the vagaries of fair.

First Stag dawned gray and misty over the City Emerald, but by evening the clouds dispersed and it was a crystalline sky that Purane-Es beheld as his carriage crossed the Old Bridge into Puorry Lane. From here, looking out over the Emerald Bay from which the city took its name, the sky was the ceiling of a great domed hall, painted black with the tiny flames of witchlit candelabras flickering high overhead.

It was a relief to be back in the city and to be wearing fresh clothes-soft leather boots, silk breeches, and a heavenly cashmere cloak-instead of the all-weather uniform he'd worn to Crete Sulace. Purane-Es ran clean fingers through freshly washed and brushed hair and sighed with pleasure. Facing him in the carriage was a pair of bodyguards and Stilad, his aide. Stilad wore a pair of spectacles high on his nose, and the way the nose protruded from beneath his bald head gave him the mien of a hawk or an eagle. He leaned uncomfortably away from the pair of guards, his small frame comical next to theirs, studying a sheaf of documents he'd produced from a pocket of his voluminous overcoat.

"Does my father know I'm coming?" asked Purane-Es, still peering out the window.

"Yes sir," said Stilad, looking up. "You're expected. I'm told his staff has purchased a case of Eb Elen, twenty years old. He'll probably serve it with dinner."

Purane-Es nodded.

The home of Purane occupied most of a block in an ancient and renowned quarter of the city, where the cobblestones were worn sheer and even the lampposts and sidewalks seemed immutable, eternal. Puorry Lane was the scene of dozens of famous paintings and mestinas; it was the renowned birthplace of a hundred famous lords.

"Welcome, child," said Purane, meeting him at the door. "We have much to discuss."

Standing silhouetted in the doorway, Purane might have been a statue of himself. Still wearing his dress uniform from a troop review earlier in the day, he cut a perfectly clean line, his epaulets glistening gold from the hall lights. Seen in profile, his wide-set eyes and straight edge of a nose might have been a sculptor's gift to a lesser man. The only thing that belied that stony impression was the thick fluid coil of the Century Braid that spilled over his shoulder. The braid was a sign that he'd taken enough lives throughout his career that he no longer bothered to count them.

"Good evening, father," Purane-Es said, pulling off his gloves. "It's good to be back."

Once the proper filial courtesies had been disposed of, Purane ordered supper to be brought and they fell to a sumptuous meal of venison steaks in rose broth, seared stuffed hens, and poppy flowers. They ate in silence.

Finally, Purane pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, eyeing his son with a thoughtful frown.

"I trust your mission was a success," he said.

Purane-Es smiled. "As much as it could have been. I delivered my message."

"Don't put on that air of hurt, boy," said Purane. "I still believe this is part of something greater."

"As does Kallmer," Purane-Es said. "He's convinced that he'll get promoted to lieutenant captain once he figures out what that something is."

Purane waved the thought away. "Kallmer is nothing," he said. "You are far more secure than he." He wiped his chin with a silk napkin. "And what of poor Mauritane? How did he appear?"

"With sword in hand, is how he appeared," said Purane-Es. "He disarmed a guard and rushed me when he saw who I was."

Purane laughed out loud. "Incorrigible bastard, that Mauritane. I see you survived. What happened?"

"He's not the swordsman they claim he is. I disarmed him without much of a fight."

The Elder Purane raised an eyebrow. "Really? Prison must not have treated him well."

Purane-Es sat up straight. "Oh, and I suppose it's not possible that I could have bested him unless he were beaten down?"

Purane rolled his eyes. "Relax, son. It wasn't a criticism of you. Mauritane is one of the best fighters I've ever encountered. If he went down easily then he may not be in the best fighting condition. That may bode ill for this ... whatever it is that the Queen has entrusted to him."

"He appeared to be none the weaker for his imprisonment, father. Perhaps I simply got lucky."

"Enough," said Purane, his voice rising slightly. "What did you learn of his mission? Did he appear to have any prior knowledge of it?"

Purane-Es shook his head. "No, if anything he seemed baffled that the Queen would call upon him."

Purane nodded. "Yes, I expected as much." He ordered wine from a servant and then pointed a finger at Purane-Es. "Whatever you do, don't underestimate Mauritane," he said. "He's a dangerous man. He's brilliant, he's ruthless, and he'll stop at nothing to achieve his goals. He's also utterly devoted to Her Majesty, or at least he was before that business in Beleriand. Make no mistake, child. Mauritane rose to his captaincy through skill alone, and if you take him too lightly, you won't live long to regret it."

Purane-Es allowed the slightest snarl to touch his upper lip. "I'll try to remember that."

"See that you do."

The servant reappeared with a dust-covered bottle and uncorked it before them, pouring two glasses from a crystal serving set on the dining room's mantel.

Purane-Es inhaled the bouquet, swirling the dark purple wine in his glass. "Eb Elen?" he asked, as though guessing.

"Yes," said Purane, grinning at his son's talent. "How old?"

Purane-Es took a sip, swishing it in his mouth. "A guess. Twenty years?"

"There's one thing I will give you credit for, boy, and that's your knowledge of spirits." Purane's mood lightened.

"Speaking of Mauritane," he said, deliberately changing the subject, "I've got a question about the guest list at your latest extravagance."

Purane-Es sighed. "I assume you're referring to one guest in particular?"

"I am," said Purane. "Tell me, son. Why have you invited the Lady Anne? Is she not still married to the man?"

"She is indeed. But she is also noble-born, and he is not. If she wishes to divorce him, she has merely to say it, and it is done."

Purane's eye's widened. "Are you telling me that you intend to court her?"

"I am. And I intend to win her."

"To what end?"

"She was the ideal wife for a Captain of the Guard, father. And someday I hope to inherit that position."

Purane chuckled. "Son, sometimes I don't know whether to praise you or to damn you. You're nothing like your brother was."

Purane-Es's mood drained at the mention of Purane-La. "No, father. I'm nothing like him. Someday, though, I think you'll see that it's a good thing."

The Lady Anne sat primly in the sitting room of Cucu's boutique, pretending that she wasn't being ignored in the same way the Cucu was pretending not to ignore her. When she'd entered the shop, Cucu had shot her an amazed glance, then let her eyes drift past the Lady Anne to another customer. Anne was amazed at the difference a few brief years could make.

As a person of quality, it was tacitly agreed among the patrons and staff at establishments such as this that the Lady Anne should be seen before any merchant's daughter or alderman's wife. She was noble-born, and when she was the wife of the Captain of the Royal Guard, she was given the proper respect. Now she was the wife of a traitor and a criminal, and Cucu could barely countenance her presence.

While she sat, the fluttering that stirred in the Lady Anne's stomach grew to a tremor. She felt ill. Upon receiving the invitation from this Purane-Es, she'd naively thought that her troubles were simply and suddenly behind her. But the sidelong glances from the ladies in Cucu's fitting room spoke volumes against that notion. She wanted to take Purane-Es's invitation from her handbag and show it around the shop, shouting, "See this! I am still one of you! I still exist!" But that wasn't possible. They would all have to wait. And when they saw her at the arm of a Commander in the Royal Guard, a man of unblemished character and noble birth, there would be no cautious looks.

Or would there? Could there be any doubt of her status once she was feted thus? Certainly not. When that day came, just a few nights hence, they would all be smiling at her from behind their fans, asking her to dance in their reels, join in their songs. And then it would be her turn to look sideways. Mauritane be damned.

While she sat, touching her hair with a carefully bred carelessness, a man entered the shop, wearing the uniform of some low office in the Queen's Guard. No soldier, this one wore spectacles and had no braids to adorn his bald head. Someone's aide, no doubt.

The aide strode to Cucu as though he were her master and pulled her aside. They spoke in whispers, every so often glancing in the Lady Anne's direction. Cucu's eyes widened, and she gasped. The man bowed slightly and left as quickly as he'd entered.

"Is that the Lady Anne?" cried Cucu, clutching her hands to her chest. "My darling woman, it's been so long I didn't recognize you. Why didn't you say something?" Cucu took Anne's hands and guided her gently to her feet. "Let me look at you," she said. "Oh, now don't I feel like an idiot?" She clucked her tongue.

The Lady Anne stared blankly at her as she struggled to understand. "The man who was just here, who was he?" she asked, in as haughty a voice as she could manage.

"Oh, him? Just an aide belonging to Purane-Es. A little sprite tells me you're to be the guest of honor at his upcoming fete! I'm so delighted to hear it!" She nearly squealed in what passed for delight. Behind her eyes, Anne read fear and, as much as she hated to admit it, it pleased her.

Anne breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Oh, how they would regret having treated her so poorly. "Think nothing of your oversight, dear Cucu," she said. "I've been hiding out from the witchlight, just waiting for the perfect moment to reappear."

Cucu nodded heartily. "Come, dearie. I've got just the thing for you. Glamoured butterflies, little flowers along the hem that bloom when you dance. It will look perfect on your delightful figure."

The Lady Anne almost said it out loud. Mauritane be damned!

the admiration of the novice!

by the water's edge.

"Silverdun! Behind you!"

Mauritane followed his warning cry with a sidelong thrust of his saber. The tip of his blade caught the advancing buggane in the side and it fell to the ground screeching. Silverdun wheeled around, saw that Mauritane had taken it, then continued his spin, planting his dagger in the belly of the creature in front of him.

The bugganes had attacked quickly, without warning. There were perhaps thirty of them. They fell from the treetops, bodkins in hand, their long, sharp teeth bared. They were dressed in tattered rags, with curly, matted hair and lumpy green skin protruding from every seam. Their only sounds were the low grunts of their attacks and the high-pitched squeal of their pain.

When they'd appeared, Mauritane had immediately dismounted and ordered the others to do the same. "Take the horses away from the fighting," he'd called to Satterly, tossing the reins in Satterly's direction as he drew his sword and knife.

From the relative safety of the rim of the small valley where they'd been ambushed, Satterly watched the combat with awe, hardly believing that he might someday take part in such an encounter. With the admiration of the novice, he mentally noted the vast differences in the fighting styles of each of his companions.

Silverdun was a trickster, not so much a swordsman. He would taunt and goad his opponent into a corner from which the creature could not maneuver, then pin him with a short, quick thrust. He cajoled and shouted at the creatures, constantly trying to keep them off balance.

Raieve's chief weapon was her speed. None of the bugganes could touch her; her thin blade whipped and flashed in the morning sun, always finding her enemy's blade before it could find her. She twirled and danced around two of them at once, picking away at them until they fell.

Gray Mave took one buggane at a time, swinging his heavy sword almost like a cudgel. He was slow; but his blows, when they struck, were almost always lethal. His face was blank as he fought, years of martial training as a guard guiding his motions.

Satterly was impressed that Mauritane had somehow assembled what must have been the best team of swordsmen in all of Crete Sulace, not that he was an expert on such matters. How had he known how well their styles would interact? From where he stood, the fight was a foregone conclusion. The bugganes didn't stand a chance. Watching Mauritane, Satterly thought that he might have been able to take on all of the bugganes himself.

He watched Mauritane move, taking on three attackers at once while simultaneously ensuring that his companions were not surrounded or attacked from behind and guiding the melee away from where Satterly stood with the horses. Though it was difficult to see his face for all his movement, Satterly could swear that Mauritane looked almost pleased, as though fighting for him was like breathing for anyone else. He moved without apparent effort, whirling his blades around him with perfect fluid grace, as if he were demonstrating the art of sword fighting, rather than engaging in it.

"Try to remain uphill of them," Mauritane shouted, lashing out with an elbow that caught one of the creatures on the forehead, dropping it to the ground.

Gray Mave cried out, a low guttural sound, as his opponent caught him in the chest with a slash of its thin blade. Mauritane, not able to reach him, took his own attacker by the throat and lifted it off its feet like it was made of straw. He hurled the creature headlong toward where Gray Mave stood clutching his torso. The flying buggane slammed heavily into Mave's adversary. The two creatures' heads crashed together and blood sprayed from between them.

By then, only four of the bugganes remained. At some point, their leader had been slain and they began to fight warily, backing away rather than advancing. They started looking over their shoulders.

"Shall we let them run?" said Raieve, kicking one in the knees.

"No," said Mauritane. "Kill them all."

At that, two of the creatures began to flee. They were surprisingly swift. Silverdun hit one of them between the shoulder blades with his thrown dagger, but the other cut around behind a stand of trees and vanished.

"Streak!" shouted Mauritane. The horse cried out at Satterly's side and ran toward its master. Mauritane caught a stirrup with a raised left leg and swung his body astride the horse before the beast could stop. He kicked Streak forward, shouting, "Go!" He slapped the horse's flank with the flat of his sword.

"What's he doing?" shouted Satterly, as Gray Mave and Raieve finished off the remaining bugganes.

Silverdun shrugged. "I guess they made him angry."

Satterly watched as Mauritane chased the fleet creature, its long thin legs carrying it across the densely packed snow of the valley nearly as fast as Mauritane moved on horseback. Mauritane closed on it, came around slicing with his sword. The creature ducked, stumbled to the ground, and Mauritane fell on it, hacking with his blade.

When he returned, his chest was covered in the thick purplish blood of the thing.

"Why did you chase the creature down?" asked Raieve angrily. "It was retreating."

Mauritane wiped the blade of his sword on one of the fallen creatures' garments. "Bugganes travel in packs of up to a thousand. It wasn't retreating," he said. "It was going for reinforcements." He let the rag fall to the ground. "Gray Mave, how badly are you injured?"

"Not much more than a scratch," said Mave, touching the wound on his chest. "It got beneath the skin, but not by much."

"Put a poultice on it and watch it. The last thing we need is for you to die from an infected wound."

A strange look appeared on Gray Mave's face as he prodded the skin around his cut. "Yes, of course," he said.

"Good then," said Mauritane. "We need to get out of here. Quickly."

Satterly winced, looking to Mave for commiseration. Both of their backsides were beginning to ache from Mauritane's idea of quickness. They had been two days already in the Contested Lands, and Mauritane had allowed nothing faster than a trot. The gait caused no trouble for the more experienced riders, but Satterly and Gray Mave both had bruises on their thighs from the constant slapping of the saddle. When they complained, Mauritane said only, "Learn to ride properly and it won't be a problem."

Aside from a few bandits, who generally fled at the sight of five armed horsemen, and the current buggane encounter, they had encountered few living things of any kind in the Contested Lands. Their chief enemy, in fact, had been the weather.

"The air in many of the shifting places is much warmer than our current wintry clime," Silverdun had explained as they crossed into the Contested Lands. "That difference creates storms more massive than any you've ever seen."

He had not been exaggerating. The first night saw wind and hail, with stones the size of pebbles striking the tents, bringing Gray Mave's down on top of him. The second day it rained without cease, the storm carried in on a warm, humid breeze from some distant shifting place. The water soaked through even the best-oiled skins leaving their rations, their clothing, even their bedrolls damp. The second night had not been pleasant for anyone.

Now, as they rode away from the small valley, a brisk wind picked up from the south, drying the sweat from their foreheads, and the sun shone through the tangle of clouds overhead, lifting water vapor from every tunic and saddle blanket.

"Tell me again why we have to ride so slowly?" said Satterly, cursing under his breath. "Aren't we in a hurry here?"

Gray Mave nodded sympathetically. "Lord Silverdun must keep watch for the shifting places," he said.

Satterly winced. "I know, Mave. I was just complaining." He groaned. "Do you have anything in your bag for saddle sores?"

"Aye," said Mave. "A concoction my mother taught me the use of. It's effective enough, but it does smell very much like shit."