"And when the Old Empire fell?" Eclan was watching the line moving slowly through the door to the assessors.

"Each of the governors did his best to hold his province together, assuming the Emperor's writ would soon be re-established. Different claimants to the Tormalin throne offered them whatever coin they could scrape together to win their support. By the end of the Chaos the governors were calling themselves dukes and taking up arms against each other, claiming they had the Tormalin Emperor's sanction to rule the rest as High King. Each still believes his line has the truest claim to that throne. Each one bequeaths the insanity to his children." Tathrin couldn't hide his bitterness. "Since the Chaos, when the Tormalin princes whose lands run up to the River Asilor started thinking the grass looked greener on the opposite bank, other noble families didn't want them expanding their holdings. So they agreed that only the Emperors would wage any warfare outside ancestral Tormalin lands. Hence, the Lescari dukes have been left to their own disastrous devices ever since."

"No one's ever won?" Eclan stood up and they dragged the chest a few paces forward. "In twenty generations?"

"Kycir of Marlier, ten generations ago, he fought everyone else to a standstill." Tathrin sat down again with a sigh. "He ruled Lescar until he died in a duel defending his wife's honour. When they went to tell her, they found her in bed with his brother."

Eclan laughed. "I'm sorry, but it is funny."

"It's a fair example of the honour and insight of our noble rulers," Tathrin said sardonically.

"No wonder anyone who can get the gold together leaves," Eclan said dismissively. "Oh, look, they're waving us in."

Tathrin picked up his end of the chest and helped carry it into the hall. Eclan had clearly lost interest in Lescar's endless tragedy. Perhaps that wasn't surprising. Put so simply, it did sound trite.

The interior was deeply shadowed after the bright sunlight outside. As his eyes adjusted, Tathrin saw a long row of tables. An excise clerk sat at each one with a set of scales and precisely graded weights engraved with the ornate seal of the Excise Hall. Behind, officials walked to and fro, collecting any weights that failed to pass muster. Men in heavy leather aprons stood beside black anvils, and the hall rang with the strike of their hammers and chisels. Confiscated and defaced, unfit weights were tossed into baskets for melting down.

Raeponin, god of justice and balance, gazed down from the painted wall, robed in blue and hooded in white. Stern and implacable, he held up his scales with one hand, his bell ready in the other to ring out over the forsworn, the deceitful and all those irretrievably abandoned to self-indulgent vice. To his right, the virtuous were bathed in sunlight and surrounded by plenty. To the left, the dishonest and immoral grovelled beneath the shadow of the god's displeasure.

Tathrin held his father's box tight. Without the weights, no merchant would trust his father to change his coinage.

"We're from Master Wyess's counting-house." When their turn came, Eclan began taking out the leather bags holding each graduated set of weights.

"Copper penny, bronze penny, silver penny, silver mark, gold mark." The excise clerk counted each one off as he tested them with deft fingers. His eyes barely shifted from the central needle of his scales. "All true." He looked up as he swept the last ones back into their pouch. "Are those for certifying?"

"If you please." Tathrin handed over his father's box. He saw sweat from his fingers marring the glossy wood. Was it possible the weights could somehow have become unreliable?

The excise man examined each one. "An heirloom set?" He looked up, mildly curious. "I can't recall when I last saw weights so old."

"Handed down from my grandsire, and his sire before him," Tathrin explained.

"They're still weighing true." The man handed the box back. "Swear by Raeponin's bell and balance that all these weights will be used in fair and equitable trade, may the gods bring all deceivers to ruin."

"We swear. Talagrin take all oath-breakers." Eclan was gathering up all the counting-house weights.

"I swear," Tathrin echoed. "Raeponin rend me if I lie."

"Get all your certificates sealed over there."

The clerk was already looking past them as another merchant's apprentice unbuckled a leather-bound coffer. They joined the next line.

"I need to send these back to my father. Do we have any other duties today?" Tathrin asked.

"As soon as we get these safely back to the counting-house, our time's our own. Pay the extra and use the Imperial Tormalin courier," Eclan advised. "There isn't a bandit between the Great Forest and the Ocean who dares attack their coaches."

"I'm going to buy some ribbons and lace for my mother and sisters." Tathrin did his best to sound offhand. "I might buy some wine for my father. Where's Master Gruit's storehouse?"

"Halfway up the Ariborne, past the Mercers' Bridge." Eclan collected the freshly sealed certificates that the second clerk was shoving at him.

Eclan's confidence in the urchins hadn't been misplaced. Reclaiming the pony cart, they retraced their route. Though the day was considerably busier, the carts and carriages were all moving swiftly enough.

"Me and some of the others are heading for The Looking Glass this evening." Eclan pulled the pony up by Master Wyess's entrance. "There's a troupe of players come all the way from Toremal to give us The Chatelaine's Folly The Chatelaine's Folly. They're bound to have pretty dancing girls showing plenty of leg."

"That sounds good." Tathrin had only managed a few visits to Vanam's acclaimed playhouse. Each time, he'd found imagined worlds of passion and challenge where he could forget his own trials and secrets, if only for a little while.

"We're meeting at the cheese market at the bottom of the Bairen at the second hour of the night." Eclan grinned. "If you're not there, I'll assume some lacemaker made you a better offer."

"You never know." Tathrin managed an embarrassed smile.

Eclan snapped his fingers at a gang of younger clerks who were playing an idle game of runes on the step. "Two of you, come and carry this inside! Shall I lock those up for you?" He held out a hand for Tathrin's father's weights. "No need to carry them around while you're... shopping."

"Thank you."

Tathrin started walking. It wasn't far to the thoroughfare that wound up the shallower face of the Ariborne. On this side of the hill, the recently built houses of the newly prosperous sought to leave the sprawl of the lower town behind them. On the far side, the long-established coveted their wealth in spacious mansions. Above, the upper town's ancient walls looked down from the heights where the Ariborne, Teravin and Dashire hills joined together.

He reached the Mercers' Bridge, which carried the road across a rocky cleft. On the far side, the shallow swell of the Pazarel stood guard over the high road to the west. Horns and shouts sounded from the scrub below. The hog hunters were still beating the bushes for the tusked fugitives that found sanctuary amid the wooded defiles threading through the city.

Gruit's name was boldly displayed above a storehouse's door beside a fine statue of Ostrin. The rotund and bearded god of hospitality smiled down, a flagon in one hand, a bunch of grapes in the other. It was the busiest of all the warehouses lining this stretch of the road. Liveried servants were directing storemen carefully carrying casks of fine spirits. The wax-sealed necks of bottles poked out of woven straw in tightly packed baskets.

Tathrin walked cautiously inside. Soberly dressed clerks were offering glasses of wine to prosperous men and women in silken gowns. No one paid any heed to him in his drab clerk's doublet. He saw a staircase leading to a half-open door at the back of the building. Steeling himself, he walked up.

Gruit was making notes in a ledger, a glass of wine and an open bottle to hand. "If you go back down, I'll send someone to wait on you."

He didn't look up as Tathrin hesitated on the threshold. Recalling Kierst's slander, Tathrin wondered if that was the first bottle of the merchant's day.

"Forgive the intrusion." He cleared his throat. "But I'm not here about wine."

Gruit looked up, his faded eyes narrowing. "I know your face." He thought for a moment. "You were with Wyess, last night." He startled Tathrin with a bark of laughter. "How are his knuckles? I should send him some mustard to poultice his hand, along with my thanks for knocking Kierst on his arse."

"I'm not here on my master's behalf." Tathrin's mouth was dry. "I was interested in what you had to say last night, about how all Lescari should take some responsibility for what happens at home."

Gruit considered him. "Where are you from, lad? Carluse, by your accent?"

Tathrin nodded. "I know someone who'd very much like to meet you. Someone who wants to improve the lot of all Lescari."

"I don't travel, not back to Lescar." Gruit shook his head regretfully.

"No, he's here, in the city--' Tathrin broke off, unable to think how to explain further.

Gruit laid his reed pen across a brass inkwell and looked at Tathrin. "I thought I knew all the exiles here who haven't turned their backs on their homeland."

"He keeps himself to himself--' Again, Tathrin couldn't go on.

Gruit rubbed a wrinkled hand across his grey jowls. "You think I should meet him?"

"Yes." Of that, Tathrin was certain.

Gruit smiled wryly. "Will your reclusive friend have heard about last night's events?"

Tathrin nodded. "But he'll want to have the truth of it from your own lips."

"What will he say?" challenged Gruit.

Tathrin wasn't about to hazard a guess. "You should find that out for yourself."

"Intriguing." Gruit shook fine sand across his page. "Of course, you could just be planning on luring me down some blind alley where your accomplices will knock me out and steal my rings and purse."

"Master, I swear, on whatever gods you cherish, I'm coming to you in all good faith." Tathrin was taken aback. He'd imagined Gruit would need some convincing to leave his business in mid-morning. He hadn't expected to be accused of plotting to rob him.

Gruit dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. "I hope you don't play the runes, my lad. You'll lose your shirt with a face that easy to read." Now that the ink was dry, he tipped the sand carefully into a little dish to be used again. "Besides, I don't suppose Master Wyess would have hired you without making very sure you could be trusted, and had assurances from your family sealed by a notary into the bargain." He locked the ledger in a drawer. "Saiger!"

A man ran up the stairs from the warehouse floor. "Master?"

"I'm going out for a while. If I'm not back for my appointment with Widow Quaine, rouse the Watch and send them to make enquiries about Master Wyess's new apprentice here."

So Master Gruit was both bold enough to go with him, and canny enough to make sure of such safeguards. Tathrin's spirits rose. Gruit really could be the man they'd been looking for.

Moving swiftly for a man of his years and bulk, the wine merchant crossed the room. He stowed his key chain safely inside the breast of his old-fashioned tunic, then took a brown mantle from a peg. As they walked out past the casks and baskets to the road, he bowed to his customers.

"My compliments. Fair festival."

Tathrin followed, trying to look unobtrusive.

Gruit turned downhill. "Where does this friend of yours hide himself away?"

"No, Master, it's this way." Tathrin pointed back towards the upper town and the austere battlements of the university's nearest gate.

Chapter Five.

Aremil Beacon Lane, in Vanam's Upper Town, Spring Equinox Festival, Fourth Day, Noon

Soup slopped as the knock on the door startled Lyrlen. Most of the spoonful landed back in the bowl, but a few drops splashed onto the napkin tucked into Aremil's collar.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Exasperated, the old woman rose from her stool ready to ward off unwanted visitors.

"No." Aremil swallowed, acutely conscious of the soup on his chin.

"Master Aremil, it's me, Tathrin."

Lyrlen clicked her tongue but set the bowl back on the tray. "You must eat later, my lord."

He didn't reply as she cleaned his face with the napkin, her hands as deft as they had always been. Though her step was becoming slower and her hair was now as white as her linen cap.

Tathrin knocked again. "Mistress Lyrlen?"

"A moment, if you please." She straightened Aremil's collar. "Are you warm enough? Do you want a blanket?"

"No, thank you." He managed a smile to convince her.

Truth be told, he was a little cold despite the fire in the hearth. But he was no more going to sit swaddled like an infant than wear some aged invalid's chamber robe. If doublet and breeches exposed his twisted frame, well, visitors' reactions gave him a useful measure of their character.

The smile was worth the effort. Lyrlen went out into the hall to open the door. "Tathrin, you're very welcome."

Aremil heard him introduce someone. "This is Master Gruit, a wine merchant."

"Come in and welcome," Aremil said as the two men appeared in the doorway. "Lyrlen, that will be all, thank you."

"As you wish." She took up the tray and curtseyed before withdrawing to her kitchen.

"Master Gruit, you are indeed welcome." Aremil hoped the man would step closer. At the moment he was a mere impression of a long brown mantle topped with white hair.

"You heard about last night?" the wine merchant asked wryly.

"Naturally. Tathrin, please serve some wine." Aremil tried to look as welcoming as he could without risking a smile that would distort his face. "Master Gruit, I hope the vintage meets with your approval. Please, sit."

Gruit took the nearer end of the settle where Aremil could see him clearly. A heavily built man, he was solid rather than fat, not overly tall. Past his prime, his jowls sagged and wrinkles were carved deep into his face. But he was clearly still vigorous, his expression both alert and astute.

"Am I supposed to have lost my wits or merely my temper?" Gruit asked.

"Opinion's divided."

Aremil watched him taking in every detail of this comfortable sitting room. What was Gruit making of the thick maroon carpet, the brocaded upholstery, the shelves of tightly packed books? Assuming this was a wealthy scholar's lodging? But he'd have noticed that no university hall's crest of books or quills or lanterns was carved into the door of the house. Private property was hardly unknown in the upper town; nevertheless, it was uncommon.

Tathrin handed Gruit a crystal goblet. The merchant raised it to his lips before hesitating, seeing Aremil had received no drink.

"Please, quench your thirst. I'm subject to weakness in my hands so I prefer not to drink in company." Aremil glanced at Tathrin. "Has our friend explained my infirmities?"

"He's said little about you, other than that you keep largely within your own doors." Gruit covered his embarrassment by taking a sip.

"As you see, my weakness extends to my legs." Aremil managed a casual tone. There was no point in pretending otherwise; even at rest, his scrawny legs were awkwardly flexed.

"Yet you have heard all about last night. You're plainly a man of resource as well as resources. My compliments--this is a fine vintage. Ferl River, some two or three years old?" Gruit drank his wine and nodded at the painting hung above the fireplace. "That's Ilasette Den Pallarie's work, isn't it?"

"It is," Aremil confirmed. "That's to say, you're quite correct about the wine, and yes, Madam Den Pallarie rendered the landscape for me."

"Pardon my frankness." Gruit set his goblet down carefully on the polished rosewood table where onyx and agate game pieces clustered beside the white raven board. "There's a curious quality to your voice that I assume stems from your infirmities. I would say you're Lescari, but I cannot quite identify which dukedom you're from."

"Draximal," Aremil said calmly. "Though I have lived in Vanam for many years now."