"What are you going to do now?"

Branca could feel Aremil's reluctance to break off their conversation. Equally she could see that other half of him walking towards a door in the far wall. That hadn't been there before.

"I should be packing. We're travelling again later today. Lady Derenna has letters to deal with before we leave and Welgren is spending his morning treating whatever interesting ailments he can find among Lord Narese's household." Branca allowed herself to enter the image Aremil held and rose from the chair in the echoing hall. "If either of them learns anything important, I'll tell you this evening."

Yielding to a frivolous impulse, she curtsied. The magenta brocade of the unreal gown whispered across the flagstones.

As the seated Aremil inclined his head, the shadowy figure behind him turned at the door to face her and swept a handsome bow. "Until later."

Branca drew a deep breath. The unreality of the vast stone hall faded and her whole attention returned to the padded stool in Lord Narese's curio room. She looked at her dim reflection in the glass-fronted cabinet housing carefully catalogued specimens of pressed leaves and flowers.

It would be so easy to turn Aremil's admiration for her into adoration. She could easily secure a share in the funds that kept him in such comfort. She could even grow her hair longer. Just like one of the bewigged prostitutes who strolled the road where she had her lodgings in Vanam. With a snort, she turned her back on the reflection and went to find Lady Derenna.

The Sharlac noblewoman was in her bedchamber busily writing letters. She looked up as Branca knocked and entered. "What's the news?"

"That we must be on our guard for spies from Triolle." Branca sat on the bed uninvited. At least Lady Derenna didn't stand on tiresome ceremony like some of the noble ladies she'd encountered on this trip. Those ladies who weren't eager partners in exploring the alchemy or natural philosophy that fascinated their husbands. "Duke Iruvain's intelligencer is causing Charoleia some concern."

"Master Hamare?" Lady Derenna blew on the glistening ink to dry it. "I hear he's very astute." She folded the page carefully. "You can burn those." She nodded at a pile of discarded papers on the floor beside the table.

Branca took them over to the small fire. Did Lady Narese's maids wonder at the quantities of feathery ash they cleared away each day? There wouldn't be much they could make of it. She and Derenna always made sure every page was completely burned before breaking up the blackened shadows with the fire irons just to be sure.

"Duke Moncan will find precious few vassals answering any call to arms." Lips tightening, Lady Derenna pressed her ring into a drop of sealing wax. Stowing the letters in her writing desk, she closed it up and locked it with a key from the bunch hanging at her waist. "Let's see what Welgren has learned this morning." She snorted. "Besides how easy it is to burn oneself in a kitchen or to get a housemaid pregnant by tumbling her in a hayloft."

Unfortunately Welgren's patients did tend to confirm Lady Derenna's low opinion of ordinary folk, Branca reflected.

She followed the noblewoman out of the room, her eyes modestly lowered as befitted a noblewoman's personal maid. That gave her another good look at the frayed carpets along this corridor. The guest-chamber curtains were faded by the sun and the furniture would have been long out of style in Lord Narese's childhood.

Though everything was polished and dusted daily. Most of her ladyship's share of the base Lescari coinage received in quarterly rents paid the paltry wages of a remarkable number of maids and menservants. The housemaid Branca was sharing a garret with had told her how the raw wool that could be easily sold for Tormalin silver was carded, spun and woven on Narese lands instead, with the cloth distributed to the tenantry at Solstice and Equinox.

She'd also confided how Lord Narese's son and heir had nothing but contempt for his father's generosity. The whole household dreaded him inheriting. Fortunately, though grey-haired and portly, their lord was still in the prime of life.

How could they expect any different, when the youth had been schooled by his mother's distant cousins in Tormalin and never taught any loyalty to those who'd become his vassals? And for all their generosity, Lord Narese and his lady always dressed in velvets and expensive lace. This trip had shown Branca plenty to confirm her low opinion of landed nobles; easily as much as argued in their favour.

Branca followed Lady Derenna down the wide staircase. The manor had once been a single square stone keep that had defended Lord Narese's ancestors from attack. Now that keep was a tower dominating the northern face of a quadrangle built from humbler brick and plaster. All these newer rooms were lit with generous casements rather than narrow slits, the place grown into a family dwelling instead of the fortification it had once been. But a solid outer wall still ringed the residence, defending the stables, storehouses and the well-stocked kitchen garden. Solid gates were barred at dusk and every man of the household took his turn standing sentry, pacing the battlemented walkway that looked out over the streams and fishponds making up a further line of defence.

Lady Derenna acknowledged a passing maid's curtsey as she went out into the garden in the hollow square's heart. Lord Narese was tending an apple tree espaliered across the warm brickwork.

"Lady Derenna, have you come across this particular fruit before?" He twisted a ripe apple free and offered it to her.

Lady Derenna used the small knife on her keychain to cut a slice. "No, my lord," she said after some consideration. "What a wonderful flavour."

He nodded, satisfied. "We just have to breed some hardiness into it, so it survives our winters in an open orchard."

Branca had learned some curious things on this trip. She'd known animals could be bred for vigour but it had never occurred to her that the same could be done with plants.

"Lord Coelle had some interesting results when he grafted tender plants onto more robust rootstocks. You should write to him." Lady Derenna smiled. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must speak with Master Welgren."

Lord Narese nodded. "Tell him to call on me this afternoon, if you please. I want to discuss his ideas on the healing properties of rosemary."

"He'll be at your disposal," promised Lady Derenna.

What gave Lady Derenna the right to answer for Welgren? Branca followed the noblewoman out of the garden and around the house towards the stable yard. It didn't matter that the herbalist would be just as keen as Lord Narese to debate how plants could be used in healing. What gave any noble the right to assume everyone else was at their beck and call?

"Good, he's nearly done." The noblewoman surveyed the few humbly dressed men and women still waiting outside the storeroom that had been given over to Welgren. She knocked on the door and went in. "A moment of your time, if you please."

"A moment's silence, if you please, so I can listen."

Branca looked through the door to see that Welgren was leaning over in front of a shirtless man sitting on a stool. Beside them, the table was laden with his pestle and mortar, leather pouches and twists of parchment, and an array of bottles. The herbalist was holding one end of a thin metal rod to the man's naked chest, the other end carefully inserted into his own ear.

"If you could take a deep breath and try to hold it, please."

A dirty swathe of bandage stained with pus and blood lay on the cobbled floor. As Welgren moved away, Branca saw the patient's face. His eyes were sunken, his complexion unhealthily yellowed. If he was in good health, he'd be handsome enough, with thick fair hair and strong features.

"That's Karn!" Trembling with the shock of recognition, she darted in through the open door and slammed it closed behind her.

"What?"

As Lady Derenna turned towards Branca, the man snatched the copper rod from Welgren and lashed out at the herbalist. Welgren recoiled, but not fast enough to save himself from a stinging blow across his upraised hands.

"What--?" Lady Derenna's question was cut short as the man Branca knew to be Karn seized her. Stepping behind her, he slid the copper rod across her throat. Holding it at both ends, he pulled it back hard. Lady Derenna arched against him, her chin forced upwards. She clutched at the rod, trying to drag it away, but he was too strong.

Sunlight filtered in through the dusty panes of the high barred windows. Branca heard muffled sounds from the yard as everyone went about their normal business outside.

"Get away from the door." Karn's shadowed eyes were murderous.

"Whoever you are, that wound needs treating." Welgren tucked his hands under his armpits, wincing with pain.

"It hasn't killed me yet." Karn's gaze didn't waver. "You, bitch, away from the door."

"There are three of us and one of you." Branca tried desperately to think of some aetheric enchantment to use.

"Two when I snap her neck." Karn drew back harder on the sounding bar and Lady Derenna choked. "And his hands are already broken."

"I believe they are." Welgren sat down heavily on the stool.

"Move away from the door or I'll kill her, and then him. Then I'll ram this rod into your eye and out through the back of your head," Karn promised Branca.

She didn't need Artifice to know that was no empty threat. Her feet felt mortared to the floor, though. She couldn't move if she wanted to.

Lady Derenna snatched at the chain hanging from her belt and stabbed her little knife into Karn's thigh. Taken by surprise, his hold on the sounding bar loosened sufficiently for her to drive an elbow into his ribs.

His scream of pain was out of all proportion to the strength of the blow. Doubled up, he reeled away. Branca saw a festering wound in his back oozing fresh red blood. In the next breath he recovered though, sending the copper rod slicing audibly through the air to strike Lady Derenna's head. She fell like a sheep stunned for slaughter.

Welgren sprang up from his stool. Wounded or not, Karn was ready. But Welgren wasn't trying to seize him. Instead, he threw a glittering shower of liquid all over the Triolle man's face and naked chest.

"Don't touch him!" Welgren stretched out a hand to hold Branca back.

She dodged around him to help Derenna. Acrid vapours caught at her eyes and throat, rising from the floor where the liquid had landed.

Moving away from the door, she gave Karn his chance. He snatched at the door handle, wrenching it open. Branca saw raw redness spreading across his bare skin as he ran into the yard. She tried to shout but the fumes from whatever Welgren had thrown were scouring her throat. All she could do was cough. Helpless tears streaming from her eyes, she saw Karn knock down a groom with a single punch and scramble into the saddle of the horse he'd been holding.

"Stop him!"

Stronger voices took up her feeble cry but the men by the gate were taken unawares. The sound of Karn's steed was lost amid confused questions before another groom thought to find a horse and give chase.

Welgren managed to stop coughing. "Let's get her out of here."

Lady Derenna was already stirring as he slipped his arms under her, raising her from the dirty floor. Branca went to help support her. "What was that?"

Welgren wiped his watering eyes on his shoulder. "Vitriol solution."

Outside, the mounting block was conveniently close. Between them they half-led, half-carried Lady Derenna to sit on it.

"What do we say to my lord?" An agitated woman caught at Branca's sleeve.

"I don't know," she snapped.

The woman backed away, affronted.

"Just sit still." Ignoring the discolouration spreading across his own hands, Welgren carefully felt along the vicious bruise running from the corner of Lady Derenna's eye into her hair. "Branca, who was that?"

"Ow." Lady Derenna winced.

Branca looked around but no one was paying much attention to them amid the uproar. "A Triolle spy. His name is Karn. He's supposed to be dead."

"How did you know he was here?" Welgren parted Lady Derenna's hair with gentle fingers.

"We didn't." Branca stifled another cough. It was just too painful. "We only came to warn you to be on your guard."

"How did you recognise him?" Lady Derenna glared at Branca, her eye swelling.

She saw Lord Narese hurrying into the yard. "Later."

"My lady." He came over to clutch Lady Derenna's hand, aghast. "Who did this?"

The men and women of the household gathered round, all loudly insisting that the attacker had been a stranger.

"Enough!" Lord Narese's rebuke silenced the clamour.

Welgren spoke first. "Her ladyship needs to lie down quietly in her room."

Lord Narese clapped his hands. "Bring a hurdle!"

"I can walk," Lady Derenna insisted.

Branca dutifully offered her arm.

Lord Narese nodded unhappily. "Very well."

Everyone obediently backed away. Branca had to admit that this Lescari habit of servility had its uses. In Vanam, a double handful of people would still be offering advice and taking offence when they were ignored while a crowd of onlookers ten deep would all be noisily revelling in the excitement.

It seemed to take three times as long to get back to Lady Derenna's bedchamber as it had to walk down to the stable yard. The noblewoman was leaning ever more heavily on Branca as they negotiated the final flight of stairs.

"My lord." Opening the bedchamber door, Welgren balanced due deference with the authority of his profession. "May we have some warm water and a clean cloth to bathe her ladyship's injury?"

"Of course." Lord Narese hesitated.

"Go and see if your men have caught the scoundrel," Lady Derenna hissed.

"Indeed." Spurred to action, he hurried away.

"Lie down."

Lady Derenna did as Welgren commanded, a faint groan escaping her.

"How badly did he injure your hands?" Branca went to draw the curtains.

"He may have cracked a bone or two but it's not as bad as I made out." Welgren turned his attention to Lady Derenna. "As for you, my lady, I don't believe your skull is cracked, though your head will feel as if he split it like a ripe melon for a day or so."

"What about his wounds?" she asked, her eyes tight shut.

"The vitriol solution will leave him sore." Welgren flexed his bruised hands with a grimace. "But I'm amazed he can walk with that gash festering in his back, never mind steal a horse."

"You said he's supposed to be dead." Lady Derenna squinted at Branca. "What did you mean, and how did you recognise him?"

"Charoleia said he had been snooping around her affairs in Vanam," Branca said flatly. "Later she found out he'd sent spies hunting mercenaries for Master Hamare of Triolle but by then, she had word he'd been killed."

Welgren nodded. "Anyone leaving him with that wound would think so."

"You saw him in Vanam, I take it?" A tear escaped Lady Derenna's swollen eyelid.

Branca nodded rather than lie outright. She had seen Karn's face when she was brushing as lightly as she could against Charoleia's thoughts. The beautiful woman's willingness to encompass the man's death had unnerved her more than she had dared show. Trusting in the honesty of Aremil's motives was one thing. Trusting all of their fates to Charoleia was something else. At least she hadn't learned anything too dreadful, not so far anyway.

"I think he's been on our trail for a while," Welgren said unhappily. "Last market day, one of Lady Shaptre's grooms asked if I'd tend a man who'd been injured by a pitchfork during haymaking. That's who this man Karn claimed to be."

"We can just thank Halcarion I happened to see him." Branca wondered if the goddess was favouring them with good luck or bad. "What did he ask you? What did you tell him?"

"Nothing." Welgren shook his head. "I'd only got as far as cleaning that wound and listening to his heart and lungs with my sounding rod. Neither sounded overly healthy and that infection will probably be the death of him anyway."

"Let's hope so." Lady Derenna shifted her head on her pillow, her eyes still closed. "But we must leave, before he can tell anyone we've been here."

"Unless Lord Narese's men catch him." Welgren looked at Branca.

"I don't think we can count on that," she said reluctantly.

Welgren bent to look at the lurid bruise spreading across Lady Derenna's face. "I'll make a poultice for that, and find something to ease your headache."

"Tend your hands," she said faintly. "We need to ride on today. Branca, tell Aremil what's happened."