"Twelve years ago, his elder brother was killed in a border skirmish with Draximal troops. My uncle Lord Dacoun, my father's second brother, was hunting brigands who'd raided a merchant's mule-train on the Great West Road. He followed the trail into Sharlac." He shook his head awkwardly. "According to Dacoun's account, Lord Rousharn's elder brother was hand in glove with the raiders. He was caught with some share of the spoils and strung up from the nearest tree."

Tathrin wrinkled his nose. "I doubt Lady Derenna has heard the story quite like that."

"Let's not put her principles to the test by announcing my parentage," Aremil agreed.

Tathrin nodded. "How did they come to marry?"

"Lyrlen tells me she was born third child and eldest daughter to Lord Raitlen of Kerowth. Her tastes were always for study rather than embroidery, so her mother despaired of seeing her wed. Especially after she concocted some volatile mixture that exploded and scarred her arms so badly."

Tathrin grinned. "I wondered about that."

"It seems Derenna happened upon Lord Rousharn reading an alchemical tome when they were both guests at some Winter Solstice celebration. Her lady mother had Rousharn's signature on a betrothal contract before the day was out. They live together quite happily, boiling up concoctions that seldom explode. Scarred arms or not, she has done her duty and borne him five children--" Aremil broke off, hearing incautious bitterness in his own words.

Tathrin looked out of the window as the rumble of the coach's wheels deepened and the shadows of the upper town's gate cloaked them. Aremil slipped awkwardly on the seat as the slope of the road grew steeper. Tathrin took hold of a leather strap nailed by the door.

"Where are we going?" Aremil managed to force himself upright.

"Master Gruit owns property all across the city." Tathrin kicked Aremil's sliding crutches aside. "He's letting Reniack use an unlet house."

They heard the coachman shouting as they left the comparative quiet of the upper town. The lower streets were far busier and noisier. As their progress slowed to erratic fits and starts, Tathrin kept watch out of the window. Aremil was relieved not to have to talk any more. It was tiring and he felt ominous cramps threatening his legs. Finally, at long last, the coachman reined in the horses.

"Where are we?" Relieved, Aremil looked out through the window.

"On the northern slope of the Pazarel Hill." Tathrin threw open the door and jumped down.

Aremil used the doorframe to haul himself upright and tried to work out how to exit the carriage. He didn't trust his chances of negotiating the folding step safely.

A rough-haired mongrel ran up barking, startling the horses.

"Saedrin's stones!" the coachman swore, and cracked his whip at the dog.

Aremil fell through the open door when the unsettled horses jerked the coach forward. Tathrin's strong hands saved him, setting him down safely on the flagstones.

"This is a harness-makers' district." Tathrin remarked as he tucked Aremil's crutches securely under his arms.

"Indeed." Aremil surveyed the workshops and storehouses interspersed with rooming houses and narrow-fronted dwellings. He felt the flush of humiliation fading from his cheeks. If Tathrin saw no need to refer to his near-mishap, he need not embarrass either of them by thanking his friend.

"Good day to you." Gruit appeared from a doorway. "Thank you, Draig." He nodded to the coachman. "Back here at the seventh hour, if you please."

"As you wish." The coachman whipped up the horses and departed.

"This way." Gruit held the door open.

Aremil looked carefully for slippery filth that might betray his crutches. "Who's here?"

Gruit coughed. "Let me introduce you."

He opened the single door and ushered Aremil through the narrow hallway into a sparsely furnished sitting room. "Lady Derenna, may I introduce Aremil, a scholar of Vanam."

That was nicely done. Assuming Derenna was a stickler for etiquette, she wouldn't suspect Aremil was a duke's son. Those of higher rank were always addressed first when formal introductions were made.

She didn't look to be a perfectionist where her appearance was concerned. Sitting straight-backed in an upright chair beside a scuffed table, her dusty black gown was frayed around the hem and her lace wrap yellowed from careless storage. The silver combs securing her hair were polished but mismatched.

"A scholar." She frowned at his ringless hands. "Unsealed?"

"My infirmities..." Much as he hated to, Aremil let the excuse hang in the air, limp as his body between his crutches.

"Please, sit here." Tathrin ushered him to a cushioned settle by the empty fireplace.

Tathrin often argued that Aremil should present himself to the mentors and satisfy them that he was worthy of their accolade. But that would mean registering his name and parentage with the University Archivists. Aremil wasn't prepared to lie, and telling the truth was no option.

"Wine?" Master Gruit busied himself with a crystal ewer and glasses. "Kalavere white, all the way from Tormalin." He handed a glassful to Tathrin.

"I'm Reniack." The burly man who'd been lounging against the back wall stepped forward to take one of the fluted goblets. He looked at Aremil with frank curiosity.

Aremil met him stare for stare. "What happened to your ears?"

Reniack laughed, startlingly loud in the confined space. "I was pilloried, before the shrine of Drianon in the centre of Parnilesse town on the middle day of the last Winter Solstice." He tucked his ragged grey hair behind his ears to show everyone their tattered lobes. "To make sure I stayed put to suffer my punishment, Duke Orlin's man nailed me to the wood."

"You tore your own ears to free yourself?" Aremil was willing to provide the man with the audience he so obviously craved. Then he wouldn't be the centre of attention himself. "To escape the sticks and stones?"

"The mob brought mistletoe, ivy and smooth-leaved holly to throw, till I was up to my ankles in berries." Reniack smiled broadly. "I still fought to free myself. Freedom is the natural condition all men are born to, whatever might befall them after they've taken their first breath."

Aremil suspected the man couldn't call for a refill in an alehouse without indulging in such rhetoric. "Are you a Rationalist, sir?"

"Of the radical persuasion." Derenna looked severely at Reniack as she sipped her wine.

"What had you done to outrage Orlin of Parnilesse?" Tathrin asked.

"A broadsheet circulated details of his father's last banquet." Reniack shrugged. "We listed who was there, what food was served and precisely who partook of which dishes. As I recall, we wondered whether his late Grace's face most closely matched the green or the black of his servants' liveries when he was taken ill, since that would give some indication of what might have made him so unwell." He shook his head with mocking concern.

A knock at the door interrupted him.

"Excuse me." Gruit slipped out into the hallway.

Aremil looked at the glasses still on the table. Gruit had half-emptied his own, and there was the one that the wine merchant had belatedly remembered not to offer to him. And one other.

Gruit came back into the room, bright-eyed. "I have the honour to introduce Mistress Larch."

Tathrin straightened and then bowed low. Aremil found himself wishing he was able-bodied and could do the same.

The woman was a true beauty. Every feature was a painter's dream, from her oval face, broad, high forehead and elegant nose to her irresistibly sensuous lips. Her skin was flawless, her coiled hair burnished chestnut. The silk shawl draped around her shoulders was the exact same shade of violet as her wide, wise eyes.

"Mistress Larch?" Reniack looked askance at her. "When Orlin of Parnilesse was entertaining the Tormalin Emperor's cousin, I'll swear to Saedrin you were Lady Alaric."

"Doubtless I was." She took an empty chair by the table with fluid grace. "You may have heard of Lady Rochiel?" She favoured Lady Derenna with a charming smile.

The two women were about the same age, Aremil decided. Though the newcomer's black gown looked fresh from the seamstress, impeccably cut to flatter a figure perfectly balanced between slenderness and seductive curves.

Derenna narrowed her eyes. "I believe so."

"Mistress Larch?" Gruit was quite at a loss.

"It'll be easiest if you all call me Charoleia." She accepted the glass of wine he offered and drank. "An excellent choice. From Kalavere?"

"You have a remarkable number of names." Aremil edged sideways to get a clearer view past Reniack.

"I have a great many pairs of shoes." She smiled at him, quite at her ease. "So I don't wear holes in any particular favourites."

"While a change of name means you never wear out your welcome." Admiration coloured Reniack's laugh as he raised his own glass in salute.

The pamphleteer was blocking Aremil's view again. He shifted along the cushions. "Master Gruit invited you here?"

Charoleia rose and came to sit on the other end of the settle. "He hoped I might be able to contribute some ideas, if you're discussing the best way to bring peace and prosperity to Lescar."

"Are you Lescari?" Reniack sounded uncharacteristically uncertain.

"I can be. When it suits me better, I am Tormalin born and bred. If we met in some other city, you might swear I'd never set foot east of the White River." As she spoke, her words slid seamlessly from Imperial silkiness to the sharper accents of western Ensaimin.

"Lady... Charoleia--" Gruit stumbled over the name as he took the empty chair beside Derenna "--is an information broker."

"I should be able to find out whatever you might need to know, once you have a plan to resolve Lescar's confusions." She smiled at them all.

"Is that what we're doing here?" Derenna looked uncertain.

"Can it hurt to discuss some options?" Gruit challenged her.

Aremil wondered if anyone else had noticed how deftly Charoleia had brought them all into a circle. Now Reniack was standing between her and Gruit while Tathrin filled the gap between himself and Lady Derenna. "Why would you help us?"

"I'm assuming I'll be handsomely paid."

Her violet eyes were even more remarkable close to. Aremil couldn't see any deception clouding them. Though, he reflected, any woman living under however many names this beauty had was doubtless a skilled dissembler. He tried not to let the subtle allure of her perfume distract him.

Charoleia sipped her wine again. "Gruit tells me you all believe that the common folk of Lescar would seize peace, if only it came within their reach?"

"I am convinced of it," the merchant said instantly. "Every tradesman and merchant with Lescari blood tells me of friends and family desperate to live free of apprehension and suffering."

Tathrin spoke a breath ahead of Reniack. "My father says the talk in hostelries all along the road always comes round to how much better life could be if there was no more fighting."

"It's time the common folk were masters of their own destiny." Reniack wasn't to be denied any longer. "We in Parnilesse see our fields and forests plundered to suit the whim of Tormalin's lords, all for the sake of the fat purses they offer Duke Orlin. They cart away our timber and lime while we live in hovels with leaky roofs and crumbling walls. His Grace sells the flax and the hides that are the fruits of our labours, while our women dress in rags and our children go barefoot. Tormalin merchants demand thrice the price they paid us when we need to buy linen and shoes."

"Only Parnilesse suffers?" Charoleia raised her perfectly shaped brows.

Gruit scowled. "Every dukedom's resources are sold to fund the same foolish ambition."

"Will the people of Parnilesse believe that?" Charoleia looked intently at Reniack. "Could they find common cause with Draximal's peasants? When they've been told so long and loud that all their sufferings are their neighbour's fault? That Draximal's lust to rule over them means rape and plunder unless they fight back? Could they ever believe that Draximal's folk go in just as much fear of Parnilesse's fell purpose threatening their lives and livelihoods?"

"I believe so." Reniack looked steadily at her. "If they were told long and loud how suffering unites the common folk of Lescar far more than lordly quarrels divide them."

"If every Lescari living in exile told them the same," Aremil realised, "and that no Caladhrian, nor anyone in Vanam or Col, pays any heed to whether we're Marlier-born or Draximal. All we are is Lescari."

"Best not say that's such a term of contempt," Reniack commented sourly.

"A byword for folly," Derenna agreed. "As pointless as brother fighting brother and trampling their inheritance into the mud between them."

"That galls you?" Charoleia challenged them all. "Then use it to goad the common folk of Parnilesse and Sharlac to make common cause with those of Triolle and throw the lie back in everyone's teeth."

"It's not just the common folk who are tired of warfare," Lady Derenna said, nettled. "Those of elevated rank see the suffering more clearly than anyone. We have the education to truly understand such improvidence, but we're caught in a cruel vice. Our tenants cry out for relief while our overlords demand ever more burdensome levies and tithes of meat and grain."

"Why not refuse such demands?" Charoleia wondered.

Derenna stared at her. "We would have armed mercenaries breaking down our gates to take whatever they could find of value."

Aremil was beginning to see that this newcomer was as astute as she was beautiful. One of his most respected mentors always drew his students towards the conclusion he desired with questions, so they believed they had discovered it for themselves.

"Mercenaries." Reniack spat into the empty fireplace. "They have no interest in peace, no stake in Parnilesse's prosperity. They are parasites. Everyone hates them."

"A loathing that unites common folk and nobility," Charoleia said lightly.

"The common folk cannot stand against mercenaries." Gruit shook his white head as he refilled his wine glass. "The militias are so poorly armed and seldom trained."

"You do your people disservice," Reniack asserted. "Militiamen have fought to the death in courageous defence of their hearths and homes. Mercenaries flee the field of battle as soon as their own skins are threatened."

"Which is one reason why so few battles are ever conclusive," Aremil pointed out.

"The dukes dare not put decent weapons into skilled hands." Derenna shook her head. "If they did, honest men and women could demand more rational rule."

Frustrated silence filled the room. Charoleia broke it.

"So are you all convinced it's only the dukes who want this warfare?"

Aremil met Tathrin's glance and saw his friend's agreement. "I believe that's so."

"Then Lescar could indeed have peace, if everyone else refused to involve themselves in the dukes' quarrels?" Charoleia asked.

Now the silence was stunned.

"The wind's already blowing in that direction in Carluse," Charoleia assured them. "Isn't it, Tathrin?"

Aremil looked at him. Astonished, he saw that the tall scholar looked as guilty as a schoolboy caught putting a snail in someone's boots.

"Yes," Tathrin said reluctantly.

"What's afoot in Carluse?" demanded Gruit.

Tathrin rubbed a hand over his mouth, looking uncomfortably at Aremil. "I would have told you, but it wasn't my secret. I was sworn not to tell. I shouldn't tell now."

"I understand." Aremil swallowed.