And Amílcar was a port city.

That was the bad thing about Amílcar.

On the third day, our course intersected the road through the east ern Pass of Aragon and we were able to travel with greater ease, following a great river basin in the shadows of towering peaks. Luc went fishing in the twilight as the men of Verreuil made camp that evening, setting lines in the swift-flowing river and catching several trout ere the light faded.

"Do you still remember how to clean a fish, little brother?" he asked Joscelin, grinning as he returned from the riverbank, gleaming fish dangling from his line.

Joscelin raised a laconic eyebrow. "I might."

I studied the translation of my Jebean scroll and watched from the corner of my eye, amused, as the sons of Millard Verreuil cleaned and gutted trout by the light of our campfire, a messy job at best. Luc jabbed his thumb removing a hook, swore, stuck his thumb in his mouth and yanked it out, swearing again and spitting at the taste of fish-slime.

"You shouldn't laugh, my lady," he said, aggrieved. "I'm trying to be gallant. Your consort there told me you like trout."

"I do," I said. "And thank you."

"You're welcome." Luc cast a disgruntled glance at Joscelin, who held up two fish without comment, neatly cleaned and deboned. "Oh, go ahead, you may as well do the rest. I didn't think anyone fished in the City of Elua."

"I don't." Joscelin started on a third trout. "I fish in Montrève.”

"I should have guessed." Luc sat beside me, unselfconsciously rubbing his hands together to remove fish residue. "My lady . . . Phèdre ... I meant no offense, back there in Verreuil. With the Tsingano, I mean. I wouldn't have harmed him, not really. Even if I was sure of a man's guilt, I'd still summon a magistrate and see him given a proper trial. I was angry, that's all."

"I know." I set the parchment aside. "Luc, I know. The problem is, there are others who wouldn't, and too many who'd remain silent to see it done. A Tsingano like Kristof isn't going to take a chance on which kind of man you are. I know their reputation. Some of it is deserved. Most of it isn't. I asked their aid. It took courage for Kristof to seek me out. It didn't help matters to have you threaten him."

"I suppose not," he murmured. "But how can you be so sure he didn't lie?"

I told him how to discern the nine tell-tales of a lie, watching his eyes widen.

"That's so ... complicated." Unlike his brother, Luc Verreuil was at heart an uncomplicated man. He rose, shaking his head. "I'll take your word for it, and stick to what I know, which at the moment is fish. Joscelin, since you're so fast with a knife, you can dispose of the offal. My lady Phèdre, if you'll forgive me, I'm off to the river to wash my hands and gather stones to build a cook-pit."

"Forgiven," I said.

When he had gone, Joscelin chuckled, wiping his fish-gutting blade on a handful of grass. "It's been eating him up since we left, you know. I'm glad he finally talked to you. Mayhap he'll actually think about what you said."

"Mayhap." I regarded him. "For all their energy and wit, members of your House don't appear over-quick to change their ways of think ing."

"No." Joscelin squatted on his heels beside the campfire, glancing to see that his brother and the others were out of earshot. "The old beliefs hold strong in the back-country. It comes home to me every time I visit. I love them, Elua knows, but. . . my childhood was a long time ago, and too soon ended." He stretched out his begrimed hands, contemplating the calluses left by dagger- and sword-hilt. "I held Verreuil in my heart," he mused, "and Verreuil went on without me, unchanging. It's I that has changed."

"Do you regret it?" I had to ask it.

"No." The firelight reflected in his eyes as he glanced at me, dis pelled by a quick shake of his head and a half-smile. "Do you?"

"No," I said. "Not you. Never you." I brushed his forearm with my fingertips. "I didn't have much of a childhood either, not as people like your family would reckon it. But there was Delaunay, and Alcuin. Hyacinthe. I had love. And I have you. For that alone, it is worth the cost."

"Yes. Always." Joscelin gazed toward the south. "And there are worse ends to childhood than entering the Cassiline Brotherhood or Anafiel Delaunay's service."

I shuddered. "I know. Ah, Elua!"

"Melisande's boy." He was quiet for a moment. "Mayhap the priest was right to raise him as he did. At least he had joy in it. That's ended, now. Even if we find him whole and unharmed, it's a hard path he'll tread once he knows who he is. He's not like the crofters' daughter, to return to a loving family."

"Ysandre will see him safe," I said.

"She'll do her best, I know. Still..." Joscelin shrugged. " 'Twill be a hard path."

I thought about Imriel de la Courcel. What would it be like, at ten years old, to learn that everything you had believed about your life was a lie? To learn that you were a traitor's get, that your very existence was part and parcel of an unthinkable scheme, and people you'd never met would gladly see you dead?

"Poor boy," I murmured.

"Poor boy, indeed." Gathering himself, Joscelin eyed the pile of fish guts. "Ah, well. I suppose I'd best get rid of these, unless you'd care to do it."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "You're the one loves fishing."

He gave his wry smile. "That's what I thought."

TWENTY

IT TOOK nearly a fortnight to reach Amílcar. We lost two days to summer storms in which Jean-Richarde, the senior of the men-at-arms, deemed it unsafe to travel. I was impatient at the delay, but after seeing the torrential downpour swell the river until it overflowed its banks in a churning rage, lapping at the foot of the caverns where we'd taken shelter, I ceded to his wisdom.We timed our arrival for the morning, taking lodgings in one of the better inns near the bustling harbor. Luc, who spoke fluent Aragonian, negotiated for our rooms. I understand the tongue, a little—it is a variant of Caerdicci, fluid and melodious, with lengthened vowels and a softly lisped 's' sound—but I am ashamed to say I have never studied it myself.

Once ensconced, I penned a swift note to Nicola L'Envers y Aragon, stamping it with the impress of Montrève's seal and sending it with Dolan, the younger of the men-at-arms, to the Consul's Quarters in the Plaza del Rey. When it was done, I ordered a bath and procured a laundress to press the creases from my best gown, such as it was—a silver-grey silk, the bodice finely embroidered with silver thread. It would do. I hadn't packed my garments with thoughts of a visit to the King's Consul of Amílcar in mind.

Nicola's reply, I thought, would come promptly if she was in res idence; indeed, she was, and her response was faster than I had reck oned. No sooner had I finished applying a touch of kohl to my lashes and tucking my hair into a mesh caul laced with seed pearls, but a wide- eyed Aragonian lad knocked at the door, a servant of the inn come to announce in comprehensible Caerdicci that the King's own carriage was awaiting us below.

It wasn't, of course—it was the carriage of the King's Consul, but it was impressive enough, with a driver and a footman and the arms of the House of Aragon worked in gilt on the sides. Luc sat nervously on the tufted velvet seats, fussing with the curtains, taking up a good deal of space for one man.

"Elua, but it's stifling in here!" he said, tugging at the frogged closure of his doublet. His summer-blue eyes, so like and unlike his brother's, were wide and anxious. "Are you sure I'm dressed aright? I've never met foreign nobility before. Phèdre, what's the proper form of address for a lord of the House of Aragon? Should I kneel or bow?"

"The Lady Nicola is D'Angeline, and a friend," I reminded him. "And Ramiro is Consul, not the King himself. Just. . . pretend you're greeting the Marquis de Toluard, Luc. Accord them the same courtesies you would him."

"Tibault de Toluard would haul me off to the parapets to see his engineers' latest improvement on the trebuchet," Luc said glumly. "I don't think Ramiro Zornín de Aragon will do the same."

"No." Joscelin lounged against the padded seats, unconcerned. "He'll likely show you the latest game of hazard instead, and if you've not brought your dice, I'm sure he's a set to lend. Don't worry, Luc. You'll not embarrass Verreuil."

"I hope not," his brother muttered.

Amílcar is a pleasant city, though we saw little enough of it through the drawn curtains of the carriage, alighting in the Plaza del Rey. On one side of the square stood the Count's palace, a solid affair of grey granite with adornments of wrought-iron scrollwork. The quarters of the King's Consul faced it on the opposite side, a lower, more modest building. A pair of guards waved us through the archway into the courtyard, where we were met by a majordomo in the livery of the House of Aragon.

"Comtesse de Montrève," he said in fluent D'Angeline as I stepped from the carriage. "Messires Verreuil. The Lady Nicola will receive you."

We followed him into the marble foyer. It was cooler within than without, light filtering through fretted windows to cast complex patterns, date palms in vast pots lending a suggestion of green shade. He led us to the salon of reception, which had a narrow marble frieze about the walls depicting the King of Aragon pardoning a Prince of Carthage, much gilt trim and a carpet of a startling red hue.

"It's a bit much, isn't it?" Nicola L'Envers y Aragon smiled, coming forward to greet us. "I'm not allowed to make changes to the decor in the reception hall. Phèdre, my dear. Well met." A gold seal-bracelet tinkled at her wrist as she raised one hand to touch my face, giving me the kiss of greeting. "And Joscelin."

"My lady Nicola." There was a trace of amusement in his voice as he bent to kiss her.