The Swordsman's Oath

From Planir,

Archmage of Hadrumal,

to Messire Guliel D’Olbriot,

Sieur of that House and Keeper of the Honor

of the Name, Adjurist of the Convocation of

Princes and Patron of the Empire,

Solstice salutations and most heartfelt wishes for

prosperity and health in the year to come.

My dear Sieur,

I am most grateful to you for intelligence of the Elietimm ships wrecked on your coasts over the For-Winter season. I have not forgotten the narrow escape of both your man and mine in their recent encounter with that race and may I assure you I remain sensible of the threat to your domains and the wider peace of the Empire. Beyond such important but necessarily impersonal concerns, I would venture to remind you that just as you lost a sworn man in Aiten, I lost a scholar in Geris, a man of much learning who might have aided us both against this threat, though of course, nothing outweighs the loss of both their lives. I do not forget such debits in the scales, as I am sure you do not.

Your letter encourages me to think that you realize, as do I, that our interests lie along the same road in this matter. Just as you face the very real danger of hostile forces landing on your coasts, or worse, to lie concealed in the unpopulated reaches of Dalasor or Gidesta, so I am faced with the threat of a complex magic whose mysteries we in Hadrumal are still unravelling. On that subject may I assure you that there can be no shame or blame attached to your man Aiten for his attack on my mage Shivvalan. There can be no doubt that had his mind not been invaded by the foul enchantments of the Elietimm, he would have fought to the end in defense of his honor and your Name.

Thank you for your enquiries after Shivvalan; he is quite recovered and eager to do his part in foiling the schemes of the Elietimm. You also mentioned the pleasure with which you received the sword that I discovered so unfortunately concealed by an elderly and somewhat eccentric wizard, but your thanks are unnecessary. It is sufficient recompense that you approved my suggestion to present the blade to your sworn man Ryshad Tathel. I was most impressed by his resourcefulness and courage in the face of dire trials and it seemed only fitting that such an heirloom should be used once more to defend the Empire, in service of so great a House.

On that subject, I have a favor to request of you. I continue my researches into the mysteries of this ancient magic. As you will know from your own nephew’s fate, this seems to attract the unwelcome attentions of those Elietimm at large in our lands. While my wizards have many talents, swordsmen they are not. Should you be willing to grant me the use of your man Ryshad, I can certainly put his undoubted talents to a use worthy of your House. The more we learn of these Elietimm and the quicker we do it, the better it will go for both of us.

The High Road toward Cotebridge, in the Lescari Dukedom of Marlier, 8th of Aft-Spring in the Second Year of Tadriol the Provident

How do you apologize to a grieving mother for not being the man who killed her son? Another might have Aiten’s blood on her hands but I was still more deeply stained with shame that I had been unable to raise my sword against my friend of so many years to free him from the foul enchantment that had claimed his mind and his will, even at that ultimate cost. I’d tried to explain away my failure but my halting words had hung in the air, twisting awkwardly like crows on a gibbet. Had that visit to his family all been a dreadful mistake? No; my honor demanded it, if I were to be able to look myself in the eye as I shaved of a morning and see a man true to his oath.

Things had improved a little when Aiten’s father and brothers had decided getting soaked in homemade applejack was the best way of honoring his memory. Everyone had told a story about Aiten and some of them even stayed funny when I recalled them sober. A sour morning-after with a head as thick as winter fog and my mouth tasting like a pissed-in boot had been a small price to pay.

My smile faded as I recalled Tirsa, Aiten’s sister. A middling brown-haired girl with soft brown eyes and a pleasant smile; the sort of lass you see by the handful at markets clean across the Old Empire. Only I’d be able to pick her out from a festival crowd at a hundred paces, and it would still cut me like a whetted knife in ten years time, she was so like Aiten to look at.

Remembering the grief in Aiten’s mother’s face as she clutched the bundle of his possessions to her breast, trying to breathe in the last scent of her lost child, had me sufficiently distracted not to notice the bandits lurking in the hedgerow. Showers of rain on and off all morning had left the sky as gray as my mood, and despite it fairing up I still had my hood raised. None of this excuses my lapse; I certainly should have remembered that the roads in Lescar are always more dangerous outside the fighting seasons, as perverse as anything else in that benighted land.

One of the vermin had my bridle before I could gather reins or wits. The startled horse reared backward, and as I felt its hooves slip in the mire of the sodden road I kicked my feet free of the irons, barely keeping my own footing as I leaped clear. Shaking and sweating, the horse snapped at the grabbing hands of the bandits and escaped up the road, leaving me facing the filthy gang of them.

“Pay your toll, pal, and we’ll let you pass,” the foremost said, grinning widely, blackened stumps in his slimy gums.

I shook my head at the leader. These sorry discards from some defeated militia weren’t going to be much of a challenge. They were all gaunt and hungry, matted and filthy, driven to scavenging like desperate dog-foxes after a long winter of lean pickings. Still, desperation makes for dangerous men, I reminded myself.

I backed down the rutted road a few paces, to draw them out far enough to be sure there were only four of them. Lescari, cowshit between their ears as well as between their toes since I could now be certain they had put no one behind me to cut off any retreat. I could certainly outpace them if I chose to turn tail and run, but I didn’t fancy trying to make my way through the unknown muddy byways off the highroad. As my hand moved toward my sword-hilt, parchment in my pocket crackled, reminding me of my duty to my patron’s orders.

Besides, I didn’t feel inclined to run; Dast’s teeth, why should I? I wanted my horse back too. It was a good beast from Messire’s own stable and I’d been riding it no more than seven or eight leagues a day to husband its strength.

“Sorry, friend. You didn’t say whose authority you had to levy a toll.” I kept my voice neutral.

“This is all the authority I need!” He struck a challenging pose with his notched sword, evidently aiming to impress in his rusty breastplate fringed with inadequate chainmail.

His pack grinned, all bold in remnants of ill-fitting armor.

More fool them; the leather of my thick buff coat covered a layer of metal plates without the vulnerabilities I was assessing in my opponents as they smirked. I don’t wear a hauberk; it attracts notice and my usefulness to my Prince depends on going unremarked. I laid a hand to my own sword. It sparkled silver on the pommel, the polished scabbard bright in a watery gleam of fugitive sunlight now that the rain had stopped.

“What’s your charge?” I asked, face calm, mind anticipating the next moves. I spend long seasons trying to teach the militia raised for the House of D’Olbriot that there’s no virtue in fighting if you can avoid it, but Lescaris learn the opposite in their leading strings, from their warring dukes down, to the endless grief of their torn and bleeding land.

The leader finally registered my unfamiliar accent. “Tormalin man, are you? Fancy words, fancy horse and blade. What you’ve got in your purse, that’ll be the rate for the road!”

Evidently a man with no more sense than Dastennin gave a flatfish. “I’ll give you the price of a meal.” I smiled without humor. “You can thank the Lord of the Sea for that.”

The other three looked tempted by the thought of food they could pay for rather than a fight for their dinner, as I had suspected. The leader scowled, unwilling to back down. “We’ll spare a coin to Talagrin at the next shrine, when we’ve selled your horse and your gear, thank the Hunter for sending us a plump pigeon ripe for the plucking.”

“You want to try for my feathers?” I drew my sword. It slid gleaming from the scabbard with a steely rasp and the rusty weapons facing me wavered. “Why? I’m carrying nothing but letters from my patron.”

I wouldn’t have been bandying words with outcasts before I’d visited Aiten’s family, I reflected. Not when I’d been carrying enough true-minted Tormalin gold to buy up half this sorry fiefdom. I wasn’t the only one looking to defend my honor, the coin reflecting the value Messire D’Olbriot put on Aiten’s oath now his death demanded its redemption. I forced myself to lay aside the burden of my own guilt while I dealt with these vermin.

“Sworn man, are you?” the foremost sneered, letting his sword point dip as he scratched his lice-infested head. “Lick-spittle to some fat-arsed Prince who spends all his days with his head in a jug, playing with himself. That’s how you pass your time, isn’t it, wringing the goose’s neck?”

His fellow footpads snickered at this, but I am long past the days when cheap insults enraged me. A true swordsman knows hot fury kills more men than cold steel. I backed away another pace, drawing him forward beyond the dubious protection of his fellows. Messire’s militia are never so easily gulled, not after I’ve brought them to heel.

“So what have you got to say for yourself, curly? Come on, hand over your coin and that belt-pouch for a start! Well, answer me, curse you, unless you’re too busy shitting yourself.”

My continued silence was unnerving Foul-Mouth’s supporters by now, as I intended.

“All right, lads, let’s have the bastard!” He took a bold step, rusty blade leveled.

I glared at the closest one to Foul-Mouth’s off hand, who took an involuntary pace back. Idiocy was about to kill his mate, that and my sword, but if any of them chose to run I wasn’t about to waste my time hunting them down.

Foul-Mouth lunged at me, off hand flailing. I stepped sideways to smack his blade up with the flat of my sword. He took his chance to swing his dirty blade around for a skull-splitting strike. I moved in and as his arm came up I rolled my wrist to drive the point of my keenly polished sword under and deep into his armpit. He collapsed like a ruptured wineskin, blood frothing from his mouth, drowning his shrieks of panic and pain. The others swore in guttural Lescari and one rushed me, stupidity apparently something they shared along with their lice. Sure of my footing, I brought my sword around at belly level, his instinctive parry sending him staggering back. He swung wildly, I evaded the blow with ease and swept low but he managed to leap sideways in time to save his kneecaps and I found I was facing two of them, his mate having found some semblance of courage.

If they’d had any more training than learning which end of a sword was the handle I might have had some trouble, but a few rapid strokes hacked through his guard and dropped the first to his knees, clutching the bloody ruin of splintered bone that had once been his sword arm. I punched the luckless mongrel with my off hand and he scrambled into the bushes, howling through split lips, while the slowest to join battle took to his heels like a scalded hound, slipping in the mud in his haste to save his boil-scarred skin, not even the wit to try grabbing my horse.

That left me with a lad, tears carving pale streaks down his filthy face, slime running from his crooked nose as he panted in terror through broken teeth. Life had been kicking this lad in the face since before he could walk.

I managed to rein in my anger; it had been a long and none too happy season for me thus far but that was no excuse for losing control. It had certainly felt good to give vent to the slow-burning rage at Aiten’s untimely death that I kept locked in the back of my mind, but I could not afford to indulge such feelings.

I glanced quickly round, saw my horse now browsing on a patch of new grass and considered simply ignoring the boy. No, Dast curse him; he had done nothing to merit such consideration. I feinted to his off side, he swung his trembling weapon in a futile stroke but I had my blade at his throat before he had a hope of recovering. He dropped his stained sword and steam coiled damply around his feet as he pissed himself.

“Mercy, mercy,” he stammered. “Please, your honor, I’ll not do the like again, I swear it, any oath you like, mercy, for pity’s sake, Saedrin save me—”

I leaned the edge of the blade into the soft skin of his neck to silence him. Could he be trusted? I doubted it; what would a lad like this know of honor, in a land where the so-called nobility change allegiance with every passing season, scrambling for advantage with rival dukes who have wasted ten generations in a futile struggle for a worthless throne?

“I swear,” he whimpered, desperately trying to swallow without cutting his own throat.

The issue here wasn’t his honor, though, was it, but my integrity and self-respect. How could I kill some idiot boy who was begging to surrender, frantically offering me his paltry oath?

“Lie down,” I snarled and he dropped into the filth as if he’d been clubbed. Putting my boot heavy on his neck, I hurled his sword deep into a tangled thicket of thorns. I laid my own blade against his face, one red-rimmed, crusted eye blinking at the blood-clotted point as I stroked it slowly up his cheek. “You lie here and you don’t stir until you can’t hear my horse’s hoofbeats. If I see you again this side of the Otherworld, I’ll gut you like a herring, do you hear me?”

He nodded frantically, eyes flickering between me and the crumpled heap of his erstwhile leader, the life drained out of him into the clotted mud. I backed away, ready to finish the lad if he was stupid enough to make a move. No, he had that much wit at least, more motionless than the still-quivering corpse next to him.

Checking there were no more surprises lurking among the unkempt hedgerows, I walked slowly toward the horse, not wanting to spook it with the smell of blood. However, it came readily enough; half a season on the road told it I meant fodder and water. This was definitely a relief; my chances of getting a remount in Lescar were about as slight as that boy’s chances of dying in his bed.

I spared a glance back before the curve of the road took me out of sight; the lad was looting the body of his late friend. I rode on, unconcerned. Even if he caught up with me, killing him would be no great task and no dishonor, since he’d have forfeited any claim to mercy along with his oath. The horse halted, raised its tail and dropped a heap of steaming gurry on the road, an entirely fitting comment, in my opinion.

The fire in the blood that comes from a fight, however trivial, warmed me for a while and in any case, this late in the season, the weather was increasingly mild. Still, a little anger at myself for getting caught like that seared me as the noon sun rode high above me, drawing wraiths of steam from the sodden ground, the spring air full of the green promise of renewal. I found myself gripped by sudden sadness and reined in to take a drink of water, trying to wash the tight dryness from my throat.

How long would it be before I could think of Aiten without that strangling ache? It was riding alone that was doing it, I realized, after so many years. I was missing his endless supply of dubious jokes, his blade matching mine as we protected each other in any fight we couldn’t talk our way out of. One of the cornerstones of my life was gone, a certain loss of confidence leaving a hidden hole threatening to trip me, even if it was apparent to no one but me.

I unlaced the neck of my coat; a warm garment in the spring sunshine. My fingers caught in the thong of my medallion, the insignia I bore as a physical reminder of the oaths I had sworn to my Prince and he in turn to me. I had Aiten’s as well, the bronze disc sewn inside my sword-belt, waiting for me to exact a double reckoning in blood from the bastard responsible for his death. Was I going to shove it down the enchanter’s throat or ram it edgeways up his arse? I mused. Whichever, I’d sharpen the edges first, just to make a point. By rights that debt was our master’s to claim or remit, but I had made a private vow of vengeance and hammered a nail deep into the door of Dastennin’s shrine to affirm it. We make no formal vows as we do to our patron, but the loyalties between sworn men are no less strong.

No, it was time to move on, I told myself. After all but losing myself to the drowning sorrow of my sister’s death from fever in my youth, I had found new purpose in taking service with Messire, hadn’t I? My duty was to him, my sword his to command.

The usual rat-infested hovel that passes for an inn in Lescar came into view as I crested a rise in the road. I was still holding my sword at my side, sticky with bloody detritus, so I gave my horse his head at the water trough and took possession of a rickety bench where I spread out oil and rags to clean the solstice gift Messire D’Olbriot had given me in recognition of my trials in his service the previous year.

It says a lot about Lescar that it wasn’t the sight of a man cleaning a bloody weapon that startled the pinch-faced little maid coming out to empty her ash bucket, but my accent; my Lescari has all been learned on Messire’s business around the border with home. I couldn’t fathom her concern; she only had about ten words of Tormalin, though I doubt she could have counted them. Eventually I gathered there was no fresh roast, so I took the gritty bread and sour cheese offered but declined the grayish stew, congealed in the pot from the night before. Evidently exceeding the reckoning with good Tormalin pennies, I won a startled smile when I declined the halved and quartered coin pieces she tried to offer me. I have no use for Lescari coin, even when it’s whole.

As I ate I fished out the letter I carried, brought by the Imperial Despatch to rescue me from the taut emotions of Aiten’s sorrowing family and sending me to ride the empty roads of Lescar over the Equinox festival. Well, that at least had been preferable to lining up with my brothers to entertain the nicely eligible daughters of Mother’s sewing circle. I took up the letter and the description on the outside caught my eye again, still making me smile.

Ryshad Tathel. An armspan and four fingers tall, thinly built but muscular. Hair black and curly, eyes brown, dark complected, clean shaven. Softly spoken but with a determined manner.

My father would have phrased it rather differently: “stubborn as a mule and twice as hard to shift when he digs his heels in” is what he had said of me to Messire’s Sergeant-at-Arms. That last sentence was written in a different hand. So, Camarl was rising rapidly in Messire’s counsels if he was being allowed to add personal notes to the Sieur’s letters. Saedrin grant it will be many years before the men of the family have to gather to elect a new head for the House of D’Olbriot, but it was starting to look as if I could win a tidy sum with a wager on Camarl. Perhaps I should lay some coin soon, while the odds were still long on a sister’s younger son succeeding.

It was smoothly written in the fluent hand of Messire’s personal scrivener. I could just picture the Sieur, sat with a pile of documents, disposing of each with terse commands. My spirits rose; I’ve worked for Messire long enough to read what wasn’t written into the letter. I was to be his eyes and ears, his link to the Archmage’s plans for foiling the Ice Islanders. This offered better prospects of vengeance for Aiten than chasing garbled reports of foreigners in the backwoods of the ocean coast, which is what I’d spent the latter half of winter doing.

I’d had no real dealing with wizards before getting caught up with Shiv the year before and we generally prefer to keep them at arm’s length in Formalin. I wondered what Shiv was up to; he and I owed each other a measure of our lives after that cursed trip to the Ice Islands. Still, his loyalties to his Archmage meant a different lodestone from mine governed his course, I reminded myself.

I ate and headed for the river. The false hope of the noonday sun faded, fine rain mizzling down like exhausted tears. I passed the remnants of a sacked village, reeking with the smell of burned wood rotting after the long winter and weeping black stains into the scorched earth. So much for the Dukedom of Marlier, where life was supposed to be safer than most. I found myself longing for the clean scent of salt on the wind from the ocean at home.

I looked across the valley with its coppices of hazel and ash, past the sprawl of a turf-roofed village amidst a striped patchwork of open fields and over the rough common grazing to the stark crag where the local Baron had his reddish stone castle. Formalin villages cluster close to the protections of their patron and have done since the Chaos when lordless and landless men ransacked the ruins of the Old Empire. Lescari peasants grub a living from the land as best they can and hope the battles pass them by. I noted the battlements were being raised, straw and clay that had protected the half-built fortifications from frosts stripped away; that could be useful intelligence for Messire. What threat did Marlier see waiting now the Equinox had opened the fighting season? I knew the Duke of Triolle had fouled his own nest comprehensively after heavy losses in the previous year’s fighting with Parnilesse. Did he have ambitions here?

Arriving at the river in the mid-afternoon, I found a silent line of grim-faced peasants waiting by the bridge, salvaged possessions in bundles and handcarts, little children all unknowing smiles, older ones wide-eyed and glancing at parents for reassurance seldom forthcoming. I’d been passing pitiful groups like this all through Lescar, trudging along, heads down, locals stopping their work to watch as the strangers passed, hoes and plow-staves in hand, ready to keep anyone moving who might be thinking about trying to stop. My own purse had lightened by a good measure on the road, common coin gone to those who would take it or else spent on as much bread as I could reasonably carry, so I had something I could casually offer those still clinging to the shreds of their dignity.

I rode to the head of the queue, not about to risk hanging about and getting drawn into the quarrels erupting here and there along the line.

“Rein it in.” A burly man-at-arms leveled his pike to bar my way and the rest of his troop stopped lounging on the parapet of the bridge.

“Good day to you.” I dismounted and nodded a precisely calculated half-salute. “Is there a fee for crossing the bridge?”

He eyed me a little uncertainly. “That depends on who you are.”

I bet it did; on whether one was a desperate peasant willing to give up a share of any hoarded coin worth having, or a fleeing mercenary who could end up costing a lax border guard a flogging if he slipped past and was caught looting or worse. Caladhrian lords know full well the bloody chaos of Lescar would soon spill over to choke their lands if it were not for the depth and swirling current of the Rel, and they take guarding the few bridges suitably seriously.

“I am a Formalin prince’s sworn man.” I pulled my amulet from the neck of my shirt and held it out.

“What’s your business in Caladhria?” the man asked, open-mouthed.

“My Patron’s,” I replied crisply but politely.

He didn’t know what to say to that but he didn’t lower his pike either.

“Here.” I held out my hand and he closed his stained fingers on a couple of good Formalin Marks, not the flimsy leaded coin of Lescar. “Give some woman on her own with children a free passage, why don’t you?”

He cracked a gap-toothed smile at that. “I reckon I could.”

He planted his pike on its butt and my horse’s hooves rang on the planks of the broad bridge. Formalin-built Old Empire foundations were still solidly defying the murky flow of the mighty Rel, as you would expect, and the intermittently renewed woodwork above was dark from a fresh coat of pitch. More men with pikes lined the sides, ready for any threat of trouble. I stopped by one who looked barely old enough to use a blade for shaving, let alone for defending his Lord’s domains.

I noted the colors and badge on his overlarge livery. “Are you Lord Adrin’s men?”

He nodded cautious agreement. “That’s right.”

“I’m heading for a place called Cote. Which road do I take?”

He frowned at me. “Which Cote would that be, then, mester?”

I frowned in turn, perplexed. “How do you mean?”

“Well, for Upper Cote, Spring Cote, Cote in the Clay and Small Cote you go upstream, Cotinwood and Hill Cote are downstream, and you’d want the west high road for Nether Cote and Cote Fane.” This being Caladhria, the lad was genuinely trying to be helpful, not just tweaking my nose.

“Where’s Lord Adrin’s main residence?”

“He’m visiting Duryea, his wife’s people, been there since the Equinox.”

“And where does he live when he’s not visiting?”

“All over.”

The lad’s painstaking Formalin, doubtless learned from some local scholar, was oddly accented and I wasn’t at all sure he was understanding me fully. The Caladhrian I know best is the coastal dialect and this far up country could well confuse things further.

“Thank you,” I said, belatedly recalling why Caladhrian was a byword for lackwit back home. This lad couldn’t poke a dead dog with a sharp stick.

Once off the bridge, I spurred the horse clear of the peasants milling about. A knot of lime-washed, timber-framed houses with wood-shingled roofs clustered around the meeting of the roads; it could have been any small hamlet between the ocean coast and western Ensaimin, the most distant province, where the Empire’s grip had never really taken hold and slipped loose first. I looked vainly for way-stones that might give me some heading and finally drew my lucky rune-stick from my pocket. I rolled it between my palms, the Drum came out upright and I headed North on that result.

The house of Viltred Sern, west of Cote in the Clay, Caladhria, 9th of Aft-Spring

A sturdily built hut of logs and wooden shingles stood under a shallow crag in a forest clearing, a knot of figures gathered on the smooth turf before it. Their prisoner was an old man, withered with age, hair and beard frosted with white. Bound on his back to a freshly felled log, twigs and splinters pierced him not by deliberate design but through simple carelessness. Manacles were tight around wrists blackened with old blood, drawn by repeated writhing against the cruel restraints. His captors stood in a loose half circle, black-clad in leather and metal, faces flat with disinterest, men with unvarying blond hair and stocky builds. Their leader stood at the head of the hapless victim, calm as his irons reheated in the small wood fire. The smoke rose and coiled away into the clear blue sky, the first leaves of the new season green and fresh on the trees. Blood dripped slowly from ruined hands, fingers broken, jagged edges of bone jutting through skin, nails ripped out with calculated brutality. The victim’s ribs heaved in sudden spasm, skin stark white through the smears of blood as his chest fluttered like a half-killed bird and abruptly stilled. Gory pits where eyes should have been wept tears of anguished blood.

“That’s a grim prospect, I grant you, Viltred.” The speaker swallowed hard as he stared at this stark picture. It hovered within a gleaming diamond hanging from the upper point of a crescent of hammered copper set before him on the table, a tongue of flame licking upwards from a candle at the bottom of the arc.

“When did you first see this fate in your augury spell?” He cleared his throat and looked around the homely clutter of the small cabin as if to reassure himself the vision of anguish and malice was no more than foul illusion.

“Four days past,” the old wizard grunted, face dour as he looked at the image of his agonized death, scant paces from his own threshold. “So what do you make of it, Shivvalan? What has this to do with you turning up after the mighty wizards of Hadrumal have ignored me for close on a generation, believing me to be either liar or fool? When I was Azazir’s apprentice and we made our voyage, no one believed us when we said we had found islands in the far Ocean.” He gestured toward the gem with one gnarled hand. “Islands where a race of fair-haired men lived, as like to these as hounds bred from the same pack. Now you come to tell me that the wise and noble wizards of Hadrumal have discovered these islands for themselves and deign to believe me at last. Is it coincidence that I now see these curs hunting me? What trouble is Planir stirring up for us all now?” He huddled back into the worn and faded cushions that lined his heavy oak chair.

Shiv rubbed a hand over his sallow chin, dark eyes thoughtful. “Well, certainly the Archmage must be told at once. Believe me, Viltred, I told you the truth. Planir sent me to find out what you could recall of your own voyage to the Ice Islands with Azazir. I’m sorry, I should have explained; it seems these unknown islanders, Elietimm they call themselves, have some means of enchantment that we know nothing of in Hadrumal. Worse, they had some role to play in the fall of the Formalin Empire, most likely by means of magic, but you know how much lore was lost in the Chaos. Planir is hoping to recover some of that knowledge. We had no idea that these men would be seeking you out as well, I swear, but that must be what this means.” He paused for a moment before continuing briskly. “Still, now that we have this warning we can make sure none of this comes to pass. How often is an augury fulfilled in all its particulars? Not above one time in a handful, less maybe.”

“I’d prefer longer odds of seeing the Solstice than four chances in five.” Viltred drew a shuddering breath, and as he did so the vision in the crystal shook and dissolved. With evident effort to regain his composure, the old wizard leaned forward to rest his hands on the table once more and slowly turned the stone with the shimmering fingers of azure light that revealed the mage’s elemental link with the air that surrounded him. The answering amber glow rising within the heart of the gem spoke of magic born of the earth as slowly a shimmering haze cleared and new pictures focused on the bright surface.

The image sharpened; a knot of figures standing in a large airy room, framed in an open window behind them, masts and rigging moving gently with the motion of unseen waves, sails square-set on stubby spars.

“There you are, Viltred, and showing no signs of ill treatment.” Shiv sighed with relief.

“I’ll allow being caked to my eyebrows in the filth of the road and looking nigh on exhausted is preferable to dying spitted like a festival hog,” muttered Viltred.

“Those galleys, they’re the kind that ply the Caladhrian Gulf,” continued Shiv thoughtfully.

“What I want to know is who are all these other people,” the old man snapped.

Shiv frowned as he studied the tiny figures in the spell’s vision. “The woman with red hair is called Livak. She travels Ensaimin, a woman of many talents, a gambler for the most part.”

“That sounds dishonest as well as disreputable,” snorted Viltred.

Shiv stifled a sudden smile before continuing. “The tall man at the back is the sworn man to Messire D’Olbriot—Ryshad, the one who should be here any day now. You recall me telling you about him?”

“I am not yet in my dotage. I can generally remember things I have been told the same day,” the old wizard replied acidly. “Who’s the plain-faced piece with shoulders like a farm hand?”

“That’s Halice,” said Shiv slowly. “She’s a friend of Livak’s who’s been laid up over the last few seasons with a broken leg.”

“And what possible reason could I have for being with such an ill-assorted crew, down in Relshaz?” demanded Viltred, his sunken eyes flashing with annoyance. “And before you ask, I recognize that beacon tower. I knew the city well enough in my youth.”

“That other man’s face is weathered like sailcloth and with those rope scars on his hand, I think it’s safe to assume he’s a sailor,” Shiv murmured, more to himself than to the old man. “Those parchments that Livak’s weighting with tankards would probably be charts, don’t you think? Are we taking ship somewhere? Relshaz is certainly the biggest port on the western side of the Gulf, but in a city that size a lot of other things could be going on. We could be looking to meet a ship?”

Viltred shrugged wordlessly, his lined face grim under his straggly gray brows. Shiv sat motionless at the dark oaken table, deep in thought, before suddenly slapping his hands down on the scarred wood. “There’s no point trying to second-guess these things, is there? Still, contrasting visions like these generally mean achieving one outcome precludes the other, doesn’t it? We can make a good start down that route by getting everyone we’re seeing together, and Ryshad’s already on his way.”

“I wish you would curb your enthusiasm for telling me things I learned as a first-season apprentice before you were even thought of, Shivvalan. How do you propose we go about this, anyway?” Faint hope warred with the suspicion in the old man’s faded eyes.

“I think I can find Halice, at very least, and I imagine she’ll know where Livak may be.” Shiv rose from his stool and fetched a ewer from the old-fashioned dresser behind him, taking a little silver vial from his breeches pocket. Viltred watched in silence as the younger mage sprinkled black drops of ink on the surface of the water. A greenish glow began to gather in the water, rising above the rim of the jug to trickle over the sides and sink into the stained table top. “A friend of mine was helping tend her leg,” Shiv explained in increasingly animated tones. “He found he had a boot buckle of hers and passed it on to me. As he said, you never know when you might want the means of scrying for someone.” He dropped the trinket into the water, caught his lower lip between his teeth and bent closer to his magic, expression intense.

“Just get on with it,” muttered Viltred.

A sudden sound of rushing air and water filled the room and Shiv stood abruptly upright, his eyes meeting Viltred’s where he saw his own consternation mirrored.

“You set wards of warning on your way here?” asked the old man, a quake of fear in his voice. “Could that be this swordsman arriving?”

“No, I’m afraid my spells are woven only for the Elietimm,” Shiv replied breathlessly. “After traveling to those accursed islands, I’ve no desire to find myself in those bastards’ hands again, believe me. One of our number suffered much the fate we have to protect you from.”

“Let’s remove ourselves to the safety of the village,” said Viltred more robustly. “You have sufficient mastery of air to achieve that?”

Shiv scowled in frustration. “We daren’t take the time to gather all your valuables and if we just translocate ourselves away, we’ll have no idea what the Elietimm do or where they go.” He swiftly crossed the dusty floor to open the varnished shutters just enough to see out. “We’ll be trapped like rats in a barrel if we stay here, though. No, we’ll find a vantage point in the woods where we can hide ourselves,” he said decisively. “With the greater moon dark and the lesser at last crescent, this is the blackest night of the season and that can help us as much as them.”

“If I see them coming for us I’ll be away, clear to Hadrumal, if I can,” warned Viltred, grim-faced. As the old mage rose stiffly from his chair Shiv drew back the bolts on the sturdy wooden door. He caught the shorter man under one arm and, throwing open the door, half hurried, half carried Viltred into the concealing gloom gathering beneath the trees as the sun sank slowly in the clouded western sky.

“Wait,” commanded Viltred a touch breathlessly.

Shiv bent his head close to the old mage’s. “What is it?”

“I’ve a few spells of my own woven hereabouts,” Viltred murmured grimly. “I can set them for two-footed beasts as well as those with four.”

He rubbed knuckles swollen with joint evil and a faint blue glow gathered into a ball between his hands. Viltred released it with a gesture and it floated away like a wisp of marsh gas, alighting here and there on the fringes of the forest to leave a small, fast-fading imprint on the grass.

“We have to conceal ourselves,” whispered Shiv urgently. “I’ve some means of confusing their enchantments but we have to stay absolutely motionless.”

Viltred nodded and the two wizards drew further into the shadows. A flicker of multi-hued light at the edge of seeing gathered around them, evaporating to leave the mages no more visible than the patterns of darkness merging with the twilight.

The final golden shimmers of the sun were scattered by a waterfall tumbling into a brook but everything else was muted to myriad shades of gray. Black as the night deepening under the surrounding trees, the shape of a man suddenly ran across the open ground to the hut, crouching low and moving swiftly. His yell ripped through the silence as a shock of lightning erupted from the ground beneath his feet, throwing him backward to scramble in confusion for the shelter of the trees. Smoke drifted away on the night’s chilly breath.

After a long still moment, two more figures slowly paced across the turf to vanish in the dark lee of the hut. A sudden flare of blue light outlined the frame of a window and startled curses were hastily hushed. After a tense pause a hooded individual strode boldly from the cover of the woods and stood in the middle of the grass, a handful of others respectful in his wake.

The stout wooden door exploded inward in a soundless shower of splinters and the black-clad men rushed inside, only the faintest gleams of starlight catching on their swords and one pale, uncovered head. Faint sounds filtered through the ruins of the door, the scrape of nailed boots on the floorboards, the heavy drag of furniture being hauled aside, crashes spoke of shattering crockery while a series of dull thuds suggested treasured books being tossed angrily to the floor. One liveried figure emerged from the door, head down and stooped shoulders betraying failure and fear. The hooded man crossed the grass with impatient strides and struck him with a gesture of disgust. The others emerged, one proffering something that stayed his leader’s punishing hand. With a sweep of his cloak, the hooded man led his troop away to melt into the forest night.

The pallid, wasted arc of the lesser moon rose over the sheltering crag. Slowly tendrils of smoke began to ooze from the windows and door of the cabin. Greedy flickers of flame began to lick around the timbers, startlingly orange against the deepening night. In an impossibly short time the roof collapsed in on itself and the red glare of the inferno defied the soft light of Halcarion’s crown of stars, now riding high and uncaring above the smoke. Feathery drifts of ash swirled across the glade as grass withered and the bare earth began to steam. Suddenly the fires melted away, leaving only a ruin of blackened wood.

A motley-colored cat made a tentative foray from the edge of the woods but something startled it and it dashed up a tree. On its second attempt, it reached the forbidding heap of charred timbers and paced cautiously round, sniffing and occasionally prodding with an inquiring paw. After a while, a second cat appeared, ears down and tail clamped close to its gray-striped side. The two animals explored the edges of the ruin for a while, the air around them shimmering oddly, the size and colors of the creatures shifting and altering until the spell faded away to reveal the wizards in their own forms. Neither man paid any heed to the magic unravelling around them and continued to search intently, pulling wreckage aside.

“Let me.” Shiv hauled a blackened beam aside to reveal the smashed and burned remnants of a trap door. Viltred pulled at a twisted tangle of wood and metal with an effort, struggling with a racking cough as the ash and cinders were puffed up around them both. Shiv helped him clear the choking debris then made to go down the rock-cut stair now revealed.

“No,” snapped Viltred. “This is still my home, what is left of it.”

Gathering his faded jerkin around himself, Viltred descended the steep steps awkwardly while Shiv waited, arms folded and one impatient boot raising little flurries in the soot as it tapped.

Viltred’s cough echoed harshly as he emerged from the cellar some while later. “Well, the Archmage is going to learn nothing new about these mysterious islands, their vicious peoples or their arcane arts from the few treasures I won from Azazir.” He spat into the dust and clinker. “They’ve taken every last piece, so where does that leave Planir’s hopes now, Shivvalan, tell me that!”

The High Road between Upper Cote and Spring Cote, Caladhria, 10th of Aft-Spring

“Ryshad!”

I was so startled to be hailed by name on the deserted early morning road that I jerked my reins like a novice. The indignant horse skipped a pace forward, shaking its head with a rattle of harness rings and bits.

“Ryshad, over here!”

“Shiv?” I looked around to see the wizard waving at me, lanky and raw-boned as I remembered him, leaves stuck to his breeches as he emerged from a spinney I would have sworn was empty of anything larger than a squirrel. “What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing?”

A second, hunched figure appeared and Shiv turned to offer his arm. “May I present my companion, Viltred Sern. Viltred, this is Ryshad, the sworn man I told you about.”

A Prince’s man soon learns not to betray surprise so I bowed, expressionless, as I looked to see what manner of man had been apprentice to one of the most notorious and dangerous wizards that the hidden city of Hadrumal had ever produced. It was something of a surprise to see a tired old man with a ragged gray beard and sunken eyes, soiled and crumpled after what must have been a cold night out in the open. Still, it had been a generation or so since Azazir had been given the choice of banishment to the distant wilds of Gidesta or death at the hands of the Council of Wizards for his irresponsible sorceries.

“Shivvalan, I need warmth and food before my joints seize completely in this damp!” The old man scowled out from the moulting fur of his hood.

“What’s the story, Shiv?” I asked, concerned. “Why are you walking the road without so much as a bundle between you?”

Shiv shook his head. “I could only tell you half a tale at the moment. Let’s find somewhere with a fire and some decent ale.”

I let it go for the moment and dismounted to help shove the old wizard into the saddle, where he rode like a sour-faced sack of grain. “There was a decent-looking tavern not far back,” I suggested.

“Fine.” Shiv nodded. “We’ll be going south as it is. Take us there.”

I wondered if I would have to find a tactful moment to remind Shiv that, patron’s instructions or not, he had better not have any ideas of ordering me about. Messire gives me his commissions, but I’m used to plotting my own course.

We soon turned into the well-swept foreyard of the whitewashed tavern and Viltred struggled to get off the horse. Realizing he was older than I had first thought as I saw the grayness of his skin under his sparse and ragged beard, I offered him my arm. Accepting my help after a sharp, suspicious glance the mage stalked stiffly inside where Shiv was charming a pink-faced tap maid into letting us have the private parlor off the common hall.

Once we were seated in the snug room, which even boasted some well-polished wainscoting, I poured three tankards of the rich dark ale as Shiv drew the heavy oak shutters across the clouded glass of the small window. At a snap of Viltred’s fingers the candles sparked to life, outshining a faint glimmer of blue light spreading from Shiv’s outstretched hands.

“Now I can tell you what’s going on. We don’t want to be overheard,” he explained as the enchantment faded into the wood and plaster of the walls.

A sensible enough precaution, given that putting up the shutters would have aroused the curiosity of anyone who’d seen him do it.

“If you could manage it, Viltred, the augury would be the clearest way to explain everything,” continued Shiv.

The old man sighed but nodded. “Do you have a candle-end?” He took an oilskin bundle out of an inside pocket and unwrapped a crescent of hammered copper set on a little stand.

I watched, determined to keep my countenance. We don’t have much use or experience of wizardry in Formalin but I had seen it wielded to startling effect the previous autumn, when Shiv, Livak and I had been fleeing for our lives across the desolate wastes of the Ice Islands. I recalled Shiv was a wizard whose powers linked him principally to the element of water, an accident of magebirth that had played a crucial role in saving us from the merciless Ocean, thanks be to Dastennin.

Viltred’s color improved as he drank his ale and I took a long swallow of my own. Full favored with the bitter bite of good hops, it was more than good enough for me if I couldn’t get a decent Formalin wine. It was certainly a vast improvement on the sour dregs I’d been drinking in Lescar.

Shiv fixed a stub of tallow to the lower point of the crescent, and in his unguarded expression I saw he was weary as a brothel watchdog, woken ten times a night. Viltred carefully hung a gem from a tiny hook at the top and Shiv lit the candle with a snap of scarlet magic. I saw from the flashes of fire that this was a diamond, larger than any in the Imperial crown, and bit back an exclamation.

Viltred cleared his throat before speaking. “Nowadays I live a quiet life with little magic, but one thing I do for the locals, in return for food and so forth, is take auguries for the coming seasons.”

I wondered how good the old man was; I’ve never seen a festival fortune teller I’d wager a Lescari penny on, netting the witless with their lies. A sudden flash of amber light set images dancing inside the diamond, seizing my eye and seeming to fill my gaze, everything else of no more significance than a mirror’s frame.

The face of the stone was dark now, clouded with what looked like smoke. It drifted apart leaving only the sooty breath of torches steaming around a ruined hall. Greedy fires devoured heaps of fine satins, lovingly embroidered hangings, furs and gowns looted from Dastennin only knows where. Dark oaken furniture, dutifully polished for generations, was hacked and splintered, gouges showing pale in the old wood like bone exposed in a mortal wound. My heart started pounding in my chest as I recognized this place; it was the audience chamber in the Imperial Palace in Toremal. I gritted my teeth in impotent fury as I saw black-liveried figures crossing the broken tiles of the floor with armfuls of looted luxury to dump on the insatiable flames. I realized with cold horror and hot rage that these were Ice Islanders, fellows to the villains who had maimed and robbed Messire’s nephew the previous summer, that outrage setting Aiten and myself on the trail that had ultimately led to my friend’s death.

Darker smoke was gathering in one corner and I saw that a ravenous tongue of fire had taken hold of one of the great wooden pillars of the doorway to the throne room. As I watched, the heavy double doors, shorn of their gold fixings, swung open and a tow-headed man in bloodstained leather waved a triumphant and terrible trophy at his fellows.

It was a head on a pike. From the lumpen shape of the jaw and face, they had beaten their victim before despatching him, savagely enough to break the bones of his skull. For all that, I knew this man, I had seen that youthful and once handsome face warm with contentment, those eyes, now dull and lifeless, bright with excitement. This was my emperor, Tadriol, third son of Tadriol the Prudent, fifth emperor of that House, still new enough in his seat of power to be awaiting the acclamation from the Princes of the Great Houses that would seal their approval or otherwise in the epithet their Convocation bestowed on him.

I could not stop myself glancing at Shiv and our eyes met for a moment, his face set like ice and just as cold. Realizing my hands were clenched into fists, my nails marking my palms, I reached for my tankard, trying to wet my dry throat before realizing the vessel was empty. Viltred’s magic flickered as he turned the gem once more with trembling fingers of enchantment.

Soft gray haze cleared and revealed mellow stone walls, warm in the light of fine beeswax candles. I saw myself again, this time standing on a dais in what I instantly recognized as a Formalin Prince’s great hall, lavishly decorated for the celebrations of either Solstice or Equinox. We had evidently all prospered; I was spruced up like a whorehouse apothecary in maroon velvet and fine linen with a discreet collar of golden links as I stood behind Messire’s nephew, Camarl, his plump face genial but his eyes keen, deep in conversation with someone I recognized from a cadet line of D’Azenac. Realizing I was looking at myself as other people must see me was an eerie experience, unnerving, and I stifled a sudden shiver. My lips parted in unconscious surprise when I saw Livak, seductive in a midnight-blue gown of silk, pearls caught in the exquisite confection of her hair and gleaming around her neck. I allowed myself a moment to savor her unaccustomed elegance and realized she was enticing the knot of eager and noble youth around her to wager on the fall of a delicate set of applewood runes, tucking silver and gold coin discreetly into the little velvet bag on a ribbon at her waist.

Shiv was down in the main body of the hall, standing tall and courtly in green linen, closely shaven and with his long dark hair tied neatly back for a change, weight resting easily on his back foot, arms crossed and relaxed. He was laughing with one of Messire’s nieces, who clearly had no idea that her evident interest in him was doomed to disappointment. Viltred was in animated discussion with two noblemen, dressed in formal robes incongruous in this setting but possessing an unexpected air of authority as he waved a black-clad arm, his gnarled hand gripping a staff which he thumped down to emphasize his point.

“What you are seeing are alternate possibilities for the future,” began Shiv.

“What does it all mean?” I demanded curtly. Any concerns of the wizards were secondary to the peril threatening everything to which I was honor-bound.

“We don’t know.” Viltred’s frank admission silenced me.

“You’ve taken no action?” I heard impatience sharpening the edge to my tone and forced myself to blunt it. “When you’ve seen such a threat to the Emperor?”

“Taking action based on auguries is a very risky business.”

Unexpectedly, Viltred was not cross or defensive but merely sounded weary to the bone. “Every event depends on such a chain of circumstance and causation that in acting you can forge the vital link that brings about the very catastrophe you are trying to avoid.”

“Seeing yourself and Livak like that suggests you both have some role to play in securing a positive outcome.” Shiv gestured at the now lifeless gem. “I’d say our most important task is getting everyone in that vision together as soon as we can.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“She’s with that friend of hers, Halice.” Shiv nodded and poured more ale. “I’ve been scrying for her last night and today, as well as for you. That’s how we knew what road you had taken.”

Of course; those tricks with magic spells and colored inks gave Shiv the means to keep track of people without them even knowing it. How long had he been scrying on me? I discarded that thought in the face of more immediate concerns. So Shiv was trying to find Livak; the woman who’d killed Aiten, who’d saved my life, who owed me a good measure of hers, skilled gambler, dextrous thief, latterly my lover when a sudden storm of passion had hit us both on the voyage home. I’m not given to nailing anything in a skirt, I did enough of that in my youth, but Livak, she had been something different, the first woman to really get under my guard in more than ten years. Just thinking about her red-haired passion set the blood pulsing in my breeches. What was I going to say to her? What did I want from her? Come to that, was she going to want anything from me, beyond a good time between the sheets? Hopes and doubts that had nothing to do with my duties warred within me.

I rasped a hand over a day’s growth of beard but banished that minor irritation from my mind. “What else do I need to know?”

Shiv hesitated before answering. “The Elietimm attacked Viltred’s home the night before last. It may be coincidence, but then again, they may have followed me there.”

My hackles rose at the idea of my enemies and those of Messire prowling, unchallenged, on our side of the Ocean. “What happened?”

“They looted the hut for a few keepsakes Viltred brought back from his journey with Azazir and then torched it. We managed to hide in the woods.”

“It’s lucky you were there, Shiv.” Was it luck or were the Elietimm hoping to take two coneys in one snare?

“They’ve taken the Spice Road.” Shiv took a drink. “We cut across country when I scryed you reaching the river.”

I raised a hand. “Shiv, last year these bastards were about as easy to track as a ship in stormy water. How can you be sure?”

“We’ve been scrying for the things they’ve stolen, that’s giving us some clue. Viltred’s had them in his cellar for over a generation; ordinarily he should be able to find them clear across the Caladhrian Gulf.”

“Do you know where the Elietimm are at present?”

“The best I can tell you is that they’re not close enough to us to present an imminent threat.” Shiv’s grimace told me he found this as unsatisfactory as I did. “We want to find Livak and Halice, then try to pick up the trail again, catch up with the Ice Islanders, see what they’re up to. We can attempt to recover what they’ve stolen, too; Livak’s skills will prove useful for that.”

I didn’t share his conviction that Livak would be prepared to help him out. I’d gained the distinct impression that she’d been put off thieving for life after the trouble going pilfering for wizards had landed her in. Shiv had needed to blackmail her into it last year.

“We can’t be sure these people won’t want Viltred himself for some reason.” I frowned. “Taking him closer to them means taking him into more danger. Isn’t there somewhere safer he could go?”

“You’re here to protect him now.” Shiv wouldn’t meet my eyes. “The Archmage feels it’s better that we all stay together; this all relates to a project Planir has very few people involved in.”

I glanced at Viltred to see unhappiness in the downturned corners of his mouth. Did he know something Shiv wasn’t telling me or was he simply in pain from the joint evil I had noted twisting his hands? There were a lot of unanswered questions here. I stifled unaccustomed frustration as I drained the last of my ale. “Let’s find you two some food, some horses and get back on the road to make the best of the day.”

Shiv may have had no more than the shirt on his back but he had a well-filled purse inside it. Once the two wizards were mounted, on a thick-necked black and a murrey roan, we made good time through the Caladhrian countryside. Sturdy yeomen were out plowing their fields with a springtime optimism that came as a welcome change after Lescar, slaked lime piled in orderly heaps, ready to enrich the soil. Fine-looking stock grazed secure in neatly hedged enclosures and new wheat was pricking up through the rich, dark earth. I might have been a little more impressed if I hadn’t been attending Messire when he’d spent an afternoon explaining to Camarl how all the vaunted Caladhrian agricultural expertise stemmed directly from the needs of Lescari dukes to keep their fighting men fed. Little enough of this bounty would go to relieve the lot of the wretched souls I had passed on the Marlier high road.

Gangs of peasants were clearing woodland and I noticed the distinctive headscarves the women wore. “Those are Lescari, aren’t they?” I turned to Shiv.

Shiv nodded. “Lord Adrin lets some across each spring to clear land and settle between the River Road and the Rel. If they prosper, he gets tenants and rents; if raiders get across, Lord Adrin’s own people might get off a bit lighter.”

I hoped the determined optimism in the faces of those laboring so hard would be rewarded. “Has there been much trouble lately?”

“Not much, and Lord Adrin’s on the alert.” Shiv stood in his stirrups and pointed to the broad sweeps of a distant mill. “If you see a mill locked in an upright cross, that’s a signal to the militia that scavengers have crossed the river. They stamp out most of the vermin.”

I nodded approvingly; I would have to mention Lord Adrin to Messire, a man with wits as well as control of a strategically placed bridge.

We rode until the failing light forced a halt at a wayside inn. With the lesser moon waning past its last crescent to dark and the greater barely waxing at half, there wasn’t enough light to justify risking the horses further. Viltred travelled without complaint but grew more and more hunched over his reins; when we stopped, he was barely able to straighten. Shiv helped him to our bedchamber while I visited the tap-room to ask a few seemingly idle questions of the underemployed tapman. I was reassured to learn of no unusual blond-haired travelers in the vicinity and learned that Coteshall, where Shiv expected to find Halice, was only a scant half day’s ride away. Eventually, yawning and hoping for a better night’s sleep than Arimelin had seen fit to bless me with lately, I accepted a flannel-wrapped hot brick from the motherly goodwife. Welcoming the warmth on my chilled hands, I climbed the narrow stairs in stocking feet, my boots tucked under one arm. Shiv and Viltred were already asleep, as I picked my way quietly through stale aromas of well-worn boots and the fresh tang of warm liniment to the vacant bed. Sleep was long in coming; every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ice Islanders sacking the very heart of Formalin power.

A great house of pale stone, full of empty echoes

It was a cold and clear morning. Frost gleamed in the corners of the courtyard where the early winter sun had not yet penetrated and the blackened stems of some late autumn flowers overlooked by the steward drooped forlornly in an antique urn. The doorkeeper hurried to answer the summons of the bell, rubbing his hands briskly against the cold of the deeply shadowed entrance. A young man entered, tense and pale, twisting a bright sapphire ring on one nervous hand but with habitual manners ingrained enough to greet the servant with a precise bow. His highly polished boots clattered on the flagstones as he strode into the house, evidently needing no guide.

Once inside, Temar took a deep breath and checked his appearance in a handy mirror in the anteroom. The face he saw was curiously at odds with the rich clothes he wore. Lean, with high cheekbones tapering into a long, pointed jaw, it was more suited to armor or working clothes in his opinion. He’d certainly feel more comfortable in either, rather than chafing under the seldom worn constraints of formal dress. Blue eyes, so pale as to be almost colorless, stared back at him from under thin black brows. The severity of their gaze was heightened by his long black hair, drawn back and clasped at the nape of his neck. That was the fashion required, whether or not it suited him.

Temar straightened the collar of his shirt and brushed with irritation at a speck on his crimson jerkin until he realized it was in fact a flaw in the silvering. That would have been enough to get the glass sent straight to the servants’ quarters less than a handful of years ago, he thought. The realization stiffened his resolve as he waited for a summons to his grandfather’s presence.

Not Grandfather, he reminded himself: the old man was sitting as head of the House D’Alsennin this morning. Not that that meant what it once had; there were no clients waiting eagerly on the polished bench, hoping to present requests or offer services to their patron.

“Esquire.” The chamberlain opened the double doors with a flourish and managed to convey the impression that his presence there was to confer an honor on Temar rather than because the household had been forced to dispense with the services of the hall-lackey.

Temar bowed politely and walked stiffly into the salon. It was some time since he’d been in here and his step faltered as he registered the statues missing from their niches and the sun-faded silken drapes. An inadequate fire flickered valiantly in the massive fireplace, unable to do more than draw unwelcome attention to the chilly atmosphere.

“Temar, it’s good to see you.” His grandfather looked imposing in his formal mantle of maroon velvet, seated in the ancient black-oak chair that dominated the dais at the end of the long room. Despite his scant white hair and deeply graven wrinkles, his faded eyes were clear and alert.

“Sieur.” Temar made a formal reverence and sank to one knee, head bowed.

“This is an official visit?” There was a hint of amusement in the old man’s voice.

“It is.” Temar’s voice was firm. With his head bowed, he did not see the dismay that fleetingly doubled the weight of years on his grandfather’s face.

“Then make your petition.” The Sieur’s voice was firm and even a little grim.

“I request permission to take ship with Messire Den Fellaemion.” Temar spoke more loudly than he had intended in his determination not to stumble over his words. The request rang through the room more like a demand and Temar forced himself to remain still, staring at the subtle curves of the ocher and cream tiles on the floor.

“Go on.” The old man’s voice was quelling.

Temar looked up despite himself; momentarily at a loss.

“Make your case, Esquire.” The Sieur looked down at him, unsmiling. “Tell me why I should allow the last of my line to risk himself in some unknown land the far side of the ocean.”

Temar took another deep breath while trying to conceal it. He’d expected confrontation, argument; he’d been counting on it to spur him into defying his grandfather.

“I know that I am the last in the male line of the House D’Alsennin and I respect the obligations of my blood. Therefore it falls upon me to restore the fortunes of our name, both materially and among our peers. As the Empire has withdrawn from the provinces in latter years, we have successively lost lands, wealth and position. I do not see any realistic prospect that these will be recovered and so I have sought another means to raise our House to its former glory.” He paused to collect his thoughts.

“The Emperor has announced that a military levy will be raised to retake Lescar from these self-proclaimed Dukes.” The old man’s face was unreadable.

Temar looked directly at him. “No Great House has sent troops to any of the levies announced since the turn of the year, my lord, and this will be no different. I have no more confidence in the commanders of the Imperial Cohorts than I do in a pack of middenyard dogs and every Esquire who served his turn in the last year will be saying the same to his elders. You know as well as I do that Nemith the Reckless will be the last Emperor of his line and likely dead and burned before the end of the season, given his tastes in wine and whores.”

The Sieur inclined his head slowly. “That is very true and when the Convocation of Princes meets to elect a new Emperor, there will be all manner of opportunity for the Esquires of even the minor Houses to secure his patronage. I am too old to dance that measure and you cannot do it from half the world away.”

The cold of the floor was starting to strike up into Temar’s knees and he was getting cramp in his calves. He cursed himself for a fool for adopting the formal posture and tried to ignore the discomfort, but it forced itself out in his increasingly terse words.

“We are not the only House suffering as the Empire retreats, Grandfather. Why should I stand in line with a pail for another man to grant me a turn at a shrinking well? Messire Den Fellaemion tells of vast lands overseas, fertile and free for the taking, endless, untapped forests, wealth to be had in iron and gold, even gems.”

“That sounds more like your friend young Den Rannion talking.” The old man’s tone was sour. “Tell me, just what do the good Esquire’s gambling debts stand at now? I’m sure his father is only too keen to send him to any shore empty of gaming dens and brothels, if only to save his purse!”

Was the old man deliberately misunderstanding him? Be that as it may, Temar was not about to be reined aside into an argument about Vahil’s latest foolishness; he did not drop his gaze. “Messire Den Fellaemion is offering passage to those dispossessed and fleeing the ruins of the Provinces. He is giving them the chance to build a new life for themselves if they join him in building a second Empire across the ocean.”

“So you wish to grub in the dirt with the scaff and raff of the homeless and landless? Must I point out that you are neither?”

The Sieur leaned forward, scowling down from the seat of his forefathers. Temar made an effort and schooled his face into something approaching an expression of calm reason.

“Messire Den Fellaemion is looking for men with experience of command to help him manage the colonists, to organize the work, to coordinate and direct their efforts. I’m sure I need not remind you that I managed our estates in Dalasor to your complete satisfaction for three years. When the Mountain Men struck south of the river, I served my time in the Cohorts and was given command of my own troop within a season. I can put the skills I learned to good use and be recognized for it and rewarded. Is that not a more fitting occupation for a son of D’Alsennin than hanging around the court and scrambling for favors like a dog begging scraps?”

“Not when you will be yoked to the likes of Messires Den Rannion and Den Fellaemion. Who do you think they are? I’ll tell you; an aging visionary trading on the faded glories of his voyages with Nemith the Seafarer and a man looking to make his House sorry that they passed him over in the choice of their Sieur. You might as well try to restore our fortunes by melting down the plate and chancing your luck in the bordello games, like that pup of Den Rannion’s!”

“Messire Den Rannion does indeed have an astute eye for commerce, Grandfather.” Temar’s voice betrayed an edge of anger for the first time. “He would not be supporting the idea of a colony if he did not think it would be viable and profitable. He intends to sail himself, to build a home and a future for his family, and he has been planning to do so since before the death of his father. His brother, the Sieur, supports him fully.”

“I’d say his debts must be pressing indeed if he’s prepared to flee across an ocean to escape his creditors! No, I’ll believe Den Rannion is setting down his arse along with his coin when I see it. You don’t think he’s simply turning a quick coin out of playing on the hopes of the gullible? From what I hear, he’ll have to recoup a handsome sum to keep pace with your friend Vahil’s spending.”

Why did the old man keep mentioning Vahil? With a shock, Temar realized his grandfather had no real argument to make and was simply trying to end the discussion by provoking a quarrel. He stared at the old man and blinked as what he saw changed, as if transmuted by some evil alchemy. This was no longer the impressive head of a once Great House, no lordly figure holding the reins of many lives, curbing some and slackening others to keep the whole equipage on an even course, not even the unquenchable source of reassurance and security that Temar had depended on as he grew, too early, to manhood and duty. His grandfather was simply an old, old man, weary and afraid, bereft of his sons and the future of his House, facing his dotage alone and uncertain.

Temar rose to his feet and grimaced as he rubbed his knees. He went to sit on the step of the dais as he had done so often as a child, when the hall was thronged with tenants and clients, his uncles circulating as the Sieur dealt with the suppliants. Temar made himself comfortable and looked up at his grandfather.

“I really want to do this, Grandpa. I’m never going to be any good capering at court, ferreting out gossip and trying to turn it into advantage and gold. You know me; I’m used to speaking my mind, as you taught me yourself. I’m tired of trying to salvage coin and dignity from every tide of disasters and knowing all the while that the next time the Emperor nails his own foot to the floor, I’ll be back up to my neck in a flood of ripe gurry.”

The old man rubbed a hand over his face; his eyes dimmed with momentary despair. “Better that than drowning in the deep of the ocean, surely? How many ships set sail with Nemith the Seafarer and never returned?”

“Messire Den Fellaemion returned, Grandpa, and he has made the crossing a handful of times since. I trust him.” Temar tried to keep any rebuke out of his voice. He failed.

“What is that supposed to mean?” The old fire flared in the Sieur’s eyes. “You trust him? You see a better future riding as his postilion, do you, rather than as master of your own team? You’re planning to abandon your own name and take his, perhaps?”

Temar stood abruptly, shedding his efforts at unaccustomed humility. “My concerns are for the future of my name, Messire. I intend that my sons and grandsons will revere my ashes and bless the inheritance I bequeath them.” He clenched his fists unconsciously and felt the band of his father’s ring press into his flesh.

“So what will you be doing with my funeral urn, then? Using it as a doorstop? Ungrateful hound!” The Sieur raised one twisted hand and very nearly struck out at Temar. “Am I to blame that first the Crusted Pox stole away the sons of my House and then a pox-rotted whoremonger has pissed away our lands through chasing his deluded ambitions?”

Temar opened his mouth to reply in kind in the usual fashion of D’Alsennin family discourse, but something in his grandfather’s face halted him. Abiding grief underlay the wrath in the old man’s eyes and prolonging the fight seemed suddenly pointless.

“I did not mean to insult you, Grandpa; I didn’t mean it, not the way it sounded. I know full well our House would be ashes blown on the wind many years since, if it were not for you.”

Whatever the old man would have said was lost in a paroxysm of coughing and Temar looked around hastily for water or wine.

“Leave it.” The Sieur produced a handbell from the folds of his mantle and its silvery jingle brought the chamberlain scurrying in.

“I will consider your petition, Esquire.” The old man managed to control his coughing and looked up at Temar, high color masquerading as a brief pretense of good health. “I have other affairs to see to. You may attend me in my study before we dine.”

He got to his feet with some difficulty but waved away the hovering chamberlain with irritability and stalked out of the salon, head unbowed.

Temar watched him go and could not decide if he were more worried or annoyed by the old man’s behavior. What other business could he have to deal with? Most likely, he was just delaying a decision by going for a nap. Well, Temar wasn’t going to kick his heels in this cinder-shrine all afternoon, he decided with characteristic speed. He strode rapidly from the room and slammed the ponderous doors with an energy that drew a startled plume of smoke from the little fire.

The nails in his boot heels snapped angrily on the stone treads as he made his way down the back stairs and into the kitchen.

“Temar, my duckling, how lovely to see you.” A sparely framed woman in a clean if faded livery looked around a cupboard door, a half-full jar of spices in her hand.

“Jetta! Well, I must say I’m glad to find you still here.” Temar tried for a light touch but his words fell flat. He slumped into a chair and stared moodily at the grain in the white-scrubbed tabletop, picking at it with a ragged nail. “I was starting to think everything and everyone had been sold off or sent packing.”

“You reckon it’s all looking a bit bare above stairs, do you?” Jetta’s sardonic voice made Temar look up, startled.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’d had loan-broker’s men in!” he responded bitterly. “What’s the old fool been doing? Paying some alchemist for potions? Hoping to get him a doxy to bear him a better heir?”

“He’s been keeping what’s left of the tenantry in shelter and food, young man.” Jetta’s eyes were bright and not only with passion. “The Sieur is always mindful of the obligations of the House.”

“You think I’m not? Don’t you start blaming me,” Temar snapped. “I’ve been working from first light to last moon, both halves of summer, to keep what’s left of the estates producing some sort of income. I’d have an easier time milking pigs for cheese and probably have more to show for it! Why do you think I’ve not been back here for so long?”

“Don’t you start ripping into me, just because you’re feeling guilty, young man. I put you over my knee when you wore soft shoes and I’ll do it now if need be.” Jetta’s smile belied her words and she put a plate of sweetcake in front of Temar.

“Thank you.” He took a piece and felt unaccountably comforted.

“Are you dining here?” Jetta closed the cupboard and moved to the hearth to swing a kettle over the fire.

“It would seem so. Grandfather has ordered me to attend him in his study beforehand.” Temar’s sarcasm had somehow lost its edge.

Jetta sniffed. “What have you been saying to upset him so badly, then?”

“How do you know he’s upset?” Indignation colored the guilt in Temar’s face.

“Why else would Master Othneil be ringing down for a bridesbell tisane?” Jetta pointed to the open door of the lackey-lift in the corner of the room.

“Is he ill?” Temar tried to ignore the qualm in his belly at the thought.

“No more than any man of his age but his winter cough has started early and he’s spending too much time in his study and not enough in his bed.”

So much for imagining his grandfather had nothing to do with himself. Temar dragged the newly polished silver clasp out of his hair with an irritable gesture and could not think what to say.

“So, how’s your mother?” Jetta busied herself with cups and hot water.

“She’s very well, thank you.” A fond smile lightened Temar’s whole face. “She’s growing her hair for a wedding plait.”

“Is she now?” Jetta halted, smiling herself, herb canister in hand. “So who’s going to be cutting that to lay on Drianon’s altar?”

“He’s Rian For Alder; do you know the name?”

Jetta frowned momentarily. “He deals in wool, doesn’t he? The family run sheep in the mountains on the Bremilayne road?”

“That’s him.” Temar nodded. “They’ve been friends for a couple of years now and he’s finally persuaded her to marry him. I’m so pleased, for him as well as her. He’s a good man and I know he’ll make her happy.”

“I’ll tie a ribbon to Drianon’s door to wish her well. She certainly deserves some happiness!” Jetta remembered what she was doing, and tied sharply fragrant herbs into a scrap of muslin. She dropped the bundle into a cup of hot water. “Have you told the Sieur?”

“Not yet.” Temar poked at his tisane with a silver spoon. “I think it would be best if she told him herself but she’s always been so nervous of him. She thinks he’ll feel she’s betraying Father’s memory and the D’Alsennin name.”

“Nonsense!” Jetta shook her head emphatically. “He’ll be delighted for her and I know your father would never have wanted her to spend so long as a widow, not once her year’s-mind was spent in the Sieur’s care.”

Temar fished the steeped herbs out of his cup and sipped the steaming drink carefully. “That’s what I told her.” He stared unseeing, into the fire. “I wish I knew what advice he’d give me, Father I mean.”

“What about?” Jetta covered one of his hands with her own.

“I want to join Messire Den Fellaemion’s colony.”

Jetta stared at him. “Is that what you came to tell your grandfather?”

Temar nodded. “I have to do something, Jetta, or I’ll go mad from frustration. Things are going from bad to worse and I’ll be cursed if I join the rest of the scavengers picking at the stinking carrion that’s left of the Empire.”

“You sound more like your Uncle Arvil than your father.” Jetta blinked away an unbidden memory.

“What do you think my father would have done?” Temar held her with his pale gaze.

“He’d have done what he felt was best for the House.” Jetta gripped Temar’s hand. “But he’d have been honest enough to know that it had to be something he felt was right for himself as well.”

“I’m fairly sure that’s what I’m doing,” sighed Temar. “But I do sometimes wonder if I’m just looking for somewhere to run off to, some way of getting out from under all the duty and obligation.”

“It’s hard being the only one left to carry the Name,” Jetta comforted him. “You know, when your grandfather crosses to the Otherworld, it’s not Saedrin who’ll be asking the questions before he opens the doors. The Sieur is going to want some answers about just what that cursed plague was supposed to be for. They’re going to have to be good ones!”

Temar smiled. “Do you suppose the old man will demand free passage from Poldrion as well? On account of his ferry having so much trade from our House already?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him!” laughed Jetta. “Now, if you’re staying for dinner, you can make yourself useful. Go and get some sea-coal in from the yard and then you can make a start on the vegetables.”

Temar made her a mocking bow. “At once, Mistress.”

Doing something both useful and undemanding helped Temar to relax. He had very nearly managed to put aside all thoughts of the future, duty and conflict by the time he was concentrating on washing the earth out of the last greens of the autumn. The jangle of a bell high up in the house startled him and he looked ruefully at Jetta.

“I think that’s my summons.”

She came around the table and wiped his hands on a cloth as if he were still a child. “Try not to let him get you cross; you know what he’s like. If you’re sure of what you want, he’s going to have to accept it eventually.”

That was easy enough for Jetta to say, Temar thought, without heat, as he climbed the narrow stairs back to the formal rooms of the house. How often did any man called D’Alsennin give in gracefully? About as often as a bitch whelped kittens, he’d say.

He remembered to pull the clasp from his pocket and clip back his hair before he reached his grandfather’s study. He paused for a moment and looked at the gleaming silver, remembering how long it had taken to get the tarnish out of the deeply carved leaves. Temar sighed, remembering how the candlelight had used to catch at it when his father turned back to the door after coming to check on the children last thing at night. Well, he couldn’t ask his father’s advice, so all he could do was be true to himself and his Name.

He knocked on the black door and braced himself.

“Enter.” His grandfather’s voice was firm and Temar saw that his face was determined but more at peace with himself.

Temar closed the door and took a seat across from the old man, keeping his face impassive as he wondered what part all the ledgers and rolls on the table were going to play in their discussion.

“I have been considering your petition,” the Sieur began formally. “While you are the sole heir of this House, safe-guarding the future of the Name must be my first consideration. However I realize I must also do justice to your own wishes and needs.”

He paused. Temar sat silent, trying to look attentive and deferential.

“I cannot see any benefit to you joining Den Fellaemion and crossing the ocean on your own.” There was a challenge in the old man’s eyes as he took a sip of wine but Temar refused to take the bait, remaining still and quiet.

The Sieur snorted and replaced his glass in its silver holder. “However, it is certainly possible that these lands overseas could offer us estates and position to replace what we have lost in recent years. I cannot ignore that. I have decided to allow you to join this endeavour on certain conditions. Provided you agree to my terms, you may go with my blessing.”

“What are your terms, Messire?” Temar asked politely, fighting to keep the relief and exultation out of his face.

“We have many dispossessed tenants and those that remain on our lands are suffering in the present tensions.” The old man began laying parchments before Temar. “You need to see the figures to see the whole tapestry.”

Temar clamped his teeth on an impulse to remind his grandfather he was the one who’d provided most of the ledgers and records and looked where the old man was pointing.

“You see, here and here? Compare the figures with as recently as last year.” The Sieur sat back in his chair. “These are good people, suffering through no fault of their own and if you are to go any way toward fulfilling your obligations to your tenantry, you should offer them the chance to join you in this quest.”

Temar stared at his grandfather, eyes wide; whatever he might have expected the old man to come up with, this was not it.

“We can raise the capital to purchase a couple of ships and, with a little ingenuity, we can fit them out with goods from our own properties.” The Sieur produced a freshly drawn-up list. “I want you to look at this and see if you can see anything I’ve missed.”

Temar took the parchment dumbly and then grinned, as much at himself as anything.

An answering smile took a generation off the old man and there was a wicked glint in his eye.

“Nothing to say for yourself, my boy? That’s unlike you, I must say.”

Temar looked up from the list. “You are suggesting we take a major role in this project. How’s that supposed to sit with Den Rannion and Den Fellaemion?”

“That’s your problem, my boy. If you want to do this, you’re going to do it in a way that benefits your House, or not at all.”

Temar tried to run a hand through his hair, forgetting the clasp and wincing as it tugged at his scalp.

“I accept your terms,” he said finally, wondering with a qualm just what he was committing himself to.

“Good lad. I knew you’d see sense.” The Sieur rose and poured them both some wine. Temar sipped absently, still trying to make sense of this new situation. He stopped and looked more carefully at his glass.

“This is the Califerian vintage, isn’t it?”

“The last year before the Crusted Pox struck.” His grandfather nodded and savored the glowing ruby liquid. “It’s the last carafe; it seemed appropriate.”

Temar could not think what to say, so he drank his wine instead.

“I have something else that I think it’s time you received.” The old man put down his glass and walked swiftly to a long chest. He removed a ring of small keys from a chain around his neck and unlocked it. Carrying a long linen-wrapped bundle, he swept documents to the floor to make space for it on the table.

“This is the sword that I had made for your Uncle Arvil; I always thought he would the next Sieur D’Alsennin, when it was time for me to step aside.” The old man untied the linen bands with stiff fingers but waved away Temar’s offer of help. “I can manage.”

He drew aside the cloths to reveal a dark green scabbard; the sword’s guard was intricately carved but the handle was well fitted and workmanlike. This was no mere dress-sword. When he drew the blade, it gleamed, bright and unspotted, a tracery of leaves coiling down its length.

“Here.”

Temar took the sword and weighed its superb balance, mouth open in delighted admiration. “This is marvelous, Grandfather,” he breathed as he made a few careful passes with it.

“It should be, given the coin it cost me,” the old man snorted gruffly. “Just don’t go using it to chop wood in these foreign forests or some such.”

“Hardly!” Temar laughed. He stopped, his face suddenly solemn. “This is a prince’s gift, Messire. I cannot thank you enough.”

“Make a success of this expedition, give our tenants a new life and our House a new future. That’s the thanks I require.” The old man fixed Temar with a burning eye. They stood for a tense moment, the weight of obligation and the uncertainty of the future hanging heavy in the air.

A silvery bell sounded in the hallway and the spell was broken.

“You’d better start thinking about begetting the next generation as well. Isn’t it about time you had your eye on some girl? You can’t afford your Uncle Sinel’s tastes, you know.”

Temar laughed at his grandfather’s jest and followed him to the dining room.

Hill Cote, Lord Adrin’s Fiefdom, Caladhria, 11th of Aft-Spring

Waking early from unsatisfying sleep tainted with vague dreams of people arguing, I found a sense of dissatisfaction spilling over into the gray light filtering through the shutters. I decided there was no point lying in bed, questions chasing themselves around in my head like the rats I could hear scurrying in the thatch overhead. There was also no point in trying to get back to sleep with Shiv snoring like a basket of piglets.

The morning air was damp where it had sneaked around the window frame. I shivered at the cold touch of linen on skin and pulled on breeches and jerkin hastily. Wondering in passing just how I’d managed to avoid smacking my head on the beams the night before, I grabbed my boots and moved quietly past the heap of motionless blankets that was Viltred.

I was breakfasting in the tap-room, sitting in my stocking feet, when Shiv appeared and joined me.

“I wish I’d thought of that, I hate putting on wet boots,” he said with feeling, nodding at my footgear upturned on the fire irons.

“Any man at arms knows the importance of dry feet.” I shrugged as Shiv helped himself to bread and meat. “The other thing he needs is information. There’s a lot you’re not telling me, Shiv.”

“I don’t know much more than I’ve told you, I swear, not for certain.” Shiv sighed. “This was supposed to be a quick trip to find out if Viltred knew anything useful and to pick up any bits and pieces that Planir could set his scholars to work on.”

I wondered what he meant by that but a jaw-cracking yawn distracted me.

“Tired?” Shiv looked concerned.

I nodded. “I don’t seem to have had a decent night’s sleep since Solstice.”

“The goodwife’s got a well-stocked philtre-chest,” Shiv suggested a touch diffidently. “Viltred’s concocting something for himself.”

“No,” I said curtly. “No, thank you.”

I’d taken to chewing thassin after my sister died, to get something between me and that suffocating pain. Being young, arrogant and sure I could dose myself safely had landed me with a habit that had taken two seasons of night sweats and persistent thirst to shake off. I’m not about to risk developing a taste for anything like that again. Seeing some affront in Shiv’s eyes, I sought a more neutral topic.

“Why does Viltred insist in calling you Shivvalan anyway?”

He grimaced. “Saedrin only knows. The last person to do that was my mother and it still makes me feel as if I’m waiting to shave my first whiskers for Misaen’s altar. Which reminds me, my respected and venerable colleague was wanting hot water for his tisane.”

I don’t know what Viltred put in his morning tisane but it must have been pretty potent because the old wizard was in the saddle a cursed sight sooner than I expected. The roads were better after a dry night and we rode briskly through the clearing mists of a bright morning.

“This is where we should find Halice,” Shiv announced some while later as we rounded a wood-topped hillock. Stoutly built stone crofts, each with a patch of diligently tilled land, were loosely gathered around the market and the shrine. People were going about their business, barely sparing us a glance. Shiv led us down a side lane to a typical longhouse, thick walls four-square under mossy thatch. A sturdily built woman in a decent brown broadcloth dress over neat, unbleached linen was hauling water from a well and looked at us with a challenge in her eyes when we stopped. She rested well-muscled arms on her bucket and I noted the faint pattern of silvery scars around her knuckles and forearms. A farmwife would have the muscles, but I doubt many have swordwork scars. She was also the first woman I’d seen that day with an uncovered head, her dun-colored hair cropped short.

“Can I help you?”

Shiv made a bow. “Are you Halice?”

The woman looked at us, unsmiling, her dark eyes opaque in a coarse-boned face. “Who wants to know?”

“Shiv Ralsere. I am looking for Livak.”

There was a flicker beneath the heavy brows at that but I couldn’t tell what it meant.

“She’s not going to want to see you, mage,” Halice said calmly, without malice.

“I’ll take that chance.” Shiv smiled at her with warm charm but I could tell Halice was about as convinced as I was. I’d seen the type that Shiv fancies after a few drinks; generally tavern brawlers with arms as thick as my thigh and three days’ growth of beard.

He reached behind him and brought a flagon out of his saddlebag. “I recall Livak saying you were partial to Dalasorian vintages.”

A half-smile quirked at the corner of Halice’s thin lips. “You may as well stop to eat with us. I can spare a hen that’s gone off lay. Put your horses in the byre. Livak’s gone to the farm down yonder, she’ll be back in a while.”

She reached for a crutch that had rested unseen on the far side of the well. As she moved, I could see that her skirts reached to just above the ankle of one leg but that her other foot barely showed, twisted sideways under her petticoats, the result of a badly broken leg that had mended seriously awry.

I dismounted and tossed my reins to Shiv. “Let me take that.”

Halice paused, glanced at me and handed the water over. She looked at the fowls scratching their brainless way around the yard, reached down and unhurriedly picked one up.

“You wizards any good at plucking and drawing your meals?” She wrung the chicken’s neck with casual expertise.

She turned her back on Viltred’s startled indignation and limped heavily to the cottage, where a wide passage separated the byre end from the living half of the house. I handed the water to Shiv. “I’ll see to the horses.” There was an old, stale smell of cattle but more recent sign of horses: hay racked ready, a bit of grain and straw bedding. I wondered what schemes Livak and Halice had been working over the winter seasons. I was sorting harness when Shiv reappeared.

“Viltred all right?”

“Fine, now he’s got a hearth to sit beside. That Halice’s a hard one to read, isn’t she?” Shiv shook his head ruefully.

“Hard all round, as far as I can tell, and not wanting anyone’s pity.” I slung my saddlebag over my shoulder. “Didn’t she used to be a mercenary in Lescar?”

“That’s what Livak told me.” Shiv picked up a battered satchel. “She also said Halice’s biggest advantage is that people take one look at her and treat her like the village idiot’s foolish sister.”

I smiled. “I can see that. How did she break her leg?”

“Took a bad fall with a horse on a rocky road.” Shiv grimaced in sympathy. “She’s lucky she kept the leg at all.”

I was about to speak when Halice appeared at the doorway and we jumped like slacking apprentices. She was certainly quiet on her feet for a cripple.

“There’s wood needs chopping.”

“I’ll do it.” Shiv tried for a friendly smile as he took the well-honed axe and I followed them out to the back of the house. As Shiv stripped to his shirt and made a competent start on a stack of wood, I caught a momentary expression of surprise on Halice’s face before she realized I was there and her countenance went blank once more. I piled split logs into the basket but turned when I heard evenly weighted footsteps behind me.

“Livak!” Shiv greeted her warmly, leaning on the axe.

She halted, opened her mouth, and closed it again. I allowed myself the luxury of admiring the way her closely cut jerkin clung lovingly to the curve of her bosom. Livak was a little thinner than when I’d last seen her and her red hair was longer, tied back in a rough braid that left her green eyes bright in her pale face, her wandering father’s Forest blood showing through more clearly than I remembered. She was carrying a curd cheese, pale in its muslin wrappings.

“Hello Shiv. Not got anyone else to bother?”

She stalked into the homely warmth of the flagstoned kitchen where Viltred was resting his beard on his chest, eyes drowsy. Starting at the sound of the door, his face brightened with curiosity about this bold female in her buff breeches. Livak ignored him.

“Drianon save me, Shiv, I really don’t want your kind of aggravation,” she grumbled, but as she turned she flashed me a quick smile, which ran warmth through me like a shot of spirits.

As Halice turned from tending the broad hearth that dominated the far wall, I saw Livak raise an eyebrow in infinitesimal query, but she had no more than a minute tightening of Halice’s lips in return. It meant nothing to me but I know that my mother and any of her sisters habitually tell each other more with half a glance than a hundred words. I wondered just how much attention Livak paid to Halice’s opinion.

“So what have you been doing with yourself over the winter?” Shiv stacked firewood in neat rows.

“Whatever it is that you want, you’ve thrown a losing hand of runes, Shiv,” Livak warned him.

“I gather you’ve been over the border recently?” Shiv’s tone was relaxed, but I wasn’t fooled. I caught Livak shooting a questioning glance at Halice, who shook her head slowly to say she had not been talking out of turn. I held my peace; I’d plot my course when I knew if the wind was veering or backing.

“We’ve been working the recruiting camps along the Rel, me and Sorgrad and Sorgren, two brothers we know,” said Livak slowly. “All the mercenaries are just looking to drink and roll the runes until the better weather gets the fighting properly underway, and the corps-masters fix their contracts. We’ve been fleecing the little lambs trotting up to enlist, woolly heads all full of idiotic ballads.”

Livak challenged Shiv with a bold grin. She was rewarded with an ill-concealed snort of disgust as Viltred shifted on his fireside settle. Livak turned to him, a provocative spark in her eyes, deliberately coarsening her Ensaimin accent.

“Look at it this way, old man, if some young idiot off to fight in someone else’s war loses his money and gear before he gets to enlist, at least he stays alive.”

Viltred fixed her with an unexpectedly steely gaze as she smirked at him. “Young lady. Our business is far more—”

“All in good time,” Shiv interrupted him smoothly. “What do you think of the prospects in Lescar this year?”

His pose was easy and careless, his angular face open and inviting. With his tone softened by the lilt of the fenlands around Kevil, he was every minstrel’s idea of a typical Caladhrian, securely tied to land and family and probably none too bright. It was very convincing, or it would be if you’d never seen him throwing handfuls of power around and blasting Ice Islanders clean into the Otherworld, probably far enough and fast enough to save them negotiating Poldrion’s ferry fee.

“The Duke of Parnilesse is dead in very murky circumstances, and his three sons all dispute the succession.” Livak managed a thoughtful tone but I could see the wariness behind her eyes. “Their territory will be ripe for the taking if they can’t raise the coin for one of the better corps-masters.”

That was interesting information; surely the eldest son should have inherited without argument? After all, it’s the obstinate Lescari insistence on line-of-blood succession that started their pointless wars in the first place.

“From what I’ve been hearing, the old Duke was almost certainly poisoned.” Halice observed as she briskly tended the chicken now split and skewered above the fire. She reached into the salt box hanging on the chimney breast and seasoned a pot seething in a trivet in the embers. “Sorgrad reckons his sons’ll start their own little war before Solstice.”

I wondered how best to get a letter to Messire from hereabouts, and if I could warn Aiten’s family.

“Shivvalan!” snapped Viltred. “Planir’s business is far more important than Lescar’s trivial quarrels.”

There was an awkward silence until Livak spoke up, sarcasm coloring her tone.

“Yes, go on, Shiv,” she invited. “But let me give you one rune for free—there’s no power this side of the Otherworld will get me mixed up with the Archmage again.”

There was no hint of compromise in her voice. I wondered just what throw of the bones Shiv thought would get her working for wizards again.

“Viltred here has had some valuables stolen and we were wondering if you would help us retrieve the goods.”

Unable to conceal her start of recognition at the old man’s name, Livak characteristically went on attack. “Would you be the Viltred who used to work with that madman Azazir?”

The old man scowled at her. “Azazir was one of the greatest minds magic has seen in ten generations, young lady—”

“Azazir was so far beyond reason he couldn’t find it with a spy-glass and let me tell you—”

Shiv cut in hurriedly. “Please, Livak, we really do need your help. The raiders were Ice Islanders.”

Livak paled. “Have you got your hat over your ears? No!”

“We’ll make it worth your while,” Shiv persisted.

“I don’t need your coin, Shiv, or the Archmage’s,” spat Livak.

“Think it through, Livak.” Shiv gestured with an eloquent hand. “These people can’t have been here long, not with the spring storms on the ocean only just over. We have an early scent of them—we can dig a bloody great pit for the bastards to fall into! We’ll have them by the stones, ready to squeeze!” Shiv’s face was as intense as I had ever seen it.

“And if Planir the Black decides this bear-pit needs live bait in the bottom of it, he’ll just grab the nearest warm body and I, for one, have no intention of being around to play the goat.” Livak crossed to the hearth, defiance in every line of her stance. She drew herself up next to Halice but I saw the other woman was staring at Shiv with a concentration that startled me.

The mage tried again. “There are things you just can’t ignore, auguries—”

“Festival fakery, Shiv,” Livak went on, eyes hard. “I don’t want to know. And you’ve got nothing on me this time to make me. I’d sooner take my chances walking naked through a wild wood.”

Shiv pursed his lips. “You don’t fancy the chance of getting a little revenge for Geris?”

“I shared his bed, Shiv. That lays no obligation on me to share his fate.” Her tone was scornful. “Forget it, you can eat with us and then you get on your way.”

With that declaration ringing in the air, she went out, slamming the door. Halice threw off a sudden abstraction and busied herself at the hearth. Raising a hand to still Shiv when he made to rise from his seat, I was glad to see he was looking faintly ashamed of himself. Trying to use Livak’s guilt over Geris’ death was a real horse-coper’s trick. I frowned at the memory of Geris’ lonely, agonized murder at Elietimm hands. I couldn’t blame Livak for her refusal, but I reminded myself sternly that the auguries suggested we needed Livak to somehow help avert disaster for the Empire, so I had to do everything in my power to convince her to join us, didn’t I? I only hoped I wasn’t borrowing against an empty purse as I followed her.

The sound of a hayfork drew me into the byre. “I wondered if you needed any help?”

Livak’s face showed she thought that excuse was thinner than a beggar’s blanket. “Buckets,” she said crisply, pointing to a stack in the corner.

I followed her out to the well. “It’s good to see you,” I commented as I wound up the pail.

Livak gave a smile to lift my heart but I reminded myself that persuading this woman to share her life with me would probably be harder than convincing her to come and work for Shiv again.

“I did wonder if your duties might bring you this way some time,” she said lightly, but with an unmistakable edge to her tone.

“You should hear Shiv out. These auguries of his bear consideration.” I poured clear, cold water into the waiting buckets. “Planir is warning that the Empire is in grave danger from the Elietimm.”

Livak’s snort told me her opinion of that. “All those gleaming cohorts and the Empire won’t be able to fight off a few boatloads trying to steal sheep from Dalasor?”

“Gleaming cohorts won’t be much use against those cursed enchantments of theirs, will they?” I replied honestly. “And the Elietimm are hardly going to hack a settlement out of the wilds of Gidesta or take over a couple of Dalasorian fishing villages when they can find rich towns, decent anchorage and better weather merely by sailing south for a few weeks. Come on, Livak, you saw the place they live in, bare rock and barren grassland; they’re not going to stay there, not now they have a way to reach the mainland.”

Livak grabbed a bucket, slopping water over the hard-packed earth of the yard. “Well, it’s not my problem,” she stated firmly over her shoulder.

“It’s certainly mine.” I picked up the second bucket and followed. “A lot of the older Princes don’t want to admit it, but the days when Formalin cohorts kept six provinces under their heel are long gone. When you add in the threat of this peculiar Elietimm magic, we’d be stupid not to look for help if the Archmage is offering it.”

“And your Emperor has the stones to admit that?” challenged Livak.

“Tadriol may be young but he knows when to take advice, Dastennin’s blessings on him.” I moved closer to whisper dramatically into Livak’s ear, savoring the lavender scent of her linen as I did so. “The word is he’ll get his acclamation at Summer Solstice. Messire favors ‘Tadriol the Provident’ but he’s keeping it to himself.”

Livak’s eyes glinted. “Place the right wagers on that title before the Convocation makes it official and Shiv’ll be able to buy that Viltred all the trinkets he wants, forget recovering the ones he’s had stolen.”

“Well, he has no chance of getting anything back if you won’t help him.” I thought about putting an arm around her shoulders but Livak moved away, muttering something in an Ensaimin dialect that I don’t know.

“The Archmage pays sound coin and in good measure,” I pointed out, trying a different weight to tilt the scales.

“Why does everyone think they can buy me?” scowled Livak. “Anyway, Planir only offers the rates he does because he only has to pay out one time in ten. Everyone else ends up seeing the inside glaze on a funeral urn.”

“Have you got some of last year’s coin put by?” I busied myself spreading straw.

“What, like the good little field mouse who hid every other grain for the winter? Your mother told you that tale as well did she?” The mockery in Livak’s tone stung me. “No, we used it to buy a Winter Solstice to remember, all four of us, new clothes all round, wine and good dining, ten days of the best that the Cavalcade at Col can offer.” Livak’s expression challenged me. “The Archmage’s coin may be sound metal but it comes with too much blood on it to keep it in my purse. Still, you’re right, I should have found a better use for it; I should have spent it all on incense to burn to Trimon, to get Shiv dropped head first into a river gully if he ever tried to find me again!”

Making an offering to the god of travelers myself was starting to look like my best hope for getting this ill-matched handful on the road.

“The mercenary camps will soon break up,” I reminded her. “What will you do for coin then? Halice won’t be able to enlist with any decent corps with that leg of hers.”

“We’ll manage and I’m certainly not about to go chasing crickets with a hayfork for Shiv when Halice needs me with her.” Stabbing the hayfork into a bale, Livak went out into the yard, where she started slinging scraps of wood into a kindling basket with unnecessary force. I swallowed my irritation and began to help.

“I don’t know how you can do it,” she burst out after a few moments. “How can you get yourself mixed up with wizards again?”

“I’m doing my patron’s bidding,” I replied in as neutral a tone as I could.

“He sends you off like a fowling hound, does he?” Livak shook her head, her tone perilously close to a sneer. “Coming and going at his whistle or risking the whip? Tell me, has he got some other poor bastard leashed in to replace Aiten yet? Doing his master’s bidding didn’t do him much good, did it?”

I closed my eyes on sudden flash of memory: Aiten’s body in my arms in the midst of the pitiless chill of the ocean, his life blood warm on my skin where Livak had sliced open the great vessel in his leg and killed my friend to save the rest of us when Elietimm enchantments had stolen away his mind and turned him to attack us.

“I had to do it, you do know that, don’t you?” she demanded abruptly, her face white. “He’d have killed us all if I hadn’t.”

“I know.” My eyes met hers as I fought to keep my voice level. “I know and I don’t blame you. Neither would he. The only shame to bear is my own, for leaving you to do what I couldn’t.”

“I’ll be answering to Saedrin for it, that much I know.” Livak’s emerald eyes suddenly brimmed with tears that she dashed away with an angry hand. “It’s been that one killing the old mercenaries warn you about, the one that stays in your dreams, where you wake with the smell of blood in your nostrils.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. I’m doing this for Aiten’s sake as much as for anything,” I told her with a venom that startled even me. “We swore the same oaths and we lived by them. I’m loyal to that trust.”

“I’m loyal to my friends, not some canting words and a tarnished kennel-tag,” snapped Livak, stabbing a finger at my medallion. “I value my freedom too highly.”

Smarting, I clenched my fist on a handful of kindling and felt a splinter pierce my palm. “Freedom to die penniless in a ditch? No sworn man with an injury like Halice’s would be left hanging on the charity of their friends! The Sieur takes his responsibilities seriously.”

“He doesn’t take any of the risks though, does he?” retorted Livak, turning her back to cross the yard again. “That’s not what I call responsibility.”

“And you’d know all about that, never staying more than half a season in any one place!” I set my jaw against my anger. I could only suppose it was the lack of sleep that I never seemed to quite make up on that was making me so uncharacteristically quick to anger. Pulling the sliver of wood from my hand, I sucked at the scratch for a moment. When I had myself in hand I found Livak collecting eggs from the long grass beneath a knot of fruit bushes. The pig trotted into his run, breath fetid as he snuffled up over the wall, ears flopping with palpable disappointment when he realized we were not bringing food.

“I should never have let Shiv talk me into going with him last year, Drianon rot his eyes,” Livak muttered to herself. “I knew Halice was hurt; he said he had a friend who’d take care of her. I’d like to cut his stones for slingshot!”

“The Emperor’s apothecary in Toremal couldn’t have done much with a break like that,” I objected. “You can’t blame Shiv, or yourself, come to that.”

Livak looked up at me. “I remember telling you the same about Aiten.”

“That’s different!” I snapped before I could help myself.

“Is it?” Livak started pulling the first shoots of spring from a neat vegetable batch, an appetizing prospect. The new growing season at home had given me a taste for early greens before Messire’s commands had sent me north again, where the cold earth still waited for Larasion’s smile.

“Can you just stand still for a moment?” My words came out as a furious demand rather than a request and Livak looked at me, eyes stormy as a winter sea. I got myself in hand with no little effort. “We need you, Livak—”

“We need you?” she mimicked, mocking, “I need you? You sound like a bad Soluran ballad, Ryshad, noble knight wooing lady fair!”

This unexpected shift wrongfooted me utterly.

“I had been hoping you might have come to find me on your own account,” snapped Livak, “not just because Planir whistled you up. What’s your next move? Try and coddle me into coming with you, like some trooper showing a housemaid a few tricks with his polearm? Forget it, that’s how my mother got caught!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I thought you valued me on my own terms. Come and meet your family, that’s what you were saying last year.”

“You’re the one who said goodbye!” I objected. “I asked you to come to Zyoutessela with me for the Solstice, you’re the one who refused!”

Livak shook her head. “How long would it have been before your mother started embroidering hair ribbons, asking me to help darn the linens? If I wanted to be someone’s maidservant, I’d have stayed at home!”

“Well, make up your mind!” I had had enough of this and it must have shown in my face.

“Never mind, forget it.” Livak blushed scarlet and pushed her way past me to go back to the house. Biting down on a few choice retorts, I followed, breathing heavily.

We entered to find Halice deep in conversation with the two wizards.

“There are a few things we’ll need to sort out before we leave tomorrow.” Halice limped to the dresser to fetch a slate. “We should be able to sell the pig easily enough but it might be better to kill the chickens and cook the meat.”

“What are you talking about?” Livak glared at Halice.

“I’m going with these wizards.” Halice had evidently served in those mercenary corps that specialize in storming defenses. “If they need a thief and you’re not willing, there are people in Relshaz who will help for the right purse.”

The bowl of eggs fell to the clean-swept flagstones and shattered. Livak ignored it, railing furiously at Halice. “Why on earth do you want to get mixed up with wizards? You know what happened, I ended up halfway across the ocean on islands no one’s ever heard of with some evil bastard trying to push my mind out through my nose with a magic no one knows anything about. Ask Ryshad how he liked it. Does Shiv know how they did it; I’ll bet Planir and all his useless mages still haven’t worked it out. That lad Geris was tortured to death; have you forgotten what I told you? I only came out alive because Drianon spared me three seasons’ luck! I’ve been making offerings at her shrines ever since and you know I’m not religious—”

Livak ran out of words or breath and there was a long pause before Halice spoke in a low tone of studied calm though she would not raise her gaze to meet Livak’s eyes. “What I remember is you telling me how Shiv got his arm broken. A sword blow that shattered the bone clean through, you said.” Her voice was hard beneath her level words. “Most surgeons would have taken it off at the shoulder,wound-rot wouldn’t be worth risking, not for an arm that couldn’t be used even if it was saved. Those wizards had a way to save it, didn’t they? He was using an axe with it earlier, Livak, not just chopping morning-wood but splitting logs. I’ll work with them to track down these thieves and they can pay me back by mending my thigh bone.”

The wizards and I sat motionless, knowing full well the dangers of getting between two women having a row.

“Two sound feet aren’t worth that kind of risk, Halice! Believe me, I know. These Ice Islanders are killers, butchers—” There was savage anger in Livak’s voice now and I heard wrath rising to meet it in Halice’s tone.

“You have no idea what I’d risk to get two sound feet again, Livak, no idea at all! Have you any idea how I hate being stuck here? A goat would have more conversation than that slattern down the lane, and she’s the brightest one for leagues around. Try and talk to anyone in the village about anywhere more than a day’s walk away and they look at you like you’re a singing pig. You and the brothers go off and have a good time separating idiots from their purses while I do piss all and have to sit like some crippled old grandma and just take it when you three hand me a quarter-share. I was the one who got you into your first game in a hiring camp and now I have to sit and listen to you telling me all about the latest plans in the compounds, which corps-masters are taking contracts, who’s putting together a raiding troop, and all the time I know I’ll never be able to go back to it, not now my leg’s more twisted than a claim to the Lescari throne! I’d almost rather green-rot had booked me passage with Poldrion.”

Livak turned on her heel to storm out of the room, face scarlet with fury and hurt. There didn’t seem any point in following her this time so I stayed where I was and looked down at my amulet, the bronze gleaming against the linen of my shirt. Shiv pushed his chair back with a scrape on the flagstones and picked his way past the mess of broken eggs and greens to fetch the wine. I went with him and found some earthenware goblets on the dresser, thinking now about the undeniable justice of what Halice had said; that kind of crippling injury is something that we sworn men fear more than a clean death and quick passage to the Otherworld.

“You’ll do that, mend her leg for her?” I demanded of Shiv in a low tone.

“Of course; Saedrin shut me between this world and the next if I don’t.” Shiv spread his hands, all innocence.

He had just laid a weighty oath upon himself so I judged that should keep him honest.

“I hope you have a decent bag of Planir’s coin with you, Shiv, because we need to buy a light carriage,” Viltred spoke up suddenly.

“What for?” asked Shiv doubtfully.

“Because I can’t sit a horse until you get my leg straightened,” Halice spoke with a commendable calmness, given the circumstances.

“I don’t want to be tied to the high road with a vehicle.” Shiv shook his head. “And what about changing horses? No, we need to move fast and—”

“If we need a carriage, we need a carriage,” I said firmly, catching Halice’s set expression. “The Elietimm’ll be having to keep to the high roads themselves as well at this season. Apart from the local routes to the markets, every other track will be thigh deep in mud.”

Shiv’s thin lips betrayed his annoyance. “I don’t see—”

“I can’t ride all the way to Relshaz with my back the way it is.” Viltred waved his hand peremptorily at Shiv. “Do as I tell you, Shivvalan.”

I handed around wine, managing to avoid catching Shiv’s eye. As I did so, I noted how swollen Viltred’s knuckles were with joint-evil and wondered how much pain his back generally gave him.

“Oh all right.” He capitulated with ill grace. “If you think you’ll find anything suitable round here.”

“I know a few people to try, especially if we offer them the pig as part payment,” Halice assured him.

A flare of grease falling into the fire reminded us of the browning chicken and we ate in silence. At one point, Shiv looked as if he wanted to speak to me but Viltred’s narrowed eyes and shake of the head silenced the younger man.

“Thank you for an excellent meal.” Viltred laid his spoon in his plate, wiped his knife clean and stood to make Halice a little formal bow. “Now, if you will excuse us, Shivvalan and I will attempt to scry for our quarry outside.” Viltred’s voice brooked no argument and Shiv shut his mouth on his objections.

Halice turned her attention to the floor, kneeling awkwardly.

I fetched a pail. “What will Livak do if you come with us? Stay with these brothers you were talking about?”

Halice took the cloth out of my hand. “I doubt it. They want to go off after the Draximal paychest. It was all they could talk about, last time they were here. Sorgrad has found out which corps will be collecting it and where to enlist.” Resentment darkened Halice’s voice. “He was saying what a shame it was we couldn’t all go after it with them since no commander would take me on with my leg like this, and the only way Livak would get taken on was as a featherbed, which he couldn’t see her going for. She’ll dress the whore to bluff her way into a camp but she knows it’s too cursed dangerous to play the part for long without being willing to lie down for it.”

I only hoped Halice was right but reminded myself that I had other loyalties to bind me, especially if Livak was going to take such an uncompromising stand. Dast scourge the woman, why did she have to be so cursed contrary? No matter, advance information of this kind of plot would be valuable for Messire, wouldn’t it? “Which corps are collecting the pay-chest?”

“The Ironshod, on their way down to secure the border for the Duke of Triolle.” Halice shook her head. “I don’t want anything to do with it, I had their commander, Khys, serving under me a few years back; I owe him better than that.”

Halice’s mercenary career hadn’t been all foot-slogging in the mud then, not if she had friends like that. Most corps last a couple of seasons before they fall apart over rows about booty or because they’ve been stamped into the gurry once too often. There can’t be more than a handful of troops as good as the Ironshod, who’ve been striking sound coin out of Lescari misery for more than seven years now. “How do these brothers expect to take a pay chest on their own?”

“I don’t know.” Halice rinsed her cloth in the pail, eyes taking my measure. “I can manage here, why don’t you go and do something useful toward getting us on the road?”

I took the hint. “Is there a scribe round here who might have a reasonably up-to-date set of itineraries he’d be willing to sell?”

“Innel, lives next to the Reeve.” I left Halice to prove her independence by cleaning up without assistance.

Finding Innel the scribe easily enough, after a little conversation I decided could trust him with a letter for Messire, to be sent onto Lord Adrin with a request that he forward it through the Imperial Despatch. I double-sealed it but I wasn’t too concerned about anyone reading it since I’d written all the sensitive sections in the southern Formalin dialect of the ocean coast, the everyday tongue of our home city of Zyoutessela. If anyone within a hundred leagues could understand it, I’d eat my sealing wax still hot. I wrote my favorable assessment of Lord Adrin in formal Formalin however, just in case curiosity got the better of his sense of honor. Innel turned out to have several useful volumes to sell which I compared carefully until I was satisfied they agreed well enough. I’m always cautious about charts made outside Formalin; too often the map-maker’s information is out of date or just plain invented. These were almost good enough to be Toremal drawn.

While I was in the village, I made a quick survey of the inn, the shrine, the women selling their produce around the buttercross. Livak was nowhere to be seen, nor had she returned to the longhouse by the time I got back. Shiv went out to buy a horse and vehicle while Viltred showed Halice the auguries. She watched the horrors impassively, the stillness of her face unmoved but a catch of breath here and there betraying her shock. I did not need to watch again, needing no reminder of my duty, whatever attitude Livak might choose to take. Shiv came back some while later with a neat gig and a long-nosed harness horse with a winter-rough, light bay coat, which I helped him stable.

“Did you get a good deal?” I asked him with a faint grin as I spread straw in the byre. “Planir’s not too badly out of pocket?”

“It was a fair price, pigs seem to be a favored currency around here,” Shiv assured me, his good humor apparently restored.

I looked at the horse, which seemed a little overdocile to me and wondered about that. Livak still hadn’t returned by the time we went to bed and this time it was frustration keeping me awake long into the night. What could I do when the one woman we wanted was dead set against joining us, and the one who promised every chance of being dead weight in the water was determined to come?