breasts, kissing not just between them but on them, circling the nipple of one in a tightening spiral that shortened Effriel's breath. The hand he wasn't pining found the back of his head and tried to guide him to the pink bud that he was narrowing in on too slowly— but caught that hand too, and brought it up to join the first.
	“Arnwyr, stop teasing,” she gasped, and he brought his knee up between her thighs to grind against her.
	“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, looking up at her from between her heaving breasts. She arched her back and shifted her hips, trying to grind herself against him, but he withdrew his knee, and she flushed in frustration.
	“You're going to have to let go... to take off your pants,” she said, breathlessly.
	“All in good time,” he said, grinning, before giving the same treatment as before to the other breast. She squirmed beneath him. The flush in her skin grew hotter, and a river of current was building in her stomach.
	“Please,” she said, and she didn't have to say anything else. Arnwyr released her hands, and she reached back between them immediately, needy fingers seeking the ties of his pants. He let her undo him while he continued to lavish kisses on her breasts, now suckling at her nipples, now biting with gentle teeth. Her breath hitched when she got the front of his pants open, and then he reared back and striped the rest of the way, throwing his pants aside. She gripped his cock in one hand and pulled him towards her, lining him up with her moist opening. His hands came up on either side of her shoulders, bracing himself. She looked into his eyes, desire plain in her face, and he plunged into her.
	The coiling force building in her stomach leapt when he bottomed out in her, her wet walls clinging to him almost desperately— and then it leapt again as he began to move, slowly at first, but picking up speed faster and faster. Her hips bucked, and her hands clutched at him. Her gasps came thicker and faster, as did his grunts. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and the current in her gut swelled like a river about to burst its banks.
	In another instant, it did. Her back arched like a hunting bow, and she cried out, only to be muffled when Arnwyr kissed her again, long and hard, before pumping once more and releasing. He shot his seed deep into her, hot and sticky, and rolled over before he collapsed onto her, pulling her along with him so that she lay on his stomach, spent, his cock still within her. Sweat beaded his brow, and she kissed it away. His arms circled her back and held her close, and they lay like that for a moment.
	“It will always be just ours,” Arnwyr said, after a moment.
	“Hmm?” said Effriel, beginning to fall asleep.
	“This bed,” he said. “Whatever happens, under this canopy, it'll just the two of us.”
	“I love you,” she said, and then she slept.

2                                                         * * *

	The next afternoon, Effriel and Arnwyr received their guests in Effriel's study at Hartwater Hall. It was too early in the engagement— what had been sprung on her could be called that— to meet at their own home, Lloryn Estate, and  the whole affair was tightly wrapped up in matters of court anyway, which made the Hall more appropriate; Hartwater Hall, where the head of the House dwelt and where all official House business was attended to, was nestled into the same wood that surrounded the Verdant Palace, where the Spring Court held session.
	Effriel's study was a high-ceilinged, well appointed room. The walls were panelled in dark wood that grew ever more coiled and twisting as it rose to support a ceiling of gently moving leaves that seemed to let soft sunlight filter through, despite the room's position in the heart of the building. The floor was grass, soft and luxurious underfoot, and Effriel and Arnwyr had both removed their boots as they'd sat down in Effriel's sitting area, waiting together on the finely upholstered divan against one wall. Several armchairs, each a work of art, sat ranged around the room, and beyond stood Effriel's desk, a great, oaken affair carved in the likeness of two stags supporting a flat plane of stained wood on the points of their racks; beyond that, there was a liquor cabinet surmounted by a bowl of fruit. There was no fireplace; it never grew that cold in the halls of the Spring Court.
	Effriel drew her feet up from the greenery underfoot and tucked her toes into Arnwyr's lap, leaning back against the arm of the divan. Arnwyr rubbed her feet idly with one hand, and tipped his head back to let the soft light fall on his face.
	“Are we going to be burdened by a chaperone for what will no doubt be an already-uncomfortable meeting?” he asked. “I can't think of a better way to make this more awkward.” Effriel laughed mirthlessly.
	“Thankfully, darling, since you aren't technically getting married, you can serve that function,” she said. Arnwyr snorted.
	“How wonderful. Though I suppose it's a chaperone's job to ensure the two intended don't become entangled too early. There's nothing to say he can't have his way with the bride himself.” He pinched her foot, and she swatted at his shoulder.
	“It's *two* brides this time, darling,” she said. “So you'll have to be a bit more specific.” He began to demonstrate just which bride he meant, but at that moment a knock sounded on the door, and Effriel was forced to reluctantly untangle her hands from his collar and break their kiss.
	“I'll get it,” Arnwyr said, making to get up, but she prevented him.
	“No, it's my office. Just wait a moment.” She stood and crossed to the door, glancing back once over her shoulder to catch his eye. They shared a moment to prepare themselves, and then Effriel turned and opened the door.
	“M'lady,” said the goblin standing revealed in the doorway, bowing at the waist, bringing his hooked nose almost to the floor. “I present to you Jagaata Marrowmaw and her handmaiden, Smoke-Of-Tamarind.” Effriel could see the ifrit she had met briefly the day before, wrapped once again in her all-concealing cloak, and another manticore she was unfamiliar with.
	“Thank you, Jeeks,” she said, dismissing the goblin. “Please, come in.” Jeeks rose from his bow only to sink into another, and then he turned and waddled off. Effriel stepped back into her study, and the ifrit and the manticore followed.
	“Please, ah, sit,” she said, closing the door behind them. “Can I offer you anything?”
	“Thank you, no,” said Smoke-Of-Tamarind, the ifrit, pulling her hood back once more to release her flaming hair. “Esteemed one, this is Jagaata, my wife.” Effriel took another step back, to allow them free range of the room, and bowed shallowly, eyeing the manticore. 
	Jagaata was lean where her brother had been broad, but they shared the same tawny fur and coarse, dark mane. Hers was shorter, however; where Khazak's had framed a face that seemed to have been carved roughly out of granite, Jagaata's surrounded more delicate features— a finer nose, narrower chin, sharper cheeks. Her eyes were the same green and gold, but they were surrounded by longer lashes and a ring of what looked like khol. Her tail was narrower and less rough, and there was the subtle swell of breasts below the cream-coloured fur of her chest.
	“Charmed,” Effriel said diplomatically, rising from her bow. “This is my husband, Arnwyr of House Hartwater, Baron-by-marriage.” Arnwyr stood from the divan and bowed also.
	“Delighted,” he said, less convincingly.
	Jagaata rumbled low in her chest, and spoke with a voice like a high, clear flute: “So you're the one Khazak has shackled me to.”
	Effriel recoiled slightly, and opened her mouth.
	“Jagaata!” hissed Smoke-Of-Tamarind, sharply.
	“It...it's fine,” said Effriel. Arnwyr's hand brushed her elbow, and she took strength from his touch. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Can I... do you need a cushion?” The manticore prowled past her and made a lazy circuit of the room, then lowered herself into the grass and sat in the corner, by one of the armchairs, and crossed one paw over the other.
	“The cushion is the symbol of a manticore's office,” said Smoke-Of-Tamarind, frowning apologetically at Effriel. “Jagaata's title is now yours, and her cushion will part of her dowry.”
	“Dowry?” said Arnwyr, flatly. Effriel turned, and crossed to the liquor cabinet, deciding her need outweighed any unintentional rudeness.
	“Are you sure I can't I offer either of you a drink?” she asked, opening it.
	“Wine,” said Smoke-Of-Tamarind, after a moment. She glanced over at Jagaata. “For both of us.”
	“In a bowl,” the manticore rumbled. Effriel pulled three glasses from the cabinet, and then cast around for a moment before tipping over the fruitbowl on top of it. She poured and passed around the crystal glasses, then offered the bowl to Jagaata, unsure what to do with it.
	“Just put it down,” the manticore said archly, and Effriel set it on the grass next to her.
	Smoke-Of-Tamarind sat in the armchair next to Jagaata and sipped her wine. The rich burgundy liquid boiled into steam as it touched her lips, and a blue flame danced around her mouth for an instant as the alcohol burned.
	“Thank you,” she said, setting her glass aside. “I imagine this must be a shock for you, esteemed one.” Arnwyr snorted at that, and Effriel sat next to him on the divan, and took his hand in one of hers.
	“I think at this point you can call me Effriel,” she said. “Considering.” Smoke-Of-Tamarind nodded, her burning hair crackling softly.
	“I still don't fully understand the terms Khazak has set,” Effriel said, after sipping her own wine. “Even if I've been forced to agree to them.” In point of fact, she'd refused to comment one way or the other before hastily excusing herself from Smoke-of-Tamarind the day before and rushing off to speak to the Head of the House, High Lord Hartwater. He'd been in council with the House's chief merchant, and had entertained her only long enough to tell her in no uncertain terms what her answer would be, before turning back to his companion and their discussion of how best to exploit this opportunity. Effriel frowned.
	“It was all presented very fait accompli,” she added. “And I suspect some of it was arranged between the High Lord and Khazak before we ever sat down at the table. I have no doubt it was the same for you— I'm assuming you don't actually *want* to marry me?”
	“As the head of our family, Khazak is required to arrange my marriage,” Jagaata said, surprising Effriel. Smoke-Of-Tamarind put her hand on the manticore's head and dug her fingers into the coarse mane. Effriel saw that they were wrapped in tight bandages which her sleeves had hidden before. Her feet were likewise covered. Effriel raised an eyebrow, and Jagaata continued.
	“I am... something of an embarrassment to him— an embarrassment he has been trying to get rid of for years. I was able to thwart him by marrying my lover,” she leaned into the ifrit's touch. “But, while no one in our lands would interfere with my marriage, it seems he has outmanoeuvred us both. So *want* has no real bearing.” She leaned down and lapped at the wine in her bowl with a broad, rough tongue, and Smoke-Of-Tamarind elaborated.
	“In our lands, the highest ranking member of a marriage inherits the lands and titles of their spouses. In order to get rid of my love, Khazak had to marry her to someone of higher rank, or she would keep her lands. Though I am of higher rank, ifriti cannot inherit, and our wedding meant that any who marry her, marry me as well— and anyone of lower rank marrying in would normally forfeit their lands to *me*. As I cannot hold land, they would default to their original owners. Jagaata would keep her territory. Only marid hold rank high enough to take her lands by marrying in, and marid do not marry ifriti.”
	“Then why am *I* getting your land?” Effriel asked, frowning. “I almost certainly don't outrank either of you. And Arnwyr can't possibly.” Smoke-Of-Tamarind turned to look at him, and he turned his hands palm up, revealing his callouses.
	“I'm a smith,” he said. “Master Smith to the Spring Court, but even so I'm not of noble birth.”
	“And I'm only a baroness of my Court,” Effriel continued. “You must be, what? Sister to the head of your family?” Her hand twitched for a moment, as though she were paging through one of her diplomatic references. “Easily equivalent to a countess, at least,” she concluded. “And... why can't you inherit?” She shot that last to Smoke-Of-Tamarind, brow furrowing. “Because you must outrank all of us. If Ifriti are only below Marids in the rankings of djinni... you might outrank a duke.”
	Jagaata watched Smoke-Of-Tamarind with concern apparent in her eyes as the ifrit was silent for a moment. “You needn't—” the manticore began, but the ifrit began to unwrap the bandages around one foot, and the Jagaata lapsed into silence before butting her forehead into her lover's side in a gesture of comfort.
	“Ifriti cannot inherit land,” said Smoke-Of-Tamarind. “Because we burn it.” And she put her bare, smouldering foot down in the grass of the floor. Where she touched, the ground scorched and smoked, and green stalks turned black and died before catching flame for an inch in every direction. She lifted her foot again, and the fires died out. Where she had placed her foot, there was a perfect footprint burned into the ground, devoid of all trace of grass, and an oblong ring of scorched and smoking stalks surrounded it. She wrapped her foot again, and put her hand back into Jagaata's mane. Effriel and Arnwyr looked on in shocked and sympathetic silence.
	“You win my lands,” said Jagaata, after a moment. “Because you are a foreign diplomat, and that puts your rank even with my brother's, whatever your actual title. Diplomats are sacred in the Great Desert. They are among the few who may not be eaten.” She smiled humourlessly, flashing her three rows of sharp teeth. “It is another way in which Khazak has outmanoeuvred me; I had considered simply devouring you, before I learned your rank.” 
	“Jagaata!” said Smoke-Of-Tamarind again, appalled, as Arnwyr's hand tightened on Effriel's. 
	“If you—” he began, but Effriel didn't let him finish whatever threat he was about to make on her behalf.
	“Alright,” she said, squeezing his hand back. “It seems there isn't any way out of this for any of us. Your brother has played the political game and gotten you stuck with this betrothal, and my House requires that I accept it; I think they might seriously consider having my head if I tried too hard to wriggle out of it. But even assuming we're married, why can't you stay on your land— or technically, my land? I could deputize you to administrate it for me.”
	“Khazak would kill me as a trespasser, and destroy any evidence that I was there with your blessing,” said Jagaata. Arnwyr grunted, surprised.
	“Where are you staying?” Effriel said. Arnwyr turned to look at her, frowning minutely, but she held his gaze, and after a moment he nodded.
	“Khazak departed this morning with all of the pavilions he brought with him,” said Smoke-Of-Tamarind, expression grim. Her hair guttered around her face.
	“Then you're staying at my estate,” said Effriel. “We... we're going to need a lot more of these talks, I think.”
	“That is most gracious, esteemed...Effriel,” said Smoke-Of-Tamarind. “Thank you.” 
	Jagaata rumbled deep in her chest again.
	“I am... in your debt,” she said, grudgingly, surprising Effriel and Arnwyr both. “Better marriage to someone who treats us as honoured guests than to some fat, rich ghul,” she said. Effriel stood up, and Arnwyr stood with her.
	“I'll summon my carriage immediately,” she said. “And send Jeeks for your baggage. But before we go, I have one last question.”
	“Yes?” said Smoke-Of-Tamarind, standing, and Jagaata merely tilted her head to one side.
	“When we were at the table,” Effriel said. “What was it you whispered in Khazak's ear?”
	Smoke-Of-Tamarind looked into Effriel's face openly.
	“I begged him not to do this,” she said. Effriel grimaced.
	“That's what I thought,” she said