"And you are aware of the wars that occurred between the Blood Barons?"

He nodded again. As perhaps the most significant of the holidays observed in Averalaan involved that history, not even Rath could fail to be familiar with it, although he understood well that history was remade by generations.

"During the dark years, the Blood Barons-those who were powerful enough-often summoned servants."

"From the h.e.l.ls," Rath said with just the hint of a sardonic smile.

No answering smile was offered. "From the h.e.l.ls," she replied gravely. "If they had power, the possession of the creature's name, and the will and ability to use it to bind the summoned to service. Those creatures were called-"

"Demons."

Sigurne nodded gravely. "It is not, perhaps, what they would call themselves should you be in a position to ask."

"The ability to summon and enslave-"

"The arts are considered dark arts," she replied. Her voice was a shade cooler. "And the practice or study of such arts has long been forbidden any member of the Order of Knowledge."

Rath frowned. "Surely such creatures could be considered a superior form of servant or weapon," he began.

She met his words as if they were a physical threat-and she, the most powerful woman in the Order. The change in her posture was subtle, and the shift in the networks of lines that comprised her expression, equally hard to delineate-but they were there.

"It is a time-honored debate upon the floor of the Council of the Order," Meralonne told him. "And it is a debate which is, in its entirety, an intellectual exercise. Imagine," he added, "that you could force someone-anyone-to do your bidding with but the use of a single word."

"The bards-"

"The bards control a momentary action, not the whole of an existence." He waved a hand. "Those who are young and less experienced do not understand the particular mind-set such control involves."

"And even if they did," Sigurne added, "it would signify nothing. The Kings consider demonology a forbidden art."

And you, Rath thought, would kill a man who broke that law without a second thought. "Which means-"

"That we are in all probability dealing with a rogue mage, yes. There have, as you are no doubt aware, been a number of rogue mages in the history of Averalaan. Demonologists are rare, because there is usually only one mistake allowed them; if they make that mistake, they are no longer a consideration." Meralonne paused to draw smoke through pipestem before he continued. "The unknown mage in question has summoned at least four demons, and at least two concurrently. I did not fight them," he added, and Rath thought he heard regret's familiar edge between those last words, "and I therefore cannot judge their value, or their power.

"But if they were devoured by the ceremonial blades, they were not inconsequential. If they were immune to your weapons-" and here he actually did frown with distaste, "-your weapons were either of negligible quality, or the summoned creatures were of nonnegligible power.

"It is frustrating," he added. "But my a.s.sumption-our a.s.sumption-is that the demons summoned were of significant power only in the streets of the lower holdings."

"One used fire," Rath said quietly. "As a mage might."

Meralonne nodded. "But did he draw a sword?"

"Why would he need one? He had fire. And he could use it to far greater effect."

"They are arrogant by nature," Meralonne replied. "And you presented very little threat." But he seemed to relax. "Very well. You have found four demons-or they have found you-and you have dispatched them. Unlike mortals, their absence would be noted instantly by the summoner; if the summoner is skilled, it is likely that the cause of their disappearance might also be noted."

"They're aware of me," Rath said flatly.

"That is our supposition." Meralonne set his pipe aside and leaned forward in his chair. "For reasons we have already expressed, we wish to avoid a direct involvement of the Magisterium-beyond that which is legally necessary-at this time.

"Without their presence, however, we have little method of compelling you to part with either information or time; we must rely, instead, on your enlightened sense of self-preservation. Were it up to me, I would demand what information you possess; it is not, however, up to me, and Sigurne Mellifas has chosen to regard nicety of law as necessary."

"What he meant to say," Sigurne added, pointedly refusing to look at her companion, "is that we don't actually care what you're involved in, as long as it isn't the summoning of demons. We have taken the liberty of bringing with us two more of the blessed daggers, and we will leave them with you; we require in return-and will trust you in this-that you inform us of any need to actually use them.

"The bowls," she added. "If you describe them, we will look for them. We will undertake our own investigations into Patris AMatie."

"They were ringed with Old Weston," Rath told her. "Near complete."

Sigurne nodded, but it was clear that she did not like the way the information he had given her fit with the information she had withheld. "We must go," she told him. "But let me offer a word of warning."

He waited.

"I do not ask how you came across these bowls-or any other artifact of interest-because in the end, that is not my concern. But were I you, I would avoid a like discovery any time in the near future."

"Were it not for my discovery, you would not now be armed with what little knowledge you have."

"Aye, there's truth in that," she said softly. "But we are armed now; this is not your fight."

He nodded. He vastly preferred fights which were not.

"If you have need of us, Andrei knows how we may best be contacted." She rose. And then she smiled again, looking down on Rath. "Ararath Handernesse. Your sister-"

He lifted a hand. "I have no sister," he said quietly.

She nodded, as if this came as no surprise to her. "Amarais Handernesse ATerafin would not disavow you. Think what you will of her life and her choices, but understand this: She is worthy of House Terafin. The only question in my mind is whether or not the House can be made, in the end, worthy of her."

"And you say this because?"

"I have met her, of course." She turned to Meralonne APhaniel, and as one, they both drew their hoods up, shadowing their faces. "Think less harshly of her, if you can. What Handernesse surrendered to the Empire, even if it was surrendered unwilling, may well define much of its fate for decades to come."

"And what of Handernesse?" Rath asked, the bitterness in his voice beyond his ability to control.

"Handernesse had two children of note, or so it is said; the daughter, who gave up her name and her birthright in pursuit of her goals, and a son who apparently disappeared not long thereafter."

"You've met her," Rath replied. "Can you honestly say that I am her equal?"

"Not honestly, no," was the quiet reply. "But in life, there is fluidity and the possibility of change. The Terafin spoke highly of you, if briefly," she added, "and her words were not unkind."

He said nothing; instead, he turned his gaze to the warm and moving shapes of fire, contained by grate and burning logs. Nor did he look up until the shadows had pa.s.sed, and he was once again alone with Andrei.

The servant said, "That went, I think, as well as one could expect." He rose. "I, too, have things to investigate, Ararath."

"Not on my account."

"Everything I do, I do at the behest of Patris Hectore." Andrei bowed neatly. "But I will say this: you do better than you know. I do not entirely understand the turn of events in the holdings," he added, "but it is clear to me that things are changing. You have always been cautious," he added, "and that caution has been both bane and blessing.

"But the child-"

"I will not speak of her, Andrei."

"As you wish." He bowed again.

Andrei left Rath at the door of the Placid Sea. His bow was curt, but it was not perfunctory, and when he rose, his eyes were dark and almost unblinking. Even rain, trailing slowly from his forehead, did not cause his regard to waver. He might have been made of stone, if stone lived. Rath had always admired that, in Andrei: he was a man who needed no one.

And lack of need defined strength.

"I have duties," Andrei said quietly, "and I am uneasy away from the Patris at this time. You will call upon me if you require my aid, but I feel it in the interests of Patris Hectore that your communications do not cross his desk."

Rath was momentarily silent.

"I have served Hectore for many years," Andrei replied, "and the manner and method I deem wise has always been accepted by the Patris himself. Patris AMatie is a merchant; I spoke truth, there. If the Order cannot find the information they require to secure his removal, it is best for future relations between House Araven and the Merchants' Guild that knowledge of these difficulties are kept from Patris Hectore."

"I doubt they would have missed any lie."

"Unlikely, and Member APhaniel is known for a somewhat mercurial temper." Andrei's smile was slight, and shadowed by more than the endless drab of pa.s.sing cloud.

"The Terafin-"

"Leave it, Andrei," Rath replied wearily. "If I'm old enough to feel a twinge of nostalgia," he added, spitting the word from his mouth with distaste, "it is a problem I consider private."

Andrei nodded again. But before he left, he said, "you would not, even a year ago, have concerned yourself with the existence of a brothel."

Rath shrugged. "In a year, I probably won't be overly concerned with it either."

"As you say." Andrei turned then, and left.

Rath left as well, missing the fireside in the Placid Sea; missing the moment of warmth, the sense of belonging, that had crept up on him without warning.

Perhaps this sharp and bitter reminder of the past addled his brain; he was not a young man. He walked through the streets of Averalaan Aramarelas, gazing at the tall buildings that never crowded the wide thoroughfare. They were marvels of architecture; they used the scant-and expensive-land upon the Isle as if small s.p.a.ce were divine, decreed, and much desired. Where the buildings of the poor holdings loomed at great height, their facades were often adorned by peeling paint or faded wood, barred and broken panes of once grand windows letting light creep in with rain and wind.

The height here was entirely majestic; it spoke of grandeur and drama; it spoke of wealth.

Such a house as this Handernesse had once owned. Such a house as this, he thought bitterly, with its large grounds, its high gates, its guards and its servants. If none of them were the equal of Andrei, they were nonetheless competent, and even trusted.

But Amarais? She had been their heart. From the moment she could speak, precocious child blossoming into something too quick and too subtle to long accept precocious as a relevant description, she had been the joy of their grandfather, Patris Handernesse. The Handernesse.

She had adored the old man.

So, in his fashion, had Rath.

He could not make his way to that home; it was no longer his.

"It could still be yours," Patris Hectore had told him. He had made that mistake exactly once, and two years had pa.s.sed before Rath was ready to speak with him again. Rath's G.o.dfather learned from his errors; he was a canny man, and a cunning merchant.

But he had a weakness for his fledgling children, his wayward G.o.dchildren, and a belief that his guidance and wisdom could lead them to safe harbor; it was difficult for him to surrender beliefs so firmly anch.o.r.ed in sentiment.

Rath would have said that sentiment played no part in his life, and as the streets widened, as the carriages grew less frequent, he followed roads that he would have sworn were no longer familiar, lost in thought.

Averalaan Aramarelas had once been his home. He had not been proud of it; he had not been displeased by it. The Isle, with its stately, expensive buildings, its high manners, its proximity to the Kings and the G.o.d-born who ruled their followers across the Empire from the confines of the grand and glorious cathedrals to which many made pilgrimage-these were almost mundane in their matter-of-fact existence.

No; it was the land across the bridge that had always fascinated him; the lands where buildings could stoop and bow, and whole families could live in rooms that weren't fit for the meanest of the servants his family employed. There, hidden in pocked streets, roved almost legendary bands of child thieves, roving as they could among the well-to-do of their acquaintance like feral things.

There, in the low market, the great Common, languages of all color and fashion could be heard; indeed, it was hard, when in the Common, not to hear them, and be amazed that such guttural phrases, such loud and screeching vowels and abrasive consonants, could somehow be elevated to meaning.

The smell of the ocean was strong, either upon the Isle or in the holdings; the sea breeze swept across the lands as if land itself were of little concern. The ships floated upon the waves, waiting their turn to leave port, laden now with goods, now with men; they flew flags of the Houses to whom they owed a good part of their profits.

And Rath had not been the only child in Handernesse to find fascination in those mean streets, those areas in which the poor might, with impunity, approach those who lived on the distant Isle.

Amarais of Handernesse had been fascinated by them as well. She did not tell herself their stories; did not dream herself in the meanness of their odd exile from food, warmth, clothing, but like Rath, she did not turn away from the chance to cross the bridge in the Handernesse carriage, accompanied at all times by at least two guards.

What had she seen? he thought bitterly, gazing now upon the wealth that had been so commonplace. When had it started?

There, he thought. The buildings here were now widely and evenly spread, but although the ocean's presence could be tasted-it could always be felt-he could not see its lapping water against the farther sh.o.r.e; he could imagine it, and would once again dwell upon it when he found the bridge.

Imagination was treachery of a different sort, and his weakness was such that the question drove him back, to the past, to his sister, younger yet older than he; to the carriage, out of whose windows she perched, on elbows, to the consternation-and resignation-of their guards.

Yet she made no sounds of delight, that day, no cries of joy, nothing at all that implied happiness or discovery. She was still, perched there as if carved, and Rath, at her side, felt a twinge of worry.

The guards rapped the roof of the carriage; they wore mailed gloves, and didn't need to hit more than twice to get the driver's attention. The carriage slowed-although it never drove at great speed along the Old City roads.

Rath, peering out of his own window, could see that people were standing on the side of the street, as if waiting; it could have been the Kings' Challenge season, if it weren't the wrong time of year for it.

"What's happening?" he asked one of the guards. He had known the man's name, once, but the name-like the face-had receded into a place that only dream could recall. This waking reverie ceded nothing.

"The Mother's Children," the guard replied quietly. "They're coming down the street."

Being younger and less well behaved than Amarais, Rath thrust himself up under the thin perch of his sister's arms, craning out of the carriage for a glimpse of what had silenced her.

And he saw them: the Mother's Children, in their plain, harvest robes, green and brown, sun-faded and st.u.r.dy. They carried baskets on their arms, as they often did, but these baskets looked empty, they swayed so easily.

He could see the underside of his sister's face, the line of a jaw that had not yet become p.r.o.nounced, let alone elegant. "Amarais?"

She said nothing. Just watched.

And behind the Mother's Children walked children. Some hobbled, working their way with crutches or canes upon the gentle slope of the Common street; the great leaves were in bloom, then, gold upon the heights of their thick and ancient branches. The youngest of the children gathered those leaves, slowing the procession; they were nudged back into line by acolytes, novitiates, and the older children nearest them.

They were not well dressed; they wore clothing that was striking in its lack of uniformity, its mismatched colors, its obvious age. But they were all thin as birds' legs, their cheeks hollow, their eyes dark; their hair was often long, but it had that wild look that reminded Rath of the coats of hungry dogs.

Amarais watched them walk, and her silence grew more oppressive, and at last Rath broke it. "They're poor," he said softly, as if only then realizing that poor was not a romantic story.

He reached into the thick pouch that lay twisted round his waist; it wasn't hidden, then; it didn't need to be. Guards were proof against the boldest of thieves the Common boasted. At least guards of the stature and build of Handernesse guards.

From this, he drew coins.

Amarais, taking this as her signal, opened the latch of the door; it creaked, but the familiar noise was lost to the protest of the guards. Amarais, young then-how old, Rath thought? How old?-had silenced them with a glance. He had thought her magnificent, then.

Now?

Now he remembered his own actions with an embarra.s.sment that bordered on humiliation. He had taken the money, and he had run, his short burst of speed all but winding him, toward the elderly woman that seemed to head this procession. Her eyes, he recalled, were the color of pale honey, and there were creases around them, worn by smile or care or seawind. She had let him drop his coins in the basket, and she had nodded gravely when he had told her-ah, the pain of his self-importance, then-that this money was for children.