"Ducas."

"Oh." Ziani shrugged. "Better show him in, then." He banked the fire up with fresh coal to keep it alight, in case the emergency took more than a few minutes.

The man who pushed past the boy and strode in (not many people can genuinely stride; it's part breeding, part knack) was easily the biggest human being Ziani had ever seen. It was hard to gauge his height with any precision, because the breadth of his shoulders and the thickness of his neck skewed the proportions; at a guess, Ziani reckoned six and a half feet, a foot taller than the average Mezentine. It was only his size that made his head seem small; he had a clean-cut face, strong chin, high cheekbones, bright blue eyes, hair cropped very short; if he carried enough fat to fry a pigeon's egg, Ziani would've been most surprised. His fingers were huge but his hands were long, his forearms widening from a slim wrist to a massive swell of muscle above the elbow. He was smiling.

"You're Ziani Vaatzes," the man said.

Well-informed, too. "That's right," Ziani said, letting the bad pronunciation go by. "The boy said there's an emergency."

"You can say that again," the man said. "I'm Jarnac Ducas, by the way. You know my cousin Miel."

Ziani nodded. "The emergency?" he said.

Jarnac Ducas sat on the table of the big anvil, his knee hooked over the horn. He looked like a hero on his day off. "Pretty desperate," he said, and his eyes actually twinkled as he smiled. "I've been told to organize a hunt for the Duke and party in ten days' time and you should see the state the gear's in. Spear-blades blunt, rusty and bent, loose on the stem, hanging by their langets, some of them. Question is, will it be quicker to fettle the old ones or make, say, a dozen from scratch? You tell me," he added, before Ziani could say anything, "you're the expert."

"Spear-blades," Ziani repeated.

"That's right," said Jarnac. "You know the pattern, of course: broad leaf shape with a strong middle rib, flowing into a square shank with a slot for the stem, crossbar, langets on two sides. Don't get me wrong, the old ones are good bits of kit, been in the family since God knows when, but it's the look of the thing more than anything. I don't want any fancy engraving or anything, just a really good, strong tool that'll get the job done. Actually," he added, "better make it fourteen. Couple of spares won't hurt, and I'm not absolutely sure yet who'll be coming."

Ziani looked at him for a moment before answering. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm rather busy at the moment, and it's not really the sort of thing I do. I'm sure there's plenty of other smiths who'll do a much better job than I could."

The wrong answer, evidently; Jarnac Ducas gave him a well-bred look and went on: "Obviously, since it's a rush job, that'll have to be reflected in the price. I don't mind paying over the odds for the best. The main thing is to have them ready in time without skimping on quality. I'm sure you understand."

Then Ziani realized he was being stupid, allowing his irritation to cloud his perception. He looked at Jarnac Ducas again and this time saw him for what he was. "Of course," he said. "I think the best thing would be if you could have the old spears brought here, so I can have a look at them and decide whether they can be spruced up, or whether we'll need to make new ones. Would that be all right?"

"Of course. I'll see to it straight away."

"That would be most helpful," Ziani said.

Jarnac beamed at him; he'd forgiven and forgotten the earlier misunderstanding, where Ziani had misinterpreted his request as something capable of being refused, and now they understood each other. "Oh, and another thing," he said.

Half an hour later, Ziani crossed the yard to the materials store, where Cantacusene was marking out timber for scorpion frames. Cantacusene had joined him straight away, as soon as he asked; he'd left his workshop, locking the door behind him, and vowing never to return. It was like a religious conversion, a disciple following the master.

"What do you know," Ziani asked him, "about boiled leather-work?"

"Ah." Cantacusene nodded. "You don't do that in Mezentia, then."

Ziani shook his head. "Not that I ever heard. But it'd presumably come under the Shoemakers', or maybe the Saddlers'. You know about it, then."

Cantacusene nodded again. "You take your leather," he said, "sole bends are best but it depends on what you're making. You cut it out a third bigger than you want it to be, nail it to a wooden former, and dip it in boiling water for as long as it takes to count fifty. Pull it out, it'll have shrunk to size and gone hard as oak. They use it for armor mostly. Why?"

Ziani frowned. "Why not use steel?" he said.

"Steel's dear, leather's cheap. Also, for hunting armor, it doesn't clank or rattle. If you want to be really fancy, you can dip it in melted beeswax instead of boiling water; makes it even harder, but you got to be careful on a hot day."

"You've done it, then?"

"Loads of times," Cantacusene said. "Very popular line with the gentry, specially those who can't run to a full set of steel. I got all the formers back at my place."

"Fine," Ziani said. "Some clown called Jarnac Ducas wants a dozen sets of hunting armor in ten days: vambraces, couters, rerebraces, pauldrons, gorgets, plackets, cuirasses, taces, cuisses, cops and greaves. Plain, he said, not fancy, whatever that means."

Cantacusene was staring at him. "Ten days? "

"That's right. Problem?"

"I can't do all that. Not on my own."

Ziani smiled; at least his lips parted, like a crack in an old post. "Well of course not," he said. "You show me what to do and I'll help you. Doesn't sound like it'd be too hard, not if you've already got the formers."

Cantacusene had that worried look; there was something dog-like about it, Ziani thought. "Me teach you?" he said.

"That's right. Now, presumably you know where we can get the material from, and you've got all the tools and stuff. The material won't be a problem, will it?"

Cantacusene shook his head. "Sole bends," he said. "Got to be a quarter inch thick, good clean hides without scars or fly-bites. I always used to get them from -"

"I'll leave all that to you, then," Ziani said. "Let me know when you're ready to start. And, I nearly forgot, we'll need a thirteenth set, but I'll be making that one all myself."

"For his lordship, is it?"

"No," Ziani said. "For me." He smiled again; private joke. "I'm going on this hunt as well."

Cantacusene couldn't have been more surprised if Ziani had pushed him down a well. "You're going hunting with the Ducas?"

"That's right. Jarnac invited me."

"Invited you?"

"After I asked him, yes. I said I'd never done it, nothing like it where I come from. He was very pleasant about it; of course I could come along, he said. I suppose he's hoping for a good deal on the armor. Oh yes, and a dozen boar-spears as well, but I'll see to them."

That was obviously as much as Cantacusene could take. He mumbled something about going to see the leather merchant, and stumbled away as though he'd been in a fight.

Ziani shrugged, and went back to tempering his spring. It came out well enough in the end; half as much power again as the Mezentine standard for a scorpion spring, with a modified hook linkage that should help with the awkward problem of stress fracture that the Guild had given up on two hundred years ago. It would increase the strain on the wooden frame, of course, reducing the machine's working life still further, but that hardly mattered. No point building anything to last, given who his customers would be.

Cantacusene came back two hours later; the material would be delivered early in the morning (he started to tell Ziani the price, but Ziani wasn't interested), and the carrier would pick up the tools and formers from his workshop later that evening; they could start work tomorrow, if that suited. Ziani thanked him and went back to his bench, where he was clearing up a few minor problems with a redesigned ratchet axis. He would have liked to have given it more thought, made a few more changes, but there wouldn't be time now. His mind drifted; he was contemplating a two-piece fabricated spear-blade socket, square section box drawn down so the tang of the blade could simply slot in (interference fit) and be retained by the crossbar - "Are you busy? Could you spare a moment?"

It was the Ducas voice, but not Jarnac this time; quieter, politer. Which meant it had to be the more important one, Miel Ducas. Ziani put down his calipers, looked up and smiled.

"Of course," he said. "What can I do for you?"

Miel Ducas looked different; tired, that would account for some of it, but he'd also been worrying about something recently. His face wasn't exactly hard to read. "I've got a message for you, from the Duke's council. They'll be writing, but I thought I'd come and tell you myself."

There could be no doubt as to what the message would be; even so, Ziani found that his lungs were locked and he couldn't breathe. "That was very kind of you," he said. "This is about the scorpions."

Miel nodded. "The council would like to place an order," he said, in a guarded, level voice. "Basically, as many as you can make, as soon as possible."

Ziani nodded. He was afraid it'd look offhand, but he wasn't able to speak. Miel Ducas was having difficulties, too; he started to say something, hesitated, and started again.

"About the price -" he said.

"That's all right," Ziani interrupted. "I've decided I'll do it at cost - materials and what I'll have to pay my men. Calaphates doesn't know yet, but I'll talk to him."

"That's -" Miel stopped; he reminded Ziani of someone searching for a word in a foreign language. "That's very generous of you," he said.

"Least I can do," Ziani replied. "After all, I owe you people my life. My way of saying thank you."

A long moment, with neither of them knowing quite how to say what was in their minds. Then Ziani went on: "We'll start straight away. I've been doing some preliminary work, a few improvements to the design. Nothing you'd notice, unless you knew what you were looking for. I've taken on twenty men so far, and there's fifteen more I'm waiting to hear from."

"That's a lot," Miel said, though he knew he was wrong as soon as he said it. "I thought you were on your own here, actually."

Ziani smiled. "That wouldn't be any good, not for a job like this. Actually, I won't be involved at all, once everything's up and running. In fact, I'll be busy with a job for your cousin."

"Jarnac?" Miel scowled. "Look, no offense, but this is far more important. I'll talk to Jarnac, tell him he'll have to find someone else."

"It's all right," Ziani said. "Once everything's set up, I'm just another pair of hands. Besides, your cousin's job'll only take a week, and then I'll be free to muck in with the rest of the men. You'll have the first half-dozen scorpions finished and ready in three days, you've got my word on that."

When the Ducas had gone and he was alone, Ziani allowed his knees to buckle, as they'd been wanting to do ever since he'd heard the words he knew he'd hear. He leaned against the wall and slid down it, until he was sitting on the floor. Strange; it was simply the moving into engagement of a component of known qualities, sliding along its keyway and coming to rest against its stop. Perhaps it was the scale of what this development meant that affected him so powerfully: the expenditure of lives and resources, the men killed (they were alive, presumably walking about, eating, talking somewhere, but they were already as good as dead, and Ziani had seen to all that); the destruction, the laying waste, the burning and breaking of well-made goods, the sheer effort he'd unleashed; like the man in the story who was given all the four winds tied up in a sack, and some fool untied it and let them go. There would be so much noise, and movement, and pain. A man with a keen imagination would have trouble with the thought of it.

But not yet. Before all that, he had a lot of work to do, a great deal to think about; and he had the hunt to look forward to. As yet, that was still a separate piece, little more than an unfinished casting waiting to be fettled, machined, drilled to accept moving parts. He would have to design a mechanism for it, once he knew what it was going to be for. A pity; the man was a clown, but he'd quite liked Jarnac Ducas. There was a straightforwardness about him that he shared with his cousin. Ziani had arrived in Eremia expecting to find the aristocracy difficult to work with - brittle like cast iron, or soft and sticky to cut, like copper - but so far at least they'd proved to be quality material, a pleasure to use. It had all come together very sweetly, though of course it was the easy bit; and making the parts was one thing, assembling them was something else entirely.

This is no time to be sitting on floors, he told himself, and stood up. As he put the finishing touches to the axis pin, he called Miel Ducas back into his mind, considering and analyzing his manner, his appearance. Tired, a little nervous, and worried about something beyond the awkwardness of his mission; what would worry the Ducas, the second most important man in Eremia, to the point that it showed in his face to a stranger?

Of course he couldn't answer that, or even know where to begin speculating. You can't take the back off a man's head and examine the works for signs of damage and wear. The most you can do is make a note of where the visible flaws run, the line along which the material will eventually break once it's been flexed a few times too often.

14.

The unmaking [he read] is the crown, the very flower of the hunt; therefore it follows that it must be conducted solemnly, seriously and with respect. There are two parts thereof, namely the abay and the undoing. First, let the carcass be turned on its back and the skin of the throat cut open most carefully up the length of the neck, and let cuts be made through the flesh to the bone. Let the master of the hunt approach then, with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and let the huntsmen sound the death on their horns; thereafter let the hounds first and then the lymers be loosed so that they might tear at the neck before they are coupled up, that the taste thereof might quicken them to the chase thereafter. Then let a forked stick with one arm longer than the other be set up in the earth beside the carcass, and let the master with his garniture split the skin from throat to vent...

Valens frowned. The book, with its brightly colored pictures and carefully pumiced margins, had cost him the price of a small farm; but all they'd done was loosely paraphrase Cadentius, leaving a few bits out and dressing up other bits in fancy prose. For a start, the lengthwise cut was part of the undoing, not the abay; and whoever wrote this had no idea what a garniture was.

He sighed, closed the book and stood up. The woman in the red dress had sworn blind that it was the last known surviving copy of a rare early text attributed to Polinus Rex, but Polinus was three hundred years earlier than Cadentius, who'd been the first to have the master roll up his sleeves. He'd been had; twenty good-weight thalers he'd never see again, and still the woman in the red dress hadn't brought a letter...

Through the window he could see the raindrops dripping from the pine-branches. It was a hunting day, but there wasn't any point going out in this; there'd be no scent in the wet, the mud would make the going treacherous, the deer would be holding in the high wood where there'd be precious little chance of finding them. The sharpness of his disappointment surprised him; the rain would stop soon, there would be other days, the deer would still be there next week, but every day lost was a precious thing stolen from him, a treat held just out of reach to tease him. Instead, he'd have to read letters, convene the council, do work. He smiled; he could hear his eight-year-old self saying it, not fair. To which one of many voices replies: life isn't fair, the sooner you learn that, the better.

It wasn't fair that she hadn't written back; it had never been this long before, and it was no good saying there hadn't been a suitable courier, because five women in red dresses had been and gone (a velvet cloak, a set of rosewood and whalebone chessmen, a pair of pointy-toed shoes, very latest style, a marquetry box to keep things in, and finally the bloody useless book), all from Eremia, all without a letter. And on top of that, it was raining.

On a table beside the window lay a pile of documents; routine reports, mostly, from his prefects, agents and observers, making sure he knew the facts before anybody else did. He sat down and picked one off the top of the heap. The handwriting was steep and cramped, and he recognized it - his man in Lonazep, with a full account of the landing of the Mezentine mercenary army. He'd had the gist already, but there would be a great deal to be gleaned from the details, from the descriptions of the staff officers to the number of barrels of arrows. He read it, then read it again; the information was good and solid, but he couldn't get his mind to bite on it. He smiled, because he could picture his father sitting at this very table (back then, of course, it was downstairs in the small anteroom off the great solar; but the daylight lasted longer here in the West Tower), wading through his paperwork with palpable growing impatience, until he jumped up from his chair and stormed out of the room to go and look at the horses or the dogs. Somehow he'd always managed to absorb just enough from his reports to stay sharp, but he'd always lived in and for the present, content or resigned to react to each development as it came. He'd been the same when playing chess, too; he'd never quite come to terms with the idea that the point of the game was to trap the enemy king, rather than slaughter the opponent's pieces like sheep. That thought brought back the first time Valens had ever beaten him. It was an ambiguous memory, because even now he couldn't call it to mind without an automatic smirk of pride; he'd used his father's aggression against him, lured him into checkmate with the offer of a gaggle of defenseless pawns, pinned him in a corner with his only two surviving capital pieces, while his father's queen, bishops and knights stood by, unused and impotent. But he also remembered the disbelief, followed by the hurt, followed by the anger. They hadn't spoken to each other for two days afterward.

A report from Boton about a meeting between Duke Orsea and representatives of the Cure Hardy. Well; he knew about that. Orsea had picked the wrong sect to make eyes at, and the whole thing had been a waste of time. A report from Civitas Eremiae about the Mezentine defector, Vaatzes; what he was up to was still unclear, but he'd got money from somewhere to set up a factory, and was buying up bloom iron, old horseshoes, farm scrap iron of all kinds; also, he'd hired half the blacksmiths and carpenters in the city. Valens raised an eyebrow at that. If he'd heard about it, he was pretty sure the Mezentines had too, and surely such reports would confirm their worst fears about defectors betraying their precious trade secrets. If this Vaatzes had deliberately set out to antagonize the Republic, he couldn't have gone about it better. Valens went back a line: broken scythe blades, rakes, pitchfork tines, hooks, hammers, any kind of scrap made of hardening steel; also charcoal in enormous quantities, planed and unplaned lumber. The steel suggested weapons; the lumber sounded more like building works. He folded down a corner of the dispatch and moved on.

Petitions; he groaned aloud, allowing himself the indulgence of a little melodrama, since there was nobody else there to see. Not just petitions; appeals, from the general assizes and the marches assizes and the levy sessions; appeals on points of law and points of fact, procedural irregularities (the original summons recited in the presence of eight witnesses rather than the prescribed seven; how that could possibly invalidate a man's case he had no idea, but that was the law), limitations and claims out of time. He could just about have endured a morning in court, with a couple of clever speakers to entertain him, but the thought of sitting at a table and fighting his way through a two-inch wedge of the stuff made him wince.

Nevertheless, he told himself; I am the Duke, and therefore duty's slave. Never mind. He broke the seal on the first one and tried to concentrate.

Alleged: that Marcianus Lolliotes of Ascra in the Dalmatic ward beginning in the time of Duke Valentinius on occasions too numerous to particularize entered upon the demesne land of Aetius Cassinus with the intention of cutting hay, the property of the said Cassinus. Defended: that the said land was not the demesne land of the said Cassinus, having been charged by the said Cassinus' grandfather in the time of Duke Valentius with payment to the great-grandfather of the said Lolliotes of heriot and customary mortmain, which payments were duly made but without the interest thereto pertaining; accordingly, the said Lolliotes having an interest in the said land, there was no trespass; further or in the alternative...

It took him a long time, and he had to check many cross-references in many books before he managed to get it all straight in his mind, but he got there in the end. As usual, it was nobody's fault, both of them were sort of right and slightly wrong, and there wasn't a clear-cut or obvious solution, because the law was outdated, contradictory and sloppily drawn, made up on the spot by his great-great-grandfather, probably because he was bored and wanted to go outside in the fresh air and kill something rather than sitting indoors. Wearily, Valens uncapped his ink-well, dipped the nib and started to write. It didn't have to be fair copy; he had secretaries to do the bland, beautiful, cursive law-hand that needed to stay legible for centuries. But the sheer effort of writing made his wrist and forearm ache, and although he knew what he wanted to say, it was hard to keep everything in order; the points, facts and conclusions strayed like willful sheep and had to be chased back into the fold. He lost his way twice, had to cross out and go back; the pen dropped a big fat blot and he'd swept his sleeve across it before he noticed. When finally it was done he read it through twice (once silently, once aloud) for errors and ambiguities; made three corrections; read it through again and realized one correction was actually a mistake; corrected the correction, read it through one more time, sprinkled and blew off sand, put it on the corner of the desk for the copyist to deal with later. Last step: he made a note in the margin of the relevant page of his copy of the Consolidated Digest, in his smallest writing (can't charge for heriot in 3d generation, statute barred after 2d, but reliefs apply in equity), to save himself the effort of doing all the research if the point happened to come up ever again. It was a good practice, recommended by several authors on jurisprudence, and he'd wasted more time looking for notes he'd made eighteen months ago but forgotten exactly where or under what than he'd have spent looking it all up from scratch.

(Just think, he told himself; men scheme and betray and murder so as to get to be kings and dukes, and this is what they end up doing all day long. Serves them right, really.) Mercifully, the next three petitions weren't nearly so bad. Two of them were points he knew, and there was already an annotation on the relevant page of the book for the third - not his writing, or his father's; his grandfather, maybe, or his great-uncle, during his father's short but disastrous regency. Possibly on a better day he'd have checked for himself rather than take the unknown writer's word for it; possibly not. The fifth petition made up for the three easy ones; it was something to do with uses on lives in being and the perpetuity rules, which he'd never been able to understand, and there was a barred entail, a claim of adverse possession and the hedge-and-ditch rule thrown in for good measure. He could have been outside in the fresh air killing something (wry smile for his earlier self-righteousness) but he fought his way through to the end, realized he still couldn't make head or tail of it, and decided to split the difference: farmer Mazaninus could have the north end of the field and farmer Ischinus could have the south end, and they could share the bloody water and like it. Enough justice for one day. Too much fun is bad for the soul.

Perhaps, he thought (the ink-bottle was still uncapped, he had plenty of paper left), he should write to her again - no mention of the fact that she hadn't replied to his last letter, just something bright and witty and entertaining, the sort of thing he could do well, for some reason he'd never been able to grasp. If what he'd said the last time had offended her, maybe it'd be the right thing to pretend that letter had never been written; they could start again, talking about Mannerist poetry, observations on birds and flowers, the weather. But if he knew her (he'd only talked to her once, but how could there be anybody in the world he knew better?) she wouldn't sulk if he'd offended her, or break off entirely; she'd tell him he was wrong, stupid, insensitive, horrible, but she'd write back, if she possibly could. So maybe she couldn't.

The hell with this, he thought. He frowned, took a new sheet of paper, and started to write: to Lelius Lelianus, alias Nustea Cordatzes, timber merchant in Civitas Eremiae and his best spy in Eremia. Query: any rumors circulating anywhere about the Duchess, ructions in the Duke's household, society scandals, unexplained disappearances of Merchant Adventurers. Urgent. That one he wrote out himself, rather than adding it to the pile for copying.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a fine drizzle. He went down two flights to his wardrobe, quickly put on an oilskin cloak, big hat and waxed boots, collected a bow and quiver from the ascham (an old self-bow that wouldn't come apart in the wet) and left the castle by the north-end postern, heading for the dew-ponds. There might be duck there, though strictly speaking ducks didn't start for a month (but what's the point in being supreme and final judge of appeals if you can't bend the rules in an emergency?), and he hadn't shot for weeks.

The air smelled wet. It had been an unusually dry summer, so the rain hadn't sunk in to what passed for soil in the high marches. Water trickled down from his hair into his eyes, like tears, and he mopped it away with the back of his hand. Nobody had been this way for several days; the footprints in the softened dirt of the track had baked into puddled cups, filling with rain. He brushed past a low branch, spraying water. A drop landed on his tongue, and he spared some attention to taste it. I'm a different man outside, he thought; not better, but different.

The path down to the ponds was steep, slicked with dust turned to mud; he had to dig his heels in to keep upright, and the soles of his boots were too smooth (some hobnails would deal with that, if he remembered later). The light below the treeline was gray and faintly misty, and he could smell the leaves and the wet leaf-mold. He was aware of the silence, until something crashed away twenty yards or so to his left; a pricket buck, probably (he'll keep, he thought, and made an entry in his mental register). There weren't any duck, which was probably just as well for his conscience. He stood under a crooked beech tree for half an hour, listening to the rain and watching for ducks flighting in for the evening feed, but nothing showed; so he shot a big old crow out of the upper branches and went home.

They had told her that Orsea was in the arbor behind the chestnut tree. She called his name a few times, but he didn't reply, so she assumed he'd gone back inside. Then she caught sight of a flash of blue through the curtain of trailing vine. He hadn't answered her because he was asleep.

Like an old man, she thought, snoozing in the afternoon. Orsea never slept during the day; indeed, he resented sleep on principle, the way people resent paying taxes. It wasn't fair, he'd told her once, that nature only gave you a very short time on earth, and then saw fit to steal a third of it back from you. At one time he'd tried to train himself to make do with less of it - like a devious banker, he'd said, clipping little bits off the edges of coins. If he learned how to get by on seven hours a night instead of eight, he'd told her, at the end of a year he'd have gained fifteen days. Suppose he lived another forty years; that'd be over eighteen months, absolutely free. But it hadn't lasted, of course. He struggled through six weeks of the new regime, yawning and drifting off into daydreams, and then issued a revised opinion. Scrounging extra time by neglecting a vital function like sleep was counterproductive. For every waking hour gained you sacrificed two or three spent in a daze halfway between concussion and a bad hangover. In fact, eight hours wasn't really enough. Nine hours, on the other hand; nine hours would lose you eighteen months, theoretically speaking, but the extra energy and zest you'd get from being properly rested would mean you'd fit more activity into your voluntarily truncated life than you'd manage to wring out of your unnaturally extended one.

He was asleep now, though; dead to the world, with his head cradled on his arms, his face buried in the extravagant sleeves of his blue slash-cut doublet. Men say that the sight of a man asleep touches a woman's maternal instinct; for once, she thought, men might have a point. He looked about twelve years old, his hair scrambled, the tip of his nose visible in the crook of his elbow. She felt a deep-seated urge to tuck a blanket round him.

"Orsea," she said. He didn't stir, so she came closer. "Orsea."

At least he didn't snore. She could never have endured a snorer. Her brother had snored so badly, all through her early years, when he slept at her end of the great solar, no barrier to the excruciating noise except a tapestry screen, that her first thought when they told her he was dead was that now she'd be able to sleep at night. False optimism; by the time she'd driven his face out of her dreams, her father's had replaced it. Lately, she'd dreamed about Orsea, dead on the battlefield or hanging by his hair from the low branches of a tree.

"Orsea," she said. He twitched a little, like a pig. She smiled, and sat down beside him. When he was so fast asleep that her voice didn't stir him, it meant he'd wake up of his own accord quite soon. She could wait. She could sit and read the letter from Maiaut, and get that particular chore out of the way.

Maiaut to Veatriz: greetings.

Or not. It was a warm, mellow autumn day, too pleasant to spoil with echoes of the most annoying of all her sisters. There was something about Maiaut, even on paper, that made her want to break things. That was, of course, unreasonable. It wasn't Maiaut's fault that she was a widow; and there was nothing inherently wrong with a noblewoman in reduced circumstances putting on the red dress and trekking around the world buying and selling things. It had taken her away from home, and it meant that her visits to Civitas Eremiae were pleasantly infrequent, though not nearly infrequent enough. She made enough money at it, God only knew (there were times, black times in the middle of the night when her dreams stabbed her awake, when she suspected that Maiaut had considerably more money than she did; and wouldn't that count as high treason, being richer than your Duchess?), and it gave her plenty of scope for her exceptional gift for whining.

Maiaut to Veatriz, greetings.

Well, here I am in Caervox. It's a nasty, smelly place. The water in the public reservoir is green on top and there are green squiggly things living in it; probably explains why the people here don't wash. The food tastes like armpit. I'm stuck here for another three days at least, probably more like five, because I'm waiting for a mule-train from Corsus, and the Cure Doce muleteers are the laziest people on earth. Also the most careless, so they may not arrive at all, or else they'll turn up without the cargo, having dropped it down a crevasse or lost it crossing a river. If by some miracle they do eventually show up, I'll be taking fifteen hundred rolls of gaudy, stringy carpet with me south to Herulia; sell enough of it there for a grubstake, and move on to Civitas Vadanis by slow, easy stages. At least the Vadani pay in silver and I won't be lumbered with anything bulky or heavy, though of course the western passes are swarming with bandits.

"Orsea," Veatriz said loudly, and still he didn't move. She resented him for not waking up and saving her from Maiaut's letter.

Mind you, bandits are likely to be the least of my troubles crossing the border, if the latest rumors are true. They were saying in Durodrice that there could be a war, Eremia against the Republic. I told them don't be silly, the war's been and gone, but they reckon there's going to be another one. I asked them, how could they possibly know that? Of course, you can't get a straight answer out of these people. It makes doing business with them very trying indeed. They just smile at you and look dumb and innocent, or gabble away among themselves.

"Triz," said a voice beside her. "Where did you appear from? I didn't see you come."

There were times when she'd wondered if she really loved him; because if she did, why did she feel hot and panicky when she saw Valens' name on the top line of a letter? And there were times like this, when it was so obvious she loved him, it was surprising how passers-by could see them together and not grin. She'd never doubted him like that. She knew exactly what and how Orsea felt, as though there was a little window in the side of his head and she could read all his thoughts written up on a blackboard.

"You were fast asleep," she said.

He groaned. "What's the time? I only came out here so I could concentrate on this wretched report. I tried reading it indoors but people kept coming up and talking to me, so I slipped out here."