Brasti ignored the counsel. 'It's Aline.'

'You think that because I'm trying to help the King's daughter I can't-'

'Not that Aline. Aline-your-wife, you idiot. You know, the woman whose memory weighs so heavily on you that before Ethalia you hadn't gone near anything female for years? The woman and I can't believe I'm saying this out loud whose name you invoke every time you have to fight for your life?'

I leaned back against the head of the bed, suddenly too weary even for the temporary pleasure of giving Brasti a split lip. 'You don't understand.'

'Of course I don't. So explain it to me.' He waited barely a second before going on, 'You can't, though, because it's all horseshit.' He sat down on the corner of the bed, apparently now confident that I wasn't going to beat him senseless. 'Think about it, Falcio. You're a young, beautiful woman. Smart, caring, sensuous-'

'Focus,' Kest said.

'Right. Anyway, so you find this man you think you're destined to be with and well, despite obvious physical defects, apparently some women do find you attractive, go figure. And here you are, spending every day of your life with the memory of your dead wife hanging over your head: Aline, the perfect woman. Aline, the noblest sacrifice. Aline, the purest-'

He must have noticed my fist clenching because he stopped for just a moment. Then he said, 'But it's not just you, Falcio. Ethalia buys into all of it too. So she finds you, a man she barely knows but has sworn she loves and who claims he loves her, and then Birgid, the woman who mentored her, the woman she idealised and adored, dies, and suddenly there's this damned Sainthood hanging over her. How do you suppose she feels?'

'Unmoored,' Kest said, before I could answer.

'Exactly. So of course everything feels fated or cursed or whatever. Of course it feels like some sign the two of you can't be together. Imagine the relief for both of you to finally have an excuse why you'll never have to get to know each other properly, never have to deal with each other's annoying faults. Never have to figure out that love is hard.'

I wanted to disagree, to tell him to shove off or, better yet, just ignore him, bury my head under the pillow until his annoying whining voice shut up, but somehow I couldn't. I looked at Kest, who'd always been my measure of what was true in the world.

'This is . . . out of my area,' he said.

Terrific.

'Listen,' Brasti said, putting a hand on my shoulder, 'go down to the common room. Walk in like a man, mind you, not some shade of the long dead. Go up to Ethalia, take her hand and lead her out onto the dance floor.'

I suddenly found myself laughing out loud. 'Dancing? You want me to dance with Ethalia?'

'Why not? If you're both so fucking cursed then I'm sure lightning will strike you down. But maybe you'll find that it's not some momentous curse, nor a mystical cure. Maybe it'll just be dancing. Maybe you're just a man and she's just a woman and every once in a while it's okay to just be human together.'

I stared at him for a long while. I have witnessed some terrifying things in my life, horrible things that made me question the very foundations of my own sanity, but none of them were quite as discomforting as Brasti Goodbow sounding as if he might be making sense.

Dancing, I thought. Well, there's a tactic that never occurred to me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

The Dance

The common room was packed with townsfolk men and women of all ages, and even a few children chasing each other around, though long past any decent bedtime. The music was loud and fast and infectious. Three musicians sat on stools on a small stage at the far end of the room, the sound from their guitars and flutes amplified by the wooden walls around them. Below the stage a well-worn dance floor extended out about ten feet, terminating in a wide semi-circle barely large enough to contain the dozens of dancers happily spinning and bouncing each other around.

It took me a while to work my way through the crowds until I could finally make out Allister and Ethalia sitting at a small table not far from the door. She had changed from her plain travelling clothes to a simple country dress of white and blue layers. The last time she'd worn it was the night we'd arrived at the Ducal Palace in Baern, when we'd walked though the Duchess' garden maze together. She'd plaited her long dark hair into a single loose braid that hung over her left shoulder, just like the other women in the tavern.

Despite her attempts to fit in with the crowd, to me she might as well have been glowing like the sun, and if the other patrons didn't share my awe of her, Allister certainly did. He leaned in and said something to her and she returned a small smile of acknowledgement. The sight gave me a mean twinge of jealousy for a moment. I tried to shake it without success.

At least Brasti would approve.

I was about to head towards them when one of the musicians caught my eye. He was a tall, thin man with black hair that hung just above his shoulders. He had a large silver hoop in one ear which I suspected meant something to troubadours but nothing to me. He nodded towards the other side of the room and when I followed the line of his gaze, I saw another musician, a blonde-haired woman stringing a guitar, at the side of the stage.

I hadn't had much experience with the Bardatti other than Nehra, but she'd assured me they were spreading the word and on the lookout for Greatcoats. Perhaps this woman had information for me.

'I'm Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats,' I said, once I was close enough to her that I could speak my name without too many others overhearing.

'A fellow tried to use that line on me yesterday,' she said, still stringing her guitar.

'I-'

'Besides, if you're going to try and pick up a woman using another man's name, you might as well get it right. Everyone knows that Falsio dal Vond is the First Cantor of the Greatcoats.'

'Oh for the damnation of Saint-'

She turned and grinned. 'Got you.'

'Got me?' This is why I prefer to spend my time dealing with people who want to kill me.

'Sorry,' she said. 'Nehra made me promise to use that on you when I saw you.' She stuck out a hand. 'I'm Rhyleis.'

I shook hands with her and felt the odd sensation of the calluses on her palms rubbing against mine. It made sense, I supposed, though our respective instruments were very different.

Rhyleis had a performer's face, all sharp angles, her every expression magnified as if the Gods wanted to make sure even those in the cheap seats would catch her meaning. I could imagine her playing the role of a mythical princess or a starving crone. Was she beautiful? Probably to most, but not to me.

Then why are you even thinking about her looks, you idiot?

Rhyleis caught my scrutiny and gave me a wink that unsettled me. I covered it as best I could. 'How did Nehra know I'd be here?'

She tilted her head. 'Well, let's see. You were in Baern and had to head back north eventually, which meant you'd likely be on this road, and' she gestured towards the far door that led to the rooms upstairs; I turned and saw Brasti there, giving me a thumbs-up, possibly assuming I'd decided to give up on Ethalia and seek comfort elsewhere 'can you imagine him not making you stop at a place like this? It's the busiest tavern in the region.'

I wasn't sure I was entirely convinced about her logic, but I let it go. Nehra was also annoyingly glib about the power of the Bardatti. I supposed that wandering troubadours probably didn't want common folk to be overly concerned about any possible esoteric abilities the people playing in their villages might have.

'I take it you have information for me?'

Rhyleis reached out and ran a finger against my cheek, looked into my eyes and sighed. 'Is that all you think I'm good for, Falcio? Information?'

'I . . . we only just-'

Again she smirked and let go. 'Relax, First Cantor, I'm playing with you.'

I was beginning to lose my affection for the Bardatti sense of humour, but suddenly Rhyleis was all business. 'We've spread word to those Greatcoats we could find. There aren't many of us to do the job, though, and, frankly, even less of you around.'

'How many?' I asked.

'Last I'd heard we'd made contact with eleven Trattari.'

It always irritates me when Nehra and the other troubadours call us 'Trattari', though I had larger concerns at that moment.

'Eleven? That's all?'

'It's only been a few months,' she replied, 'and it's a big country. Well, actually, it's a small country as these things go, but there's still a lot of ground to cover.'

'Which ones have you met?'

'Antrim Thomas and Allister Ivany, although I see you already know that. I saw Talia, the King's Spear about a hundred miles north of here a few weeks ago. She said she'd be on her way back soon.'

Eleven. Eleven out of what should be a hundred and forty-four counting Kest, Brasti and me. Where did we all go?

'There's something else,' Rhyleis said, drawing my attention back.

'What is it?'

'This thing with the Saints. It's worse than you've heard. I'm hearing lines in the songs about a cult of some sort.'

'"Lines in the songs"?'

She put a hand on my arm again and pointed to the other musicians. 'Listen . . . here.'

They were playing a rousing chorus of 'Any Rose In Spring', the words familiar to anyone in the southern half of Tristia. It's about a foolish young man trying to choose between the seven girls he meets, not realising that none of them actually want him.

'I don't get it,' I said. 'The lyrics are the same as they always are.'

'Listen to the notes of the counter-melody,' she said.

I did, but though I had some passing familiarity with music, that was pretty much limited to knowing roughly which end of a flute to blow in. 'I'm not-'

'Sorry,' Rhyleis said, 'I just assumed . . . the Trattari used to use the same language in some of their songs.'

'Pretend I'm not from two hundred years ago when the Greatcoats all wrote symphonies for every verdict, will you?'

'Fine. The counter-melody is like a code, used against the primary melody to delineate which words . . . no, you know what, let me just tell you what it says.'

Thank the Gods.

'A long time ago there was a cult who called themselves the God's Needles. Rumour has it that they used a set of esoteric rituals intended to turn their members into Saints themselves. That's all we know.'

'Well, I'd never even heard of them before now, if that makes you feel any-'

She shook her head to cut me off. 'You don't understand, First Cantor. We're the Bardatti. Keeping track of these things is what we do.' She hugged herself. 'I'm not sure I like the idea of something that's kept itself hidden from us this long suddenly appearing.'

I didn't like the idea either. God's Needles. Why dredge up something old and long forgotten; why now?

'I need to get back on the stage,' Rhyleis said. 'Emeryn is butchering the harmony up there.' She ran the backs of her fingernails over the strings and then adjusted two of the tuning heads minutely before picking it up and heading towards the stage. She stopped after a step, though, and told me, 'Oh, and you should probably pay more attention to your woman. Your friend there has eyes for her.'

'Saint Zaghev . . . is there no one in this country with anything better to do than concern themselves with my love life?'

Rhyleis grinned, though there was something else in her eyes. Sympathy, maybe? 'A noble hero, filled with valour and pain? A beautiful woman of wisdom and compassion? Two lovers torn apart by Sainthood to boot?' She ran back to me and kissed me on the cheek. 'Why, Falcio, it's a song so tragic it would turn any girl's head.'

She left me there, troubled by the information she'd brought me and confused by her demeanour. I couldn't forget that it was Bal Armidor, a Bardatti himself, who'd in some way set me on the path I'd taken in this life.

I suppose there's a reason why sane men keep their distance from musicians.

My first instinct was to head back up to my room, but seeing Brasti smirking at the back of the tavern soured me on that idea. Then it occurred to me that it was entirely possible the whole affair with Rhyleis had been engineered by him, though she didn't strike me as someone easily brought into another's scheme. Eventually I let all of it go and walked over to the table where Ethalia and Allister sat. I ignored the quizzical look from him and simply extended my hand to her.

'Are we leaving?' she asked. 'Is there some kind of danger or-?'

'Just dancing,' I said.

She sat there for rather a long time, staring at me. I knew I looked like an idiot standing with my hand out like a beggar pleading for pennies, but I have my own stubborn streak at times.

Let her tell me to go away. Let it be because she doesn't want me near, not for the excuse of some vague spiritual forces.

At last she reached out her own hand and placed it in mind. Her touch was light, tentative, as if she feared my skin might set hers aflame. It very nearly broke my heart then and there.

The hells for hearts, I decided. I'm done apologising.

I led her out to the increasingly crowded dance floor. The musicians had been playing a raucous jig but the moment we set foot on the floor they shifted into a slower cantadia, the playing so seamless I could almost have believed it was simply the natural progression of their set. At least, I might have believed it had Rhyleis not winked at me. Within moments, only a few dancers remained on the floor.

I held Ethalia neither near nor far from me, but kept the elbow of my right arm at the perfect half-bend that was, though technically correct, perhaps a bit too formal for a place like this. I had left my coat in my room so I could feel the warmth of her arm resting on mine, the bunching of my linen sleeve pressing against my own skin. Everything felt alive again, the different parts of my body all chattering noisily at me, for once not simply to remind me of my various poorly healing cuts and bruises. You're alive, they said. Safe, healthy, happy.

I wondered whether this might be some effect of Ethalia's Sainthood, but when I looked at her I saw a similar look of confusion and curiosity to the one I suspected I was wearing.

That, or you've lost the rhythm again.

Whatever the answer, neither Ethalia nor I spoke at first, but simply submitted ourselves to the melody, our feet following the steps of the cantadia's slow, swirling journey around the floor. Few of the inn's other patrons joined us. It's not a common dance in the country.

Which only proves this is Rhyleis playing with me.

'I am surprised,' Ethalia said as the song was ending.

Before either of us could pull away, the musicians transitioned into another slow song, this one an embrazia, so called because the form requires the dancers to hold each other close. A second wink from Rhyleis affirmed my conviction that the Bardatti were a menace.

'Surprised by what?' I asked, trying to keep my attention on the steps.

'You're a good dancer.'