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  Bracor shook his head. “We’ve been in here for the past hour.”

  “Then I won’t keep you longer from your business.”

  “We’re done,” Har said. “Hello, Mother.”

  “Welcome home, dear,” the white-haired woman said. “It is good to have you safe. But who is the friend you have brought with you?”

  “Forgive me; I should have introduced you earlier,” Bracor said. “Isme, may I present Maurin Atuval of the Traders?”

  “I am pleased to meet a friend of Har’s,” Isme said in her musical voice. Her tilted green eyes studied him for a moment, but the scrutiny was neither unfriendly nor unpleasant.

  Perhaps Har had been right about his family’s reaction after all, Maurin thought as he made a courteous bow to the Lady Isme. Certainly none of them had shown even a hint of annoyance at the unexpected guest Har had foisted on them. Idly, he wondered where Isme’s native land was. He had never seen the combination of white-blonde hair and tilted green eyes before, though after his time with the caravans he knew most of the peoples of Lyra.

  “Journeyman Atuval is staying for a week or so, until the caravan leaves,” Alethia said. “I thought the big room in the south tower would be best for him, since those other lords are arriving at the end of the week.”

  Isme nodded approvingly. “Very good. Now, if you and Har are finished with your father, perhaps you would help me hunt for Tatia while Har shows his friend to the room.”

  Alethia made a face, but nodded and rose to her feet. One by one, the group followed Isme out.

  Chapter 2

  CANDLELIGHT AND COLOR FILLED the banquet hall of Styr Tel. Tapestries in rich hues covered the black stone walls, and the room was already filling with the notables of Brenn in their best and brightest holiday garb. Alethia, looking around the hall, sighed in considerable satisfaction. The afternoon’s efforts showed in the gleaming wood of the chairs her parents occupied, in the smooth sweep of linen that draped the trestle tables, and in the scent of fresh rushes and strewing herbs that rose from the floor as she passed. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, too.

  Nearly everyone. Har’s journeyman friend was standing beside one of the iron candle-stands, staring out over the crowd with a morose and forbidding expression. Well, he wasn’t going to snow on Alethia’s birthday party if she had anything to say about it. She made her way over and, by way of opening the conversation, asked what he was so interested in. To her mingled annoyance and amusement, she had to repeat the question before he responded, and then all he said was, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear your question.”

  “I asked what you find so fascinating,” Alethia said. “Now I am doubly curious.”

  “I was watching your guests.” Maurin hesitated; then, as if he realized that this was a little obvious, he added, “You said this would be a small party.”

  Alethia laughed. “It is small. Just wait until First Lord Gahlon and Lord Armin arrive; then you’ll see a feast! Everyone in town will be here.”

  “Why? I’m sure tonight’s guest of honor is far more attractive than they are.”

  “Very nice!” Alethia said, nodding in approval. “Or it would have been if I hadn’t been there when you told my father that you’ve never met Lord Armin or the First Lord.”

  The corners of Maurin’s mouth quivered with suppressed laughter, but his tone was solemn as he replied, “You have me there, my lady. Now you know why I am still only a journeyman Trader.”

  Opening her eyes wide in spurious surprise, Alethia said, “You mean you really are only a journeyman? After all Har has been saying, I thought surely you were a Wagon-master incognito!”

  “Har tends to exaggerate,” Maurin said with mock sadness.

  Alethia laughed again. “I see you know my brother well.”

  “Well enough. We stood watch together from Ciaron to Karlen Gale.”

  “Stood watch?” Alethia blinked, puzzled. “But you’re a journeyman.”

  “And Har is heir to a noble house. It makes no difference. Trader caravans can’t afford to carry dead weight,” Maurin said. “Everyone does something; journeymen earn their keep as guards while they’re studying for full status.”

  “What do you study?” Alethia asked. She was genuinely curious, and a little envious. Her parents might indulge her interests in politics and other such unladylike pursuits, but she did not labor under the illusion that they would ever permit her to sign on with a caravan, as Har had done. Talking with Maurin was as close as she was likely to come.

  “We must learn the customs and languages of the largest cities, and memorize the tables for converting the coin of one realm to another,” Maurin said. “Some of the Master Merchants can speak and write in twelve tongues, but journeymen are only required to learn five. It is not really very interesting.”

  “What’s not interesting?” Har said, coming up behind his friend.

  “Maurin has been telling me about the Traders,” Alethia said. “And I certainly do find it inter—”

  “Har!” A child’s shriek pierced the conversational buzz, causing heads to turn in their direction. Alethia suppressed a smile as her brother bent to catch their youngest sister before she ran headlong into his legs. Tatia was a little over four years old, and full of a boundless energy that was sometimes exhausting just to watch.

  “You didn’t come see me when you came home,” the little girl said accusingly as Har picked her up. “Do you like my dress? It’s new, like ’Lethia’s. There’s going to be a minstrel after supper. Will you take me fishing tomorrow? Who is that? Why is he staring at me?” She pointed at Maurin, and Alethia suppressed another smile at the bemused expression on his face.

  “This is Maurin Atuval,” Har said. “Maurin, this bratling is my youngest sister, Tatia. Maurin is a friend of mine; he’ll be staying with us while the caravan’s in.”

  Tatia considered Maurin with an unblinking stare for a moment, then swept an arm out in an expansive gesture that Alethia recognized as an imitation of their father’s welcome to foreign dignitaries. “Be welcome to Styr Tel,” Tatia said. Apparently feeling that something more was needed, she added, “You can come fishing with Har and me tomorrow, if you want.”

  “I would be honored,” Maurin replied gravely.

  “You have to ask Mother first,” Har said to Tatia. “I can’t take you fishing unless she says it’s all right.”

  “Oh, it will be fine if you ask her,” Tatia said. “Come and ask, right now!”

  “In a minute,” Har said. “I want to talk with Maurin first.”

  “Now!” Tatia insisted, her blond braids bouncing vigorously in time with her emphatic nods. “You won’t remember in-a-minute.”

  Maurin laughed. “She has you there, Har.”

  Har rolled his eyes. “All right,” he said to Tatia. He looked at his friend, and his eyes narrowed. Suddenly, he grinned. “You can spend your time reciting the basic conversation tables for Allie. You ought to get through seven or eight languages at least, before I get back.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of boring Lady Alethia that way,” Maurin said.

  “Seven or eight languages?” Alethia said, frowning. “I thought you said journeymen only knew five!”

  “Oh, Maurin knows them all,” Har said expansively. “He’s just too modest to mention it. He’s one of the best swordsmen in the guard, too. And he wasn’t even born a Trader!”

  “Har…” Maurin said in a warning tone.

  “Har!” Tatia said, wiggling impatiently in his hold. “You said you were going to come ask Mother about fishing. You promised!”

  “All right, bratling. I’ll be back in a minute, Maurin.”

  “Don’t hurry,” Maurin said.

  Har laughed, and carried Tatia off into the crowd. Maurin turned back toward Alethia, his eyes wary. “You mustn’t believe everything Har says; he—”

  “—tends to exaggerate. I know,” Alethia said with a smile. “You will just have to so
rt it out for me. For instance, how can you be a journeyman if you were not born a Trader? I didn’t think they let people just join!”

  “They don’t, normally,” Maurin said. “But I’ve been with the caravans since I was fourteen.”

  “Where were you from before that?” Alethia asked. “And how did you come to be with the caravans?”

  Maurin hesitated. “I was born in one of the seacoast towns; my parents were killed in a fire at the docks when I was an infant.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Alethia squirmed mentally, wishing she’d thought to pump Har earlier, so that she could have had some idea what questions not to ask. Though it would have been just like him to leave out the really important information.

  “I was raised by a couple who took me in for charity and never let me forget it,” Maurin continued, staring off over the heads of the guests as if he had forgotten he was talking to anyone but himself. “I ran away when I was fourteen. One of the southbound caravans picked me up. I suppose I was useful; anyway, they let me stay.”

  There was a brief, awkward silence. As much to break it as from curiosity, Alethia asked, “Was Har exaggerating about your sword skill?”

  “I can hold my own in a fight,” Maurin replied.

  A thought occurred to her, and she tilted her head to one side and asked cautiously, “Are you good with other weapons? I mean, besides the sword.”

  “Some think so.”

  He really was as modest as Har claimed. “Do you throw daggers?”

  “Yes, of course; all caravan guards learn that,” Maurin said, plainly puzzled.

  He was not being any help at all. Resisting the temptation to roll her eyes in exasperation, Alethia asked bluntly, “Do you play san-seri?”

  Maurin nodded. “If you would like to see a demonstration, I’m sure Har and I—”

  “No, no,” Alethia said impatiently. “I don’t want to watch. I wanted you to play a match with me.” Seeing Maurin’s thunderstruck expression, she added quickly, “Har is too busy most of the time”—and he got tired of being beaten by his little sister!—“so I hardly ever get a chance to play.”

  She held her breath, watching Maurin’s face. San-seri was an intricate knife-throwing game, played mainly by professional guards and soldiers, and by the Traders who had brought it to Alkyra from the lands west of Ciaron. It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing a noble’s daughter was supposed to be interested in, let alone good at. If Maurin was going to be as stuffy as her last tutor had been…

  “Where could we set up the target?” Maurin asked finally. “The courtyard is much too crowded.”

  Alethia smiled in relief. “I knew you would! The target is no problem. Har and I set one up behind the stables when he was learning swordcraft, and it’s still there.” She laughed. “When I started beating him, he decided to teach me archery instead, because he’s better at that than I am. Will you have time in the morning? The light is best then.”

  Maurin still looked uncertain, but he was too polite to repudiate his agreement, however unintentionally he had given it. Alethia told him when and where to meet her, and then Har rejoined them, and it was time to take their seats at the dinner table.

  Dinner could not help but be enjoyable. In honor of Alethia’s birth eve, Ceron had made all her favorite dishes: roast mutton, rabbit pie, buttered greens, biscuit bread with rose-petal preserves, roasted spiced apples, and a selection of tarts and stuffed pastry for dessert.

  The dinner ended, and Bracor rose. After the obligatory toasts to his daughter and his guests, he said, “We are fortunate to have in town a man who has just been accepted by the Guild of Minstrels. He was only passing through, but I have heard well of him, and I persuaded him to play for us tonight.”

  A ripple of anticipation went through the hall as Bracor signaled to the man and re-seated himself. Full-fledged minstrels came seldom to Brenn.

  A young man stepped forward, dressed in the blue and green of a traveling minstrel. He carried a melar, the stringed instrument that most wandering musicians used, and the hall hushed in anticipation.

  “Now will I sing for you the song of Gasinal and her love for Kellingarm the Kulseth seafarer,” said the minstrel, and he drew his hand across the strings and began. Though all had heard the song before, and knew it well, the hall was silent as he played. Even Tatia kept still, without fidgeting, until the song was done.

  When he finished they would not let him go, but showered him with praise and begged another of him. And so he sang the greatest lays of Alkyra for them, one after another, on into the night while the candles burned low in their sockets. When at last he ended his songs and bowed and slipped away, the guests shook their heads and gathered in quiet knots to speak of older things in low voices until the close of the eve was upon them, when they went their several ways.

  Shortly after noon of the following day, Maurin picked his way across the courtyard of Styr Tel toward the stables. He was still not certain how he had gotten himself into this position. A clandestine meeting with a noble’s daughter was a good way for a Trader to get into trouble. Fortunately, Har was off with Tatia on the promised fishing expedition, and had been completely unsurprised to learn that Maurin was not inclined to accompany them. Otherwise, it might have been difficult to find an excuse to slip away.

  The stables of Styr Tel were built in a corner of the courtyard. On one side they extended up to the outer wall, but on the long side there was a gap of six or seven feet between the stable wall and the fortifications. This had been partially roofed over, so that it was not clearly visible from the towers of the castle. It looked as if it would be popular as a trysting place, and Maurin’s uneasiness increased.

  He rounded the corner of the stable to find Alethia waiting for him. Her hair was braided again, and she had tied the plaits back to keep them out of her way. The severe style emphasized her high cheekbones and the slant of her wide eyes. She held a rack of daggers in one hand: twelve of them, with green handles.

  “I am so glad you came,” Alethia said as soon as she saw Maurin. “I was afraid you weren’t going to show up after all.”

  “I almost didn’t,” Maurin admitted.

  “Are you worried about getting into trouble with Father?” Alethia asked. “Don’t be; he will know exactly who to blame if he finds out. But if he does, you must promise to smuggle some pastry up to me after he locks me in my room. I don’t mind missing supper, but not Ceron’s pies!”

  Maurin grinned back at Alethia. “But what if he locks me in, too?”

  “Oh, Father would never do that,” Alethia said with mock seriousness. “You are a guest.”

  “Then you have set my fears at rest,” Maurin said, and bowed with a flourish.

  “Are you ready to start, then?”

  Maurin nodded, and Alethia waved toward a second rack propped up against the wall of the stable. This one held red-handled daggers, and on closer examination they proved to be exceptionally well-made and balanced for throwing. Maurin tossed one in the air, enjoying the feeling of quality.

  “They are good daggers, aren’t they?” Alethia said with some satisfaction. “Har brought them from Col Sador the last time he rode guard.”

  “No wonder they are so well-balanced!” Maurin said as he rose, holding the rack. “Where is your target?”

  Alethia nodded toward the end of the alley. Someone, probably Har, had fixed a large board in position against the stone of the outer wall. On it the square, circle, and diamond shapes were drawn roughly but clearly. Maurin nodded. For a few moments they took turns making practice throws, and Maurin found the red-handled daggers just as good as he had expected. Then the game began.

  They flipped a coin for the first throw, and Alethia lost. Maurin stepped to the throwing line and, with the ease of long practice, brought his arm down. The dagger flew in a perfect arc, turning in midair to strike point-first at one of the four intersections between the three figures. Alethia nodded in appreciation and stepped forward to t
ake her turn.

  The green dagger placed itself perfectly in the next intersection, and Maurin raised an eyebrow in surprise. Alethia was better than he had expected, unless it had been a lucky throw. The game went on, and it soon became clear that Alethia was not going to be easy to defeat. Maurin was hardly a novice player, but Alethia matched his throws with an ease that surprised him, and she was no mean strategist.

  They reached the final throw, and Maurin paused to study the board. The pattern of red and green was nearly complete. Carefully, he aimed and placed his last dagger. It flew true and fair, and Maurin smiled. The pattern of red was complete. Green could best it by completing its pattern, for Alethia had chosen a more difficult design, but her final dagger would have to be placed almost on top of Maurin’s last throw. If Alethia knocked the red dagger from the board, she would lose.

  Alethia stepped up to the throwing line. She frowned slightly, then in a single, fluid motion she raised her arm and threw. The green dagger came to rest a hairsbreadth from the red, quivering slightly, and Alethia smiled.

  “What a throw!” Maurin exclaimed in genuine admiration. “Har should have warned me. You have won, I think.”

  “Har doesn’t like to admit that he can be beaten by his younger sister,” Alethia said, smiling.

  “If you always throw like that, I can’t imagine why,” Maurin said. “Where do you get your skill?”

  “I suppose it runs in the family; Father and Har are both very good. Besides, I have a lot of time to practice,” Alethia said. She looked at the board critically. “I must admit, this is as close to a perfect game as I have ever managed.”

  “I would like to see you in competition,” Maurin said thoughtfully. “I don’t know ten men who could have made that last dagger.”

  “You flatter me, sir,” Alethia said, sweeping him a dignified curtsey.