"Try again." Gren didn't sound amused.

Tathrin licked his dry lips as he copied Ludrys's ready stance a second time. So the Soluran's shield was as much a weapon as a defence. This time he stepped in himself and tried to cut at the bearded man's sword-arm with his own long blade. Ludrys swept his shield across to block the stroke, his body turning. Tathrin was half-expecting that, so as soon as his blade was knocked down, he dropped his sword's point to thrust at Ludrys's knee.

Fluid as quicksilver, the warrior angled his own weapon downwards to bar Tathrin's blade. Inside a breath, he twisted the point back up to prod his belt buckle. Tathrin looked down and imagined his innards spilling out like unruly sausages on a butcher's slab.

What was the point of this? As Ludrys took up his ready stance again, Tathrin just stood still, weapons hanging loose by his sides. Ludrys grinned and looked away as if to speak to Gren.

As Tathrin relaxed, Ludrys suddenly attacked, driving the shield straight at his face. All Tathrin could do was flinch and close his eyes. He felt the studs press lightly against his cheek as Ludrys said something.

"He says you must remember it only takes one man to make a fight."

Tathrin opened his eyes to see Gren looking exasperatedly at him.

"I might remind you that you have two blades, Misaen curse you."

Ludrys stepped back, briefly holding sword and shield in one hand so he could raise a single finger at Tathrin.

"One more time," Gren told him. "Even if he already has won the best of three."

Tathrin took a breath, adopted the stance and thought rapidly. If he attacked Ludrys's shield side, the blow would be turned aside. So he'd be ready for that. He moved, and as soon as his sword was knocked away, he stepped closer in still. Bringing his dagger up, he tried to stab at Ludrys's sword-hand. He was so close that the Soluran's heavy blade was swinging round behind Tathrin, useless.

Ludrys laughed and let his sword-arm fall back, as if he had indeed been wounded. Then he drove the metal rim of his shield uncomfortably hard into the angle between Tathrin's neck and shoulder. He felt a shiver of numbness run down his whole arm. Ludrys stepped away, nodding with approval all the same.

"That last try wasn't so bad," Gren allowed as he reclaimed his sword.

"Thank you." Tathrin realised he was sweating. His hands shaking slightly, he offered the dagger back to Ludrys with a polite bow.

"Water? Ale?" One of the onlookers offered him a choice of two horn cups.

"Ale?" Tathrin took the one with the foaming top. "You speak Tormalin."

The man's grin stretched an old pale scar on one cheek. "Enough for eat, drink and whore."

"All a man really needs." Gren had already secured a cup of ale. He was watching Sorgrad's conversation with the captain-general. "Evord's not the only one here who's spent time fighting in Lescar."

As Tathrin quenched his thirst, the older man cut Sorgrad off with a curt hand and walked over to join them.

"I see you're no mercenary masquerading as an honest Lescari potboy," he commented. "Come, walk with me. Tell me what you people really want me to do."

"Didn't Sorgrad say?" Tathrin looked at the Mountain Man, who just shrugged.

"I want to hear it from you." Evord spared the brothers a minatory glance. "Amuse yourselves without injuring anyone who doesn't deserve it while I talk to my guest." He began walking towards the lofty tower.

Gren tossed Tathrin his doublet. "Go on."

"There are a great many of us who long for peace." Tathrin hurried to catch up with the older man. He shrugged himself into his doublet, swapping the horn cup awkwardly from hand to hand.

Evord took it off him. "So you want to start a war to get it. Don't they teach logic in Vanam's halls any more? Have you any idea of the costs of war? Are you prepared to commit innocent men and women to all that pain and misery without even giving them a choice in the matter?"

They stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the tower's formidable door and Evord fixed him with a pale stare, his eyes more grey than blue.

"Are you willing to risk your own life? Because on that showing against Ludrys, you'll soon be dead if you go into battle. Are you willing to stand before your gods and explain where you got the authority to put countless strangers to the torment of fire and sword and pillage?"

"Sorgrad and Gren said--"

Evord silenced him with a curt hand. "Gren says some fortune-teller back in the mountains swore he was born to be hanged, so he doesn't think a blade can ever kill him. I don't know why Sorgrad left the mountains but he gets by with a quick tongue, faster reflexes and a talent for breaking heads when all else fails. They won't suffer, even if all of Lescar goes up in flames from the River Rel to the Tormalin border."

Tathrin found his voice. "Honest men and women suffer regardless, year in, year out. We want to bring an end to their trials, once and for all."

Evord pursed his lips. "What will you do, lad, when your duke gets to hear you're working against him? What if he sends his men to burn your home and rape your mother and sisters? Do you think he'll drown your brothers to poison your family's well before or after your father's been hanged from his own doorpost?"

Tathrin stood for a moment, paralysed with dread at such a prospect. "I can't think like that," he said slowly. "This isn't just about me. It's about everyone in Carluse, everyone in Lescar. As long as I think like a scholar, I can tell you why this undertaking is our best hope of peace."

"Then come and do so." Evord began walking up the stone stairs. "Then I'll tell you exactly what your proposal will cost in lives and deaths and destruction. Believe me, that bill will be a steep one. Then you can tell me if this particular dance is worth the price of the candles."

Tathrin followed. Why, he wondered bleakly, did everything rest on his inadequate shoulders?

"Then you can explain this business of using some magic dredged up from the collapse of the Old Empire. Sorgrad seems to think that's going to keep everyone in step." Amused, Evord opened the door.

"I can assure you that Artifice is quite real." Tathrin felt momentarily on surer ground. As long as Aremil could make good on his promises.

"I hope so." Evord went into the gloom, his tone severe again. "Because at the moment, that's the only thing I can think of that could save this campaign from being arrant folly."

Chapter Seventeen.

Aremil Beacon Lane, in Vanam's Upper Town, 22nd of For-Summer of For-Summer

"Master Aremil." Lyrlen entered the sitting room with a dour expression. "You have a visitor. Another one." She handed him an unsealed fold of paper.

May I introduce Branca Flavisse. I believe she can assist you most ably with this new project.

With all good wishes,

The signature was an illegible scrawl, but Aremil recognised Mentor Tonin's handwriting with profound relief. Finally, the scholar was back from his travels. Without him, Aremil found it impossible to trace rumour and conjecture to someone who was actually studying ancient aetheric magic.

"Please, show her in."

Aremil tucked the note beneath the latest of Master Gruit's daily queries. How soon would they have some magical means to contact Tathrin? If this Soluran captain-general was refusing to help, did Charoleia know someone who could contact Failla, Lady Derenna and Reniack? They would have to recall them, to make new plans. Master Gruit had never seen the sense in sending them off on the road to Carluse and beyond when everything was still so uncertain. Had Charoleia learned anything more of Duke Garnot of Carluse's plans?

Aremil set such anxieties aside. He was more concerned to know if this girl could truly reveal the mysteries of speaking to someone so far away. She looked like a milkmaid in her brown linen gown, a plain cotton wrap around her shoulders.

"Master Aremil? Good day to you." She extended a broad hand with roughened knuckles. Milkmaid or scullery maid?

He shook it as best he could and saw her silver seal ring. "Good day, Madam Scholar. Can I offer you refreshment?"

It was a bright sunny day outside his window and he could see sweat moistening the band of her linen cap. A tendril of mousy hair stuck damply to her plump cheek. She was a well-fed milkmaid, somewhere between Tathrin's age and his own. Still, she had her scholar's ring and she hadn't won that in a tavern game of runes.

"Thank you." She took a seat, quite composed.

Aremil looked at Lyrlen, who was waiting by the door, stony-faced. "Wine for our guest, if you please."

Branca raised her unladylike hand. "Small beer would be more welcome."

"Of course." His nurse reluctantly withdrew.

Aremil gestured towards the note he'd just read. "Mentor Tonin doesn't tell me your particular field of study."

"In the beginning, I studied the history recorded in the University Annals. Latterly I've been seeing how those records tie up with more informal history." Branca studied the books on the shelf closest to her. "By which I mean those tales told by the fireside and retold in ballads. Mentor Tonin tells me you are a scholar, though not as yet sealed by the university."

"My infirmities prevent it." Aremil was surprised Tonin hadn't forewarned her of his crippled state.

"So you've gone from discipline to discipline, comfortable in the knowledge that your income is sufficient for you to indulge yourself." She turned dark, sceptical eyes on him. "There are a great many books here on all manner of subjects."

"As you see, I'm unable to do much besides read," Aremil said with mild exasperation.

"Now you're interested in studying aetheric magic?" Branca angled her head. "Why?"

Aremil hadn't expected to have to justify himself to this bluntly spoken, blunt-featured young woman. Though Master Tonin couldn't have told her much. Given Charoleia's insistence on secrecy, Aremil hadn't told the mentor anything beyond claiming an interest in learning more about Artifice.

Which was true enough. The more he had read of such lore since the Spring Festival, the more Aremil was resolved to master this arcane art himself. He wasn't merely going to find those versed in aetheric enchantments. If he couldn't travel the highways and byways like Tathrin or Failla, or wield influence and coin like Charoleia and Gruit, he could at least make this contribution to their undertaking.

"You're of Lescari blood?" If she wasn't, there was no point in continuing this conversation. He could only hear the lifelong accents of Vanam's lower town in her words.

"My father was born in Triolle. My mother's people came from Marlier." She raised her dark brows. "What of it?"

At that moment, Lyrlen returned with one of the kitchen tankards incongruous on a polished silver tray.

"Thank you." Branca took it with a pleased smile. "You're not having something, Master Aremil?"

"Not just at present."

"On account of your infirmities?" As she drank, her dark eyes teased him over the pottery rim.

"Because I dislike ale." He looked at his nurse, who was bridling at such impertinence. "Thank you, Lyrlen."

She withdrew with a disapproving sniff.

Branca set the tankard down on the table. "To return to my first question, why do you want to study aetheric magic?"

"I have a good friend who is travelling in Solura. Given how erratically letters make their way through the Great Forest, I'd like to be able to know how he's progressing." He tried to sound casual, though after fifteen days' silence, he was just as impatient for news as Gruit. "Mages can only bespeak other mages, so wizardry's no use to me. Then I recalled Mentor Tonin saying that these older enchantments enable him to contact fellow adepts over unimaginable distances."

Branca looked thoughtfully at him. "How good a friend is he? Are you lovers?"

"What?" Aremil was startled. "No."

The unmistakable sound of Lyrlen choking on her outrage on the other side of the door was hastily followed by the patter of her shoes on the kitchen tiles.

Branca rose. "It's a lovely day. Shall we take some air?"

Aremil stared up at her. "I am hardly accustomed to casual strolls."

"My father has half an arm and barely a quarter of one leg. He's never let that hold him back." Branca fetched his crutches from the corner where Lyrlen had stowed them. "Ask your mother mastiff for permission if you must, but if we're to continue this conversation, we'll do it outdoors."

Aremil could tell she would leave without a backward glance if he refused.

"Bear with me," he said through gritted teeth.

He managed to get to his feet and Branca calmly handed him first one crutch, then the other. "Where shall we go?"

"My lord!" Lyrlen was in the doorway.

Now that Branca had planted the image in his mind's eye, Aremil could see how his nurse might resemble a watchdog. "We're just going to take some air." He tried to hide his own qualms.

"I'll bring him back safe." Branca's eyes were teasing him again.

"Lyrlen, if you please." He held the old woman's gaze until she yielded and opened the front door.

"Do you like the physic garden in Hellebore Lane?" Branca tucked the stray wisp of hair under her linen cap.

"I don't know it." Aremil squinted as he negotiated the doorsill. Outside the sun was surprisingly bright. At least the flagstoned path was smooth and dry after a run of fine days.

"You should get out more." Branca curbed her pace to his slower progress. "You're very pale."

"You're very pink," he retorted.

"I often am." She nodded.

Aremil concentrated on getting to the end of the short street. He wondered who was watching his ungainly progress from the shadows of their windows, amused by his clumsiness. When they reached the junction, he had to stop to get his breath back. "Is this some kind of trial?"

"Of sorts." She was unabashed. "You really should get out more. Exercise might ease your aches and it'll keep your breathing clearer. But we can find you a chair for the rest of the way."

Aremil stiffened as she plucked a silver penny from the leather purse belted at her waist. "I came out without any coin."

"You can pay me back." Unconcerned, Branca waved the penny at a boy leaning on his broom until someone wanted to pay him to sweep a crossing free of horse muck. He came running.