"I may not wish to know about such slaughter but I need to," Aremil said sombrely. "If I'm to answer for what we're starting."

"Answer to whom?" Branca cocked her head. "Saedrin?"

Aremil had learned that she had less faith in gods or goddesses than he did. "To the folk of Lescar. There'll be an accounting, some day."

"True enough." She sighed. "These deaths in Draximal, are they the first stones heralding the landslide?"

"That all depends on this Soluran captain-general." Aremil didn't hide his frustration. "And how soon he can raise this army that Sorgrad keeps promising us."

"Charoleia is still confident," Branca said thoughtfully. "Failla and Lady Derenna have prepared the ground to good effect if their letters are to be believed. Duke Garnot of Carluse and Duke Moncan of Sharlac will find it hard to rouse their militias to oppose Evord and his men."

"Difficult, but not impossible." Aremil felt his throat tighten. "You must be careful, you and Lady Derenna. Failla says Duke Garnot has his mercenaries beating the bushes to flush out these mysterious Woodsmen."

"Sharlac will be a safer place than Carluse or Parnilesse," Branca said firmly. "Duke Moncan is still closeted inside his castle walls while Duke Orlin is chasing rumours of Draximal invasions here, there and everywhere."

"I wish we knew what Reniack was up to," Aremil said with feeling.

"You'll find out as soon as Jettin catches up with him--" Branca broke off as if to listen for something again. She shook her head. "Besides, his broadsheets turn up here soon enough. You've read them. Why do you suspect he's doing anything more than convincing folk it was Duke Orlin of Parnilesse who sent some renegade mage against Draximal and vice versa?" She sprang to her feet. "The kettle!"

As she hurried to the kitchen to stifle the rising note, Aremil looked at the brightening sky. He had no reason to mistrust Reniack, nothing that he could put his finger on, anyway. Perhaps it was just because the man was someone he didn't know, so far away, his letters so infrequent. Still, Branca was right. They'd know what the rabble-rouser was up to once Jettin joined him.

There was no denying that Reniack's lies were convincing. Judging by the gossip among the wagoners that Gruit reported and the rumours Charoleia was hearing, all the eastern Lescari, from dukes to dung-shovellers, feared that their foes had wizardry to call on.

So it shouldn't occur to anyone that aetheric magic was at work in their lands. Branca should stay all the safer, her and the other Artificers, and all the other conspirators. As long as Branca stayed well away from any fighting. He looked down at his hands, so weak and useless.

"You'll find you fare better with aetheric enchantments if you can set certain things aside."

Aremil looked up as Branca re-entered the room carrying two tisane glasses. "What do you mean?"

"Your father," she said with uncharacteristic hesitation as she set the glasses down on the table. "He's Duke Secaris of Draximal."

Aremil swallowed hard. "Lyrlen told you?"

"Hardly." Sitting on the brocaded settle, Branca's scorn was momentary. "I saw him in your memories," she explained apologetically.

"I see." Aremil immediately regretted the coldness in his tone.

"I didn't go looking," Branca retorted with more of her customary spirit. "I can't help feeling what's colouring your thoughts. Especially when it's stifling your Artifice."

Aremil reminded himself fiercely that Tathrin had been feeling echoes of his emotions, and his friend hadn't had the least training in Artifice.

"Forgive me," he said stiffly. "I know you'd never deliberately intrude."

But what exactly had Branca learned from his unguarded thoughts? When he didn't know himself where his feelings for her were leading, beyond the admiration and affection he could no longer deny.

More to the point, was she right about what was limiting his Artifice? When he was going to be the only link between Vanam and those braving the dangers in Lescar? He couldn't bear the prospect of proving unequal to playing his part.

"What exactly must I set aside?" he asked curtly.

"You're worried that your birth will somehow be betrayed. You're afraid that people will think you're raising a revolt just to get revenge on your father." Branca's face was sympathetic. "You're worried that they might be right, because you do resent him and all the decisions he has made that have governed your life for so long. On the other hand, you know full well you should be grateful for comfort that so few people with your afflictions will ever know. Few of those sound in mind and limb are granted a life of such privilege, come to that. And you should be grateful," she said frankly.

He waited a moment until he could be certain he had control of his voice. "I am."

Branca shrugged. "So acknowledge there's no reconciling your gratitude and your resentment and stop struggling with such an impossible task. I've told you that the best practitioners of aetheric magic are the most dispassionate. You've already shown your talent for rising above petty distractions, so I know you can do it."

"I'll do my best." Aremil cleared his throat. "I keep sensing what Tathrin feels when I reach through the aether to him and I know he hears some echo of my thoughts. But I never know what you're thinking. Why is that?"

"Practice." She sipped her tisane and winced at the heat. "The ability to guard your thoughts will come the more you hone your skills. You should be grateful that you feel things so passionately," she continued reflectively.

Aremil was puzzled. "Even though you say the best Artificers can deny their emotions?"

"At one and the same time, the best Artificers are those for whom commitment to their craft becomes an all-consuming desire." She smiled ruefully. "Another conflict that pulls us this way and that until we can find the balance point and thus improve our skills."

Aremil shook his head. "I can't be grateful for emotions that are holding me back at the worst possible time."

"Well, I wouldn't be going to Lescar at all if you didn't believe in your cause so fervently." Branca blew on her tisane to cool the cloudy red liquid. "I've no doubt some people will misunderstand your motives when everything's out in the open. Some will accuse you out of spite or just to secure their own advantage. But you know the truth and so do I."

Aremil swallowed. "Since when?"

"Since that day in the physic garden." The faint spark of mischief in her eyes warmed him.

"I've been wondering about that," he said with a crooked smile. "Since you told me that tale of ancient kings locking Artificers away, to lie in cold dungeons surrounded by their own filth so that discomfort crippled their ability to work enchantments. Presumably taking a cripple out into the hot sun and making him struggle along on his crutches made it all the easier for you to see my motives?"

"I did tell you I wanted to know your intentions." She was unabashed. "I didn't go looking for secrets, though. I just read what was there to be seen most clearly. Be thankful that I did."

"I'm thankful for more than that," Aremil said unguardedly.

"As am I." Branca finished her tisane with a swift gulp and took up the other glass. "This is cool enough for you now."

"Thank you." Aremil was past worrying that Branca would spill food or drink on him. As she held the glass to his lips, he sipped the steaming water. The welcome warmth of steeping ginger and honey-soaked spice-berries eased some of the tension wracking him.

"When do you think Master Gruit's coach will be here?" he wondered aloud.

Whenever it came would be too soon for him. He didn't want to see Branca leave.

"Jettin's no early bird," Branca commented, "but Kerith was staying at his lodgings last night and he's always a prompt riser."

"Indeed?" Aremil couldn't help wondering how Branca came to know so much about either man's demeanour first thing in the morning.

He'd better put that aside, lest it hamper his Artifice or betray his small-mindedness to Branca. Petty jealousy of men who'd known her before he had, who'd shared in the rediscovery of aetheric magic, was pointless. It was ungrateful, too, when Jettin and Kerith were about to risk Talagrin only knew what dangers for the sake of their common Lescari blood.

"Enough?" As Aremil nodded, Branca took the glass away. "Can you sell some books for me while I'm away?"

"Sell them?" Aremil was bemused.

"We can't all afford to keep bookbinders' and joiners' wives in velvet." She nodded at his crowded bookcases with a teasing smile. "I brought a list of the ones I can do without. I'll leave you my keys and you can send one of Master Gruit's apprentices to fetch them. That'll clear a shelf in my lodging for the titles I need next, so that we can continue our studies when I get back." She put the glass down and searched her cloak for an inner pocket.

"I'll have them ready," Aremil assured her.

Branca paused, her hand hidden in the folds of material. "Bought with the coin earned by selling the others."

"Naturally." Aremil didn't need Artifice to know that Branca loathed being indebted or obligated to anyone. He wondered if that had hindered her studies in aetheric magic. Had some mentor at the university told her to set such things aside?

He turned to the side table beside him. "I have something for you." He held out a small linen-wrapped package, fighting to stop his hands shaking.

"What is it?" Branca took it and teased the knotted cord undone. The undyed cloth slid away to reveal a gleaming silver oblong.

"You'll need a memorandum case as you travel," Aremil ventured. "I asked Charoleia where I might find one like hers."

"It's lovely." Branca turned it this way and that. She looked at him, more bright-eyed than he'd expected. "Did you choose it yourself?"

"I did." Aremil had thought the engraving of the goddess Arrimelin weaving dreams in her bower was charming.

"That'll make it all the easier for you to picture it." Branca busied herself folding up the linen square. "When you're sending your thoughts to find me."

"Indeed." Aremil knew he'd be able to fix his thoughts on Branca regardless.

As she tucked the silver case into the pocket in the seam of her skirt, they both heard wheels growling on the street outside.

"Here's Master Gruit's coach." Aremil tried to sound brisk.

Branca donned her cloak. She found the list she'd been looking for and set it down on the table, weighting it with a key knotted on a medallion's chain. "Keep these for me. I've told my landlord I'm away attending family matters. Tell whoever you send to collect the books to show him my father's guild insignia." She managed a faint smile. "Then he won't send for the Watch and have the lad arrested for housebreaking."

"Of course." Aremil nodded. "Now, quickly, hurry."

Her books could stay where they were. He'd sent Lyrlen to the booksellers' by Misaen's shrine to ask what they would charge for the tomes Branca wanted to sell. Then he'd buy them himself at whatever outrageous price those scoundrels thought they could demand from an unworldly old woman. Master Gruit could take that purse and bargain his hardest for the titles Branca wanted to buy. Aremil would assure him that such knowledge was essential for the success of their whole enterprise.

The doorbell rang.

"Where are your crutches?" Branca looked around.

"I'll say my farewells to you here." Aremil shrank from appearing before the other Artificers in his nightclothes.

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

They both looked up as Lyrlen's bedchamber door opened. An impatient hand rattled the door knocker.

"I'm coming!" the old woman called irritably down the stairs.

Branca drew a deep breath. "I had better go."

"Be careful." Aremil felt anxiety twisting his face.

"I will." She stooped and kissed his sunken cheek.

Their eyes met and Aremil saw that her uncertainty equalled his own, and not just about this journey.

Straightening up, she busied herself with her cloak ties. "Take good care of yourself."

"Lyrlen sees to that." Aremil tried to make a joke of it.

Branca bit her lip. "We'll talk about that, when I get back."

Before Aremil could ask what she meant, she hurried from the room. He heard Lyrlen in the hall, the two women talking over each other as the door was unbolted. A man's voice out in the road was incomprehensible, overlaid with the stamp of horses' hooves.

Aremil grabbed his crutches and heaved himself out of his chair. He reached the window just in time to see Branca climbing inside the coach. Master Gruit's lackey was strapping her travelling chest to the already laden roof.

A draught shivered through a sheaf of papers on the sill as the front door slammed.

"That's that," Lyrlen said with satisfaction. She entered the sitting room and her mouth fell open in astonishment. "My lord?"

Aremil expected her to chastise him for presuming to get out of bed without her help, not to see such hurt in her expression.

"I couldn't sleep," he said apologetically.

"Do you need me to send for the doctor?" she asked anxiously. She took his hands between her own. "Oh, you're so cold!"

"There's nothing amiss," Aremil assured her. "I just wanted to see Branca safely on the road."

"Best I mix some poppy tincture in a little wine," Lyrlen said tartly. "You can go back to bed for a few hours."

"I may as well start the day early." Aremil tried not to rebuke her. "Then I'll sleep all the better tonight."

He wasn't going to take any apothecaries' concoctions to blunt his Artifice when he needed to be able to reach through the aether to Branca.

"Very well." Lyrlen rallied. "Do you want to wash and dress, or breakfast first?"

Aremil saw her look around the room. As the tisane glasses caught her eye, her lips thinned.

"I was cold," he said firmly. "Branca was merely doing me a service."

"And herself." Lyrlen sniffed.

"Surely we don't begrudge our guests a glass of warm water," Aremil said more curtly than he intended.

Lyrlen looked at him, and this time Aremil saw something like fear in her faded eyes.

"There's bread in the crock and preserves laid ready. I told her last night but the girl's always so brusque. If you'd wanted me to get up and see her fed, my lord--"

"No, don't worry." Of course Branca would have had something to eat in the kitchen if she'd wanted it. "Yes, please, I'll take my breakfast before I dress. Then I have some errands for you to run."

"As you wish, my lord." Looking happier, Lyrlen slid her arm under his own to help him back to his chair. Once he was seated, she tucked his robe warmly around his knees before catching up the offending glasses. "I'll make you some porridge, with a little honey, my lord. That'll set you up nicely for the day."

Aremil had been about to ask for bread and jam. He could eat that without assistance, albeit messily. If Lyrlen made porridge, she would insist on feeding him. He hid his irritation.

"Thank you. That will be lovely."

He hadn't liked to see the fear in her old, loyal face, though. If cosseting him would reassure her, he could put up with it. For the present.