"Aha! I knew it. I can't tell about your friends, but I knew you had noble blood from the moment I laid eyes on you. I have a talent for such things." She tossed her deep red hair, and Silverdun had to concentrate not to stare at her.

"Well, perhaps I do and perhaps I don't, but it's no concern of yours either way. Another topic, if you please, miss?"

"Do you have Glamour yourself?"

"Another talent of yours? Intuiting people's Gifts?"

"Just a guess."

"A lucky one then. My focus at university was in Glamour."

"I thought so. And no, I won't ask which university you attended because I'm certain it was either Estaena or Nycuel."

"If you say so." Silverdun kept the eyebrow raised.

"Will you indulge me with the fruits of your studies? A small illusion to impress a lady?"

Silverdun laughed. "I'm no mestine," he said. "I'm certain I'd disappoint you."

"Oh, don't be coy," she sighed. "I detest coyness. All of the little girls my father has working with us are full of calculated sweetness and false modesty. It makes me ill; no wonder none of them can stand me."

"Perhaps they're jealous," said Silverdun.

"Perhaps," she said. "But no changing the subject. I want to see what you're capable of."

Silverdun cleared his throat. "All right," he said. "But I'm very much out of practice."

"Understood."

Silverdun watched her breathing, the flaring of her nostrils as she inhaled, the twin puffs of steam as she exhaled. He whispered a few syllables of the language of change and on her next exhalation, the vapor of her breath became a pair of small silver dragons that twirled around each other in flight, producing tiny jets of blue flame from their own noses. They twisted around each other and dissolved again into mist.

Faella clapped her hands. "Not bad at all, Perrin Alt. With a few lessons, you could be a mestine." She pouted at his laughter. "I'm serious. Why are you laughing?"

"Because that's the best I could do after three years at ... an unnamed university."

"Ah," she said, raising a finger. "Unnamed universities are the worst of all. They seldom attract the finest instructors."

"You raise an excellent point."

"If you wanted, perhaps I could provide some ... private instruction."

Silverdun whistled. "I'm not certain I could afford the tuition."

She looked at him. "My rates are very reasonable. All you have to do is whatever I want."

"Something tells me," said Silverdun, "that could be quite a lot."

"Yes, but," she said, "like the Aba of the Arcadians I never ask for more than my subjects are prepared to give."

They were interrupted by a pair of mounted men who rode from opposite sides of the path, blocking the road with their horses. The men were ragged from time spent outdoors, their beards long and unkempt, their clothes dirty and worn.

"Stand and deliver!" said the larger of the two, who wore his dark hair at shoulder length, free of braids. He carried a loaded crossbow and had it aimed at Silverdun's head. The other was blond and similarly braidless, equally menacing, sword in hand.

"Why look," said the blond, "it's the same mestina we visited yesterday!"

"I don't suppose they've turned a profit since last we met?" said the darkhaired man.

"Doubtful," said the blond. "But there are other forms of payment." He cast a long look at Faella, an ugly grin smeared across his face.

"Just so," said the dark-haired thief. "Just so."

One of the women aboard the front wagon screamed abruptly, a brief cry that stuttered and faded. Raieve, sitting beside her on the bench seat of the wagon, squeezed her hand gently and slipped off the vehicle's far side.

Mauritane nudged Streak forward from his position alongside the caravan and began riding at a walk toward the highwaymen.

"You just stay where you are, mestine," said the leader, bringing the crossbow around. "I don't want to have to use this."

Mauritane continued riding toward him. His expression was like stone, and there was no weapon in his hand.

"Stop. I'm not kidding!"

At a distance of about twenty paces, the leader steadied his wrist and fired the crossbow directly into Mauritane's face with a sharp snapping sound. At the same instant, Mauritane's hand flashed out in front of him and returned just as quickly to his side. Someone shrieked; several gasped. Silverdun, who was now alongside Mauritane, flinched and recoiled. When he turned his eyes back toward Mauritane, his friend was neither dead nor injured; he was, in fact, totally unharmed.

"That," said Mauritane, his expression unaltered, "was a mistake." He opened his hand, and the spent crossbow quarrel fell to the ground.

Mauritane drew his sword and advanced on the dark-haired man, who had become ill at ease.

"I ..." he began, jerking backward on his reins.

The leader's mount began to rear but stopped when Mauritane grabbed its bridle and pulled downward with a sharp tug. The horse leaned forward, nearly throwing the thief. When the man leaned forward as well, Mauritane swung his sword in an arc and brought it down on the highwayman's neck, severing his head with a single blow. Both head and rider fell to the ground, a dying word curtailed.

"Oh dear," said Faella. Silverdun turned just in time to see her slide from her saddle into his arms, her face pale.

The blond, his fight taken out of him, began to turn his horse. As he turned, a hand reached from behind him and grabbed his cloak. Raieve appeared at the man's side, her lip curled upward in a snarl, almost feral. She dragged him from the saddle, his legs kicking out uselessly in front of him.

"Wait!" he shouted. "Wait!"

He fell to the ground on his back, his sword tumbling to the ground out of his reach. He made a quick fist and lashed out, catching Raieve in the lip. She caught his arm before he could retract it and pinned it, bringing it down over her knee with a dull cracking sound. He screamed, rolling onto his side.

With the flat of her sword, she smashed the wrist on the other hand, breaking the bone so badly that it tore the skin. Blood began to pour from her lip.

"Stop!" the man shouted. Raieve could not hear him.

She rolled him again onto his back.

"Raieve," said Mauritane.

"I don't like men like him," Raieve muttered.

"I believe you've subdued him."

"It's not my intent to subdue him. It's my intent to castrate him."

"No!" the highwayman shouted. "Please don't!" He tried to lift his arms and was unable.

Raieve leaned in to him, spitting blood on his face. "You should have thought of that before you raped the girl on the wagon."

The man started to cry. "I didn't mean to ... it was a mistake! Please!"

Raieve took a thin dagger from beneath her cloak. "Lie still and it won't hurt as much," she said.

She raised her dagger arm and held it aloft, reading the fear in the man's eyes. But when she moved to bring it down she found Mauritane's hand gripping her wrist.

"No, Raieve," he said.

"This is my business," she said.

"No, Raieve. You are under my command, so this is my business."

"Thank you. Oh, thank you," said the highwayman, crossing his legs.

"Under my command, you kill who you must kill, and the rest you only disarm."

"That's exactly what I was about to do," said Raieve, her bitter smile showing bloody teeth.

"If you require vengeance for the girl, then kill him," said Mauritane. "Otherwise, leave him and let's be on our way."

Raieve stood and looked back at the wagon. "This is the man?" she said to the girl who sat rocking on the bench, tears streaming down her face. The girl nodded slowly.

"Shall I kill him?"

The girl thought, and then shook her head just as slowly.

Raieve nodded. "Let's go."

She and Mauritane rolled both of the men into a ditch at the side of the road.

"We'll send the Estacana Guard after you," said Mauritane to the blond man, who crouched in a fetal position in the ditch. "If you eat snow and keep your cloak dry you should survive until then."

Mauritane turned and faced Nafaeel, who drove the lead cart. "I've upheld my end of the bargain," he said. "I trust you'll uphold yours."

Nafaeel bowed low. "I am in your debt, sir."

Mauritane frowned. "You should take those horses," he said. "They look healthy enough."

Later, when they stopped to rest the horses and eat, Mauritane took Raieve aside. They stood on a low ridge overlooking a stand of snow-clad spruce. Below them, the Estacana road stretched to the south, a brown line in a field of white. The walls of the city were barely visible in the distance.

"Would you care to explain your outburst?" said Mauritane. "I thought you were more professional than that."

"Oh, come on, Mauritane!" she shouted. "Are you really that stupid? Do I have to spell it out for you?"

Mauritane hung his head. "You were raped yourself, I suppose."

She spun on him. "A brilliant deduction, Captain. Of course I was raped! Of course I was." She clenched her lips, tears beginning to form in her eyelids. She fought them.

"During the war, half the women in my village were raped at some time or another, and some of the boys as well. And now that the Unseelie have left, some of the less honorable clans have begun to follow their example."

Mauritane's eyes softened. "And that was why you became so upset. You were just reacting to ...

Raieve turned away, her hands on her ears. "Don't try to interpret me! Don't try to interpret me like a dream or a bad omen! I'm not a product of my environment like a beaten dog that bites. Everything I do is a conscious choice."

Mauritane watched her silently. He gazed out over the trees, pretending not to hear her crying. "I apologize," he said. "Let's just forget it."

"Yes," she said. "Let's."

To Silverdun, traveling with the mestina was a fair bargain; they had extra tents, which meant they were, for the time being, no longer forced to sleep on the cold ground. When he came to his tent after taking the first watch, he found Faella there, naked, lying beneath his blanket and skins.

"I thought you'd never get here," she said, lifting the covers for him.

Silverdun overcame his shock gracefully. "If I'd known you were coming," he said, "I'd have had the maid clean up a little."

"Come to me," said Faella, "Come to me, Lord Silverdun."

Silverdun was taken aback. "How do you know that name?" he said.

She held out a paper. "I'm an avid reader," she said.

Silverdun took the sheet. It was a copy of the Annals of the Court, a cheap publication distributed to the merchant class in bulk by the City Emerald's Copyist Guild. This edition was from several years previous; on the front of the page was a spelled engraving of nobles dancing at a court function. Silverdun was there, in his best black suit, dancing with the Lady Lelnest. A caption underneath bore his name.

"I was right about you," she said. "I knew it."

Silverdun smiled weakly. "Let's keep this just between the two of us," he said. "No one can know. It's very important."

She nodded. "It'll be our little secret," she said, smiling innocently. "Now come here."

He lay next to her and her skin was hot. He found her mouth with his own and they kissed, her arms around his neck as he removed his clothing.

She proved to be as able a lover as she was a mestine; Silverdun wondered briefly if they amounted to the same thing. Her body was lithe and supple, her breasts small and firm. She made love willingly, forcefully, matching each of his thrusts with one of her own. When she climaxed, she bit down on his shoulder to stifle a scream.

They lay together, a tangle of arms and legs, and finally slept.

Silverdun awoke with an icy hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked up into the face of Nafaeel. "Perrin Alt," said Nafaeel coldly. "Would you mind explaining what you're doing with my daughter?"

impropriety.