"While your friend here is only recently come from Carluse." Gruit glanced at Tathrin.

Aremil risked an attempt at a half-smile. "We've long since decided that our common heritage unites us more than our fathers'--" he caught himself and hoped Gruit would think the stumble of no consequence "--and forefathers' quarrels divide us."

"So your call for unity among those of us in exile struck me," Tathrin added quickly.

"Is that so?" Gruit glanced from Aremil to Tathrin. "How did the two of you become acquainted if Master Aremil spends his days by his own fireside?"

"My family aren't wealthy," Tathrin explained self-consciously. "While I studied I worked as a scholars' servant."

Aremil wondered what the merchant made of his ungainly awkwardness and hesitant speech when Tathrin was so tall, fresh-faced and straight-limbed. While he sat concealing the pains it cost him to stay motionless, lest any but the most trusted see the tremors that often shook him. Did Gruit realise Aremil was Tathrin's elder by barely five years? Between the trials of his condition and his inadequate eyesight, Aremil knew his own face was thin and lined. It would not have surprised him if the merchant took him for ten years older than Tathrin.

"Are you congratulating me for making our countrymen feel miserable and guilty?" Gruit castigated himself rather than challenging Aremil.

"Tathrin says a number appeared to agree with you." Tension worsened the pains in Aremil's back. "Only they could see no way forward. So I have a suggestion for you and your fellow merchants."

"Do you indeed?" Gruit raised bushy white brows, halfway between hope and scepticism.

"Our countrymen send money to their kith and kin, to enable them to pay the dues the dukes demand in lieu of taking their sons to serve in the militias." Aremil felt a bubble of saliva at the corner of his mouth and paused to swallow. "But these remittances merely throw fuel on the smouldering fires of Lescari strife. As soon as a duke can wring sufficient silver out of his subjects, he hires mercenaries to try to impose his rule over all the rest."

"If there was no money, there could be no warfare," Tathrin said bluntly.

Gruit shook his head. "The dukes would draft men from the villages into the militias at spear-point. At least foreign blood stains the battlefields if such dishonourable men choose to risk their lives for silver."

"The dukes couldn't leave the fields untended," Aremil countered, "if they had no coin to buy Caladhrian grain to keep bread on their tables."

"The dukes and their families will be the last to go hungry," retorted Gruit. "Their hired swords would just seize what they wanted from the peasantry."

"If they're not being paid, there will be no mercenaries to do such plundering," Aremil insisted.

"If they're not being paid, mercenaries will go looting on their own behalf," Gruit said promptly. "Good coin is all that can buy peasants relief from such predation."

"You were calling on the merchants to stop selling them the arms and goods they need." Tathrin was annoyed. "How is denying them coin so different?"

"I lost my temper last night, lad. Once I went home, my blood cooled." Gruit's face sagged, discouraged. "I realised that if every Vanam merchant born or wed to Lescari blood refused to trade with the dukes, all that would happen is the smiths and clothiers and provender merchants in Peorle and Col and Selerima would grow richer."

"You don't think Vanam's example would unite the Lescari-born in all the towns of Ensaimin?" Tathrin asked.

"You think everyone would agree? That no one would break ranks to enrich themselves when prices offered in Lescar would rise with every passing market day?" Gruit shook his head. "Besides, if every Lescari-born merchant from the Ocean to the Great Forest spurned the dukes' gold, Caladhrians wouldn't turn their noses up at it, nor would Tormalin traders."

"If the flow of coin to the dukes is cut off, they could not pay those Caladhrians or Tormalin," Aremil said as swiftly as his recalcitrant tongue allowed.

"Only till the dukes go to Col's moneylenders," Gruit retorted, exasperated.

"Col's bankers baulk at lending to any man, common or noble, who can't show sufficient income to promise repayment of principal and interest," Aremil pointed out. "If the exiles stop sending money, the dukes' revenues will dry up like a winter stream in summer."

"It would be an impossible undertaking." Gruit ran a gnarled hand over his white head. "There would be no point starving one, two or even three dukedoms of funds. They would just be overrun by whichever other duke could still find the coin to pay for arms and mercenaries."

"Which is why we must persuade everyone to put the good of Lescar above any loyalty to their birthplace," Tathrin chipped in. "As you said last night."

"How could you find every exile in this patchwork quilt of a land?" Gruit sighed. "You'd have to do that before you could even try to convince them not to send their coin home."

"We might do that with magic," Aremil said boldly.

"Oh no." Gruit raised an open hand. "The Archmage's edicts are clear. No wizard is to involve himself in Lescar's warfare. Even assuming you could find one who wouldn't prefer comparing the merits of burning wood and coal or assessing the particular properties of water from assorted springs," he added sourly.

"I've heard there are scholars around the university studying the ancient system of aetheric magic," Aremil said carefully. "The Archmage has no dominion over them."

"Aetheric magic?" Gruit was startled into a laugh. "You'll be telling me you believe children's tales of the Eldritch Kin next."

"Haven't you heard what's happened in the east?" Tathrin scowled. "Tormalin mariners have made landfall on the far side of the Ocean. They found men and women from ancient times sleeping there, locked in aetheric enchantment."

"I'll believe that this new land has been discovered," Gruit said slowly. "The ripples of new trade across the Ocean are already reaching this far. But you ask me to believe there were Tormalin folk from the Old Empire living there, kept safe through the generations by some fanciful magic?" He shook his head. "Confusion, speculation and exaggeration have all been woven into a tissue of nonsense. The Tormalin Emperor has wrapped that around the truth to prevent anyone else laying claim to the place."

"You are ill informed, Master Gruit," Tathrin began hotly. "Master Aremil is acquainted with a mentor who has travelled there himself and spoken with these people."

Aremil silenced him with a gesture. "You must have heard, Master Gruit, that this ancient magic, this Artifice, is what held the Old Empire together, enabling those in Toremal to know exactly where their allies were and what they were doing."

"It didn't stop their Empire crashing down round their ears." Gruit was unimpressed. "Do you know how they did such things?"

Now Aremil's hesitation wasn't due to his infirmity. "Not as such. But I am confident I could persuade those who do to help us."

If Mentor Tonin, who'd travelled to these new lands overseas, could be persuaded to be a little less circumspect about his recent discoveries. But Aremil knew he would have to show the scholar a rising tide of determination to bring peace to Lescar to achieve that. So they had to persuade Master Gruit to continue his eloquent challenge to the exiles. He swallowed and pressed on as forcefully as he could.

"Even without the aid of enchantments, we could begin finding all those Lescari exiles living in Ensaimin. We could try to persuade them to withhold their coin. I have a breadth of contacts that would surprise you, for spreading such ideas as well as gathering news."

"You must have better contacts than half the Guilds in the city to have purchased all these books. I know scholars who'd sell their ancestors' ashes to the soap-makers for some of the titles here." Gruit surprised him with a grin. "And you not only have a painting by one of Toremal's most highly regarded artists, you talk of her painting it for you personally."

He stood and went to take a closer look at the dramatic clouds surging across a glittering wilderness of willow and water. "Was this a favourite view of yours? From your family's home? Just who are you, anyway? I've seldom come across a man of your age with your degree of self-assurance."

And in a cripple, it's truly astonishing. Aremil waited for Gruit to say something along those lines but the merchant merely scrutinised the painting. Aremil waited for Gruit to say something along those lines but the merchant merely scrutinised the painting.

"I was the Duke of Draximal's first-born son," he said stiffly.

"Were you indeed?" Gruit looked around the room.

Aremil sat patiently. The merchant could look all he liked for some sign of Draximal's fire-basket badge. He wouldn't find it.

Gruit's gaze came back to him, more intrigued than sceptical. "Why by all that's holy should I believe that?"

"My servant Lyrlen has been with me since birth." Aremil held his gaze without blinking. "I can call on her to vouch for me. She'll swear an oath to whichever god you cherish."

"So who are you now? Since Draximal's heir is undoubtedly the honourable Lord Cassat." Gruit found a kerchief in his mantle and wiped sweat from his brow. "I do recall something about an elder son besides the quiverful of daughters. But if anyone asked me, I'd guess he died an early death of some illness that was never quite agreed on."

"I don't believe my father has ever lied outright about my fate." Taut with emotion, Aremil couldn't help an awkward jerk of his shoulder. "He has allowed that tale to spread so that no one will be so crass as to enquire and cause my lady mother undue grief."

That was what Lyrlen said. Aremil kept his own counsel on the matter.

"You've been tucked out of sight here in Vanam since when?" asked Gruit.

"Since my eighth year. Since I was inconsiderate enough not to succumb to some childhood ailment." Aremil didn't like giving so much of himself away, but it was clear Gruit wasn't going to trust them without hearing all his history.

"As far as anyone knows, I am the crippled son of a minor nobleman." He grimaced with chilly amusement. "Since the people of Vanam are content to lump all Lescari together, no one is bothered who that noble might be. Not as long as my bills are settled."

"Your father makes you a generous allowance." Gruit's gesture took in the comfortable room. "How are your needs to be met if you bankrupt him?"

"I would live in a barrel on some street corner, begging for bread in rags, if that was the price of bringing peace to Lescar." Aremil shifted in his chair as cramp seized his wasted legs.

"Or the price of revenge upon your father, for discarding you," hazarded Gruit. "Or upon your brother for taking your rightful place as heir?"

"I did not bring you here to insult my friend." Tathrin was on his feet, indignant.

"No, it's a fair question." Aremil raised an unsteady hand. "Master Gruit, the mentors of Vanam's university halls teach rigorous logic that encourages a philosophical attitude. I could never have ruled Draximal. Even at peace, there's always the threat of warfare. A duke must be able to ride a horse and command an army. I could never have done either. As my father's heir, I could only have brought disaster on Draximal, as our neighbours of Sharlac or Parnilesse invaded to take advantage of my weakness. I'd rather the commonalty were spared such grief, just as I'm happy to be spared responsibility for their deaths."

"So why torment yourself with Lescar's tribulations?" Gruit wondered. "Live here in comfort and pay no heed."

"Wilful ignorance isn't so easy." Aremil swallowed. "The scholars of Vanam entertain themselves picking over the sorry history of our beleaguered land. Every summer brings broadsheets detailing the atrocities of warfare. The streets fill with beggars fleeing each new wave of fighting."

"You hear their pleas all the way up here in the upper town?" Gruit shook his head regretfully. "I don't mean to insult you, but you sit here with your books and games of strategy for which everyone knows and agrees the rules." He gestured at the white raven pieces. "In the confusion of the real world, this business of denying the dukes their funds could never work. Set aside the difficulties of finding every exile, you would never persuade them to stop sending coin. Their families scrimped and saved and lied to reeves and bailiffs to gather the coin that bought them their passage out of danger. These are not debts of silver but of honour."

But Gruit couldn't contain his frustration, pacing between the hearth and the window. "Even if you could cut off the flow of coin from every Lescari exile, it would make no difference. Some cabal of bankers or merchants, or even mercenary captains, would back one of our noble dukes, regardless of his impoverished state, on seeing that none of the other dukedoms could mount a challenge as long as their coffers remained empty." His voice thickened with contempt. "They would support whoever promised them first pick of the plunder once he was crowned High King."

He reached absently for the bottle of wine that Tathrin had left on the small sideboard. "How long would that peace last? Seeing their families with Sharlac boots on their necks would soon prompt your Draximal brethren to send coin home again. Your fellows would soon refill His Grace of Carluse's war chests." He gestured towards Tathrin and then realised he held nothing to pour the wine into.

At Aremil's nod, the younger man silently handed the merchant his glass. Gruit filled it.

"Forgive me. I honour your desire to do something for our unhappy countrymen. But these days, it takes too much wine to make me hope for peace in my lifetime."

"I refuse to believe that we are condemned to wretchedness," Tathrin said forcefully. "I will not accept the lies the Caladhrians tell of us, or our ridiculous reputation in Tormalin. I will not acknowledge the disdain of even our friends here in Vanam. I know every man of Lescar can be as true and as valiant as any born elsewhere."

"Saedrin make it so." Gruit raised his glass to the god and drained it. "With your determination, you may yet achieve something. Try something less ambitious. Found a new charitable fraternity at one of the shrines, something to help those unfortunates who will be caught in the fighting between Draximal and Parnilesse this summer, if those rumours are true."

Aremil shook his head. "Such charities are like cowardly doctors merely seeking to alleviate symptoms instead of addressing the cause of a sickness."

"You don't believe that some ailments cannot be cured but must simply be endured?" Gruit reddened and he set his glass down. "I beg your pardon. That was appallingly ill-mannered of me."

"But you are quite correct," Aremil retorted with biting politeness. "Nevertheless, I am certain Lescar's suffering can be eased, even if my own cannot."

"It has been a pleasure to meet you, but I think it's time I took my leave." Gruit bowed to Aremil and then to Tathrin. "Don't trouble your servant. I can see myself out."

Aremil saw the mortification in Tathrin's face as he closed the door behind the merchant.

"I'm sorry."

"You need not apologise." Aremil leaned back and didn't try to hide the tremors shaking his limbs. "It was an education meeting Master Gruit."

"As the mentors always tell us, no education is ever wasted." Tathrin poured himself another glass of the Ferl River vintage. "Is he right?"

Aremil sighed. "He argues a powerful case."

"So what can we do now?" Tathrin sat down on the settle, staring into the fire.

"First, if you'd be so kind, I'll take a glass of wine with a spoonful of the green tincture." Aremil winced as cramp bit deeply into his legs.

"I'm still making a list." Tathrin prepared the medicine and held the glass to Aremil's lips. "Of the men and women most deeply affected by Gruit's outburst."

"We had better ready some arguments to counter the objections that Gruit just raised before we approach anyone else." Aremil drank and turned his head to wipe a trickle of wine away on the shoulder of his doublet. "I will see if I can get Mentor Tonin to explain the specifics of aetheric magic to me, rather than the generality."

"It's like those logic puzzles they tested us with when we first came here." Tathrin put the glass down beside Aremil and looked out of the window towards the forbidding towers of the university's halls. "How can you have an egg without a bird? How can you have a bird without an egg?"

Aremil felt the insidious sweetness of the drug relax him. "How are you finding life in Master Wyess's employ?"

"Interesting." Tathrin turned away from the window. "Challenging. Confusing. Everything's turned upside down at the moment. I'll get a better feel for the intricacies of his trade once festival's over, and for the lower town, come to that."

"Good." Aremil hoped Tathrin saw that he truly was pleased for him. "Why don't you stay for dinner? Tell me about life in the lower town. Master Gruit was right to say my vision of wider issues is limited by these four walls."

Tathrin was sliding his scholar's ring around on his finger. "Thank you."

Aremil heard the reservation in his voice. "If you have some other engagement, don't let me detain you."

"I won't stay to dine. I do need to write a letter to my father and buy some presents for my mother and sisters." Tathrin sat across the game table from him. "We have time for a round of white raven, though. Do you want to play the raven or the forest birds?"

"The forest birds."

"Let me see if I can finally build a thicket to baffle you." Tathrin picked up the agate trees and considered their placement. His forehead creased.

Aremil hoped it was only concern for the game prompting that frown. He knew Tathrin's father had never approved of him serving a Draximal master. Even one who was apparently a noble of lowest rank and a cripple at that, never likely to play any part in the poisonous politics of the dukedoms. How would the innkeeper react if he discovered his son was really serving Duke Secaris's own son, even a son so comprehensively discarded and disinherited? Aremil didn't want to be the cause of any rift in Tathrin's family.

Someone with Tathrin's intelligence and integrity deserved a better future than dancing attendance on an invalid. Or a pointless death clutching a pike in Duke Garnot's militia. That was something Aremil and Tathrin's distant father must surely agree on. Hopefully this apprenticeship with Master Wyess would lead to a secure and wealthy future for the younger man.

Tathrin looked up from the game board, a glint in his eye. "Where do you want these?" He took up the horned owl figurine and the pied crow.

"Put the owl by the holly tree and the crow behind the second oak from the right." Aremil focused his attention on the challenge of the game. Tathrin had clearly been thinking how to arrange the trees and shrubs to offer most shelter to the solitary white raven. Well, it was his task to see that the rest of the birds drove the mythical bird out of the forest, regardless. "Put the swordwing in front of the sour apple."

Chapter Six.

Tathrin Master Wyess's Counting-House, in the City of Vanam, Spring Equinox Festival, Fifth Day, Morning

"Master Gruit is in the courtyard." Eclan stuck his head around the partition separating Tathrin's bed from the next one. Senior clerks warranted a little more privacy than the open dormitory the younger boys shared. "He wants your seal on a letter he's sending to your father."