"I'll try." Would this be enough to make her father break his silence? Or would her mother merely remind her again that Triolle's affairs and not Sharlac's were now her proper concern?

"There's something else." A faint smile lightened Hamare's weary face. "Duke Garnot of Carluse has mislaid his doxy."

"He's set her aside?" Litasse was puzzled. "Why does that concern us?"

"She has completely disappeared." Hamare laid a hand on a pile of letters. "She was sent away from Carluse Town when Duchess Tadira was expected and no one has seen or heard from her since."

"She must be pregnant." Litasse saw no mystery. "Duchess Tadira tolerated the bastards Duke Garnot spawned before their marriage, but she's always let it be known she won't stand for him acknowledging any more baseborn children."

"She's made full use of those bastards." Hamare was sceptical. "She saved Carluse a pretty penny last year by marrying off the red-headed daughter to the captain of those mercenaries he has on his leash." He paused. "Duke Garnot must be planning on putting that man in charge of the dukedom's militia. Carluse lost its most able captain-general when Veblen was killed at Losand. That's all that's curbed Duke Garnot's ambitions this past year--" He broke off and made a note.

Had her brother Lord Jaras deliberately set out to kill Duke Garnot's bastard son? Is that why he risked and lost his life for the sake of defending Sharlac? Did her father and mother truly appreciate his sacrifice? When whatever wounds he had taken had been so devastating that she hadn't even been allowed to see his body, only to weep as his corpse was set on its pyre shrouded in Sharlac's russet and grass-green, the ducal colours that should have become his own by right of succession.

Litasse knew she must not be distracted by the old bruise of that grief. She frowned and felt the pull of her hair at her temples. Valesti had woven her tresses into a painfully tight confection of curls threaded through with silken roses.

"If that's all, I had better go. The carriage will be waiting to take me to the shrine."

"Of course." Hamare put down his pen. "Please let me see any letter you get from Duchess Tadira. Pelletria is working inside Carluse Castle now and she'll be sending her own messages on those letters."

"How?" Litasse was intrigued.

Hamare smiled. "There are ways of writing something that can't be seen unless you know what to do with the paper."

"I'll expect you to show me how that's done," she warned Hamare.

"Gladly, Your Grace." He nodded.

"Is Pelletria likely to learn what Duke Garnot is planning?" If Litasse couldn't have the shrewd old woman serving her, she was happy enough to know she was inside Carluse. Pelletria knew Duke Garnot wasn't to be trusted, nor Duchess Tadira. She and Litasse had talked long and often about Carluse treachery. Pelletria's first concern would be Triolle, Litasse knew that, but Sharlac's interests would also be served.

"Possibly, but I really want to know what's happened to this whore." Hamare frowned.

"Why?" Litasse stared at him. "When it's all but certain she's merely pregnant?"

"Pelletria says there was no sign and the girl takes great care to avoid such a thing." Hamare looked at Litasse for a long moment before continuing, "Even if she were, that's of little concern. She's part of a conspiracy in Carluse linking guildmasters, priests, merchants and more. They send their sons and apprentices away to sympathisers in Tormalin and Ensaimin and Saedrin only knows where else, rather than see them recruited into Duke Garnot's militias. They send their daughters and maids away so they're not bedded by mercenaries or widowed before they've been wives half a season."

"You don't think she was discovered? That she's lying in some ditch with her throat cut?" Though surely that was no more than the harlot deserved.

"Pelletria says there's no whisper of that." Hamare shrugged. "I still want to find out what's befallen her."

Litasse narrowed her eyes. "Iruvain knows nothing of this conspiracy?"

Hamare looked at her with a wry smile. "I haven't had occasion to tell him."

"Don't tell him," Litasse said swiftly, "or he'll suspect the same plots here, like some child seeing Eldritch Kin in the chimney-corner shadows. He'll say or do something that shows our own guildmasters that he doesn't trust them."

"I've been thinking the same," Hamare admitted. "We cannot afford that, not while the craftsmen and merchants remain so uncertain as to how he will rule. They're still mourning the late duke and his duchess."

"It serves Triolle's purposes that this conspiracy weakens Carluse, even if only a little," Litasse said thoughtfully. "We're agreed on that?"

"We are." Hamare nodded. "More to the point, Duke Iruvain would give up this information to Duke Garnot simply to win his goodwill. I'd prefer to keep it until we want something more tangible from Carluse."

"Does Iruvain have any bastards?" The question was out before Litasse could reconsider it. She'd speculated. How could she not? She'd even asked him, in the scented privacy of their curtained marriage bed. He swore there were none. Had he told her the truth?

"No." Hamare looked at her, surprised.

"None?" she persisted.

"There was one serving maid who claimed she got her big belly by warming his sheets." Hamare leaned back in his chair with a grin. "It was easy enough to prove she'd been tumbled by some stable-boy."

"Did he have any mistresses before he wed me?" Litasse wasn't smiling. "Or since?"

"There were dalliances, not mistresses." Hamare gave her his full attention, quite serious. "One of his mother's dressmakers relieved him of his virginity, at the late duchess's request. Once he'd got his confidence, he set about seducing a dancer from a troupe of travelling players who stopped here a few times. They won't be coming here again," he assured her. "I've seen to that. Though the girl could no more outshine your beauty than a candle could outshine the sun."

Litasse coloured. "I was beginning to wonder if Iruvain's tastes run more to pestles than mortars." Her husband's lovemaking always seemed so perfunctory and hurried compared to Hamare's intoxicating, lingering ardour.

"He has no inclination to match his steps to his dancing master's." Hamare tried to curb a smile. "Karn would have found out, believe me."

Litasse was shocked. "You said Karn and Valesti were lovers!"

"Bedmates," Hamare corrected her. "I don't think Karn loves anyone. Did your nurse ever tell you that tale of a prince who was stabbed by a maid of the Eldritch Kin?"

"Because they were lovers and he was abandoning her to go back to his betrothed?" Hamare really must be tired to be indulging in such fanciful notions. Litasse noticed that his darkly shadowed eyes were webbed with red.

"A splinter from her shadow-knife lodged in his heart and he could never love again. That's Karn--" Hamare broke off as a yawn took him unawares.

"You sent him to seduce Iruvain?" Karn was a handsome youth in an understated way. Were his lean, wiry frame and long-jawed face as attractive to men as they were to women? Litasse wondered.

"The late duke thought it was as well to know for certain how Iruvain's tastes were fixed before he consented to your marriage." Hamare rubbed a hand over his face. "Keep this to yourself, my love. Karn's too useful to me to have anyone whispering and watching to see who he fondles next."

Litasse heard voices in the stairs. "I had better go." She rose with some relief.

"Pour your libations and say a prayer on my behalf." Hamare picked up a ragged sheet of paper and held one corner in a pallid candle flame. "Asking that we're all spared blood in the water and fire in the night skies this summer."

"Iruvain will come to my chamber tonight." Litasse paused, her hand on the door. "If I'm not the woman he'd have chosen for his bed, the wine will make him amorous. It always does."

"Indeed." Hamare let the burning paper fall onto a pewter plate of crusts and apple cores. "But he'll be making plans for a trip along our side of the River Anock soon enough, to persuade his vassal lords to open their coffers and to rally their militias. Then you and I will naturally be spending more time together. There'll be dispatches to discuss and letters to write." He smiled at her. "So we'll put our heads together in Triolle's best interests."

"I suppose we'll have to." Litasse smiled and went on her way with a lighter step, never mind the ominous prospects for the summer ahead.

Chapter Fourteen.

Aremil Beacon Lane, in Vanam's Upper Town, 6th of For-Summer of For-Summer

Aremil braced his hands on the arms of his chair, set his feet on the floor as solidly as he could and raised himself up. He teetered on the edge of sinking back down as his arms began to tremble. Then he heard voices.

"Duke Moncan of Sharlac hasn't travelled anywhere for well over a year?"

That was Tathrin, keen to learn all he could of recent Lescari affairs.

"He hasn't left the castle. Not to visit his vassal lords, not even those with holdings he could reach inside a day. Not even to hunt."

That was Failla. Why was she here?

Aremil forced himself onwards and reached for his crutches. There was no question of having Failla see Tathrin lift him to his feet like some baby encouraged to take its first steps.

"They say he's grieving." Failla entered as Tathrin courteously opened the door for her. "He keeps Lord Jaras's urn in his own chamber and refuses to have the ashes dedicated to Poldrion in the castle shrine."

As usual, Aremil saw that her demeanour was as modest as her high-necked grey dress and the cream lace shawl around her shoulders. So why didn't he trust her?

Tathrin was about to say something when he realised Aremil was already on his feet. "Are we late?"

"We don't want to be." Aremil realised he sounded unpleasantly peevish and fell silent.

"I'm nervous." Failla favoured Aremil with a charming smile.

"You're probably still a little tired." He tried to sound encouraging. "You had a long journey."

"No, I mean, yes, I did." As Failla smiled at him, a dimple came and went by her enchanting mouth. "I'm perfectly rested, though. You've been very kind."

Her gaze slid to Tathrin. Was it his imagination, Aremil wondered, or did his friend's eyes brighten whenever he looked at her?

"Master Tathrin's hired you a carrying chair." Lyrlen came into the room, smoothing her apron with satisfaction.

Aremil stood motionless. A carrying chair. As if he were some decayed relict bent with joint evil or an aging profligate paying for a lifetime's gluttony with Ostrin's curse of gout.

"It's too short a distance to warrant asking Master Gruit for the use of his carriage." Tathrin was looking at him anxiously.

"A good notion." Aremil was thankful for the mask that a lifetime had made of his face. At least he could walk out through his own front door on his crutches. That salved his pride somewhat.

Outside, the carrying chair proved to be one of the simple, open design rather than some cumbersome closed affair. That was a minor mercy. He lowered himself down and tucked his crutches beside his knee.

"Good day to you, sir." The man at the front gave some signal to his counterpart and they lifted him without a jolt.

Tathrin courteously offered Failla his arm. "I was wondering," he said as they began walking, "do you know a maltster, Master Arlet? He travels between Losand and Ashgil."

"I met him once." Failla looked up at him with that smile Aremil considered so unreasonably seductive. "At an inn called the Duck Roost, on the Ashgil Road."

"I know it." Tathrin nodded. "You met him on your uncle's business?"

This was one reason why Aremil didn't like carrying chairs. Being seated meant conversation invariably went back and forth over his head. As the other two talked about places and people Aremil didn't know, he tried once again to work out why it bothered him so to see Tathrin paying the girl such attention. She had risked her life, spying on Duke Garnot of Carluse to help the guildmasters save countless Lescari youth from peril.

They had so much in common, Tathrin and Failla, both Carluse-born and tied into this conspiracy that the guildsmen had woven. They'd had twenty or so days' travelling to become friends, the latter half of the journey cooped up in a coach, courtesy of Master Gruit's generous purse. Had they become more than friends overnight at some coaching inn? Though Mountain Men were reputed to guard their own women's virtue with jealous knives. Had they proved effective chaperones for a duke's whore?

Aremil looked down the street past the muscular shoulders of the chair-man. Did he mistrust her because she was a whore? She was very unlike those whores who had been paid to attend to his twisted body, on those rare occasions when Lyrlen could be persuaded to spend an evening visiting her few friends elsewhere in the city. Aremil never asked Tathrin where he found such women, just grateful that his friend found nothing remarkable in him confessing to the same desires as able-bodied men. Everyone else assumed he was as sexless as some hapless slave castrated by the Aldabreshin savages.

So Tathrin knew how to deal with whores. He should be proof against whatever blandishments Failla had up her ostensibly demure sleeves.

"We turn right there." Tathrin pointed for the chair-carriers' benefit before smiling at Failla. "Have you ever seen the bridges at Palastrine?"

"No." Failla's wide-eyed gaze invited him to continue.

Was she an actress as talented as any gracing the stage at The Looking Glass Playhouse? On the other side of the balance, why shouldn't she find Tathrin attractive? He was tall, handsome and straight-limbed, and shared her passion for righting the wrongs of their homeland.

Was his mistrust of her simple jealousy? A moment's rational thought reminded Aremil that he had absolutely nothing to recommend him to such a beauty. Who would ever imagine that he might desire Failla? Not even Lyrlen thought there was any impropriety in her staying as his guest. After all, there was no way he could negotiate the staircase to the guest bedrooms even if he had a mind to.

No, he reflected, he wasn't jealous. Tathrin could bed the wench, if not with Aremil's goodwill, then at least with his understanding. He was more envious of the time Failla had spent with Tathrin over the last half-season. He really didn't want to hear about their journey and their long conversations lamenting the harsh reality of life in Lescar and their speculations as to Duke Garnot of Carluse's plans. Aremil wanted to tell Tathrin about his own discussions with Charoleia and Gruit, with Reniack and Lady Derenna, as they had pooled their knowledge and ideas. He wanted to hear Tathrin's opinions on the tales of aetheric enchantment that he'd been assiduously gathering.

Quite apart from all that, he just wanted to spend some time with Tathrin, to play white raven and talk about whatever inconsequentialities occurred to them. After being so used to having a friend, he hadn't enjoyed returning to his old isolation.

"It's the house with the green door." Tathrin pointed ahead.

The chair-men set him down gently in front of it. Aremil waved Tathrin away and managed to get to his feet on his own. "I have dined here several times while you've been away."

"Good day, gentlemen." Charoleia's maid opened the door.

A serene Relshazri woman, Charoleia had certainly not found her among the girls lingering in the portico of Drianon's temple in hopes of a profitable hire. Aremil wondered how long she had served her mistress and just how much she knew about the mysterious Lady Alaric and all her other guises.

"Failla!" A stocky blond man with an engaging grin followed the maid out onto the steps. "We've missed you!"

With his unkempt hair, sturdy boots and plain brown doublet and breeches, he looked as rough-hewn as any of the Mountain Men who visited Vanam from time to time. But his accent had nothing of the uplands about it.

"Hello, Gren." Her smile was polite but not encouraging.

"Master Aremil," Gruit said in welcome.

Aremil noticed the wine merchant watching him apprehensively as he followed the others into the parlour on slow crutches.

"Let me." Tathrin held the door open for him.

This sitting room was refreshingly clear of clutter, which made it all the easier to notice the expensive furniture, and the elegant statuettes of the gods on the marble mantel. Paintings of Vanam's hills in the days before the upper town had spread beyond its walls quietly suggested that this wealth had deep foundations in the city.

Reniack was pacing back and forth across the wide bay window, keeping a watch on the street. A second blond man was sitting opposite Derenna, a small table with a half-played game of white raven between them, the pieces all enamelled bronze on a patterned marble board.

This must be Sorgrad, Aremil decided, the other blond man's brother. The one whom Tathrin seemed to think was more dangerous. Contemplating the game pieces with quiet intensity, he was dressed in dark-blue broadcloth tailored with all the understated elegance of Vanam's wealthiest residents.

Derenna wore the same shabby black dress Aremil had last seen her in, with the same lack of concern.

"Who's winning?" Gruit went to look at the game while Aremil lowered himself carefully into a chair.