"I should have anticipated this," Lady Denise apologized. "You may refuse, of course, but… it would be better if you don't."

"We'll go," I said. Eamonn, not bothering to hide his impatience, grumbled reluctant agreement.

A squadron of the princeps' personal guard arrived to escort us. As a sign of honor, we were allowed to ride. They fell into formation around us, clad in shining breastplates, their white cloaks with the purple border swinging briskly about their bare legs as they marched. I wondered if they felt the chill. I had no idea what to expect of the princeps, Titus Maximius. In my time as a scholar in the city, I knew him only as a distant figure of derision among the University students, who had little respect for the office he held, diminished as it was from its long-ago glory. I'd never expected to meet him in person.

Like the Temple of Asclepius, the royal palace was located on an island in the Tiber River, though it was closer to shore and joined by an elegant bridge. Our escort marched us across it. We dismounted in the courtyard and were conducted inside.

Here, the vestiges of Tiberium's splendor remained on display. We were led into the throne room, which sported a polished floor of pink marble, high ceilings, and a border of gilded friezes. There was a throne, too; an ornate affair of gilded wood crusted with jewels, a purple cushion on the seat. It was empty.

"Dreadful, isn't it?" A man emerged from behind the throne. He was some thirty years of age, with bad skin and a prominent bulge to his skinny throat. In one hand, he held a scroll; the other was extended in greeting. "Well met, Prince Imriel de la Courcel."

I clasped it unthinking. "Well met, messire." Even as I said the words, I realized he wore a simple diadem; a purple ribbon tied around thinning brown hair. I released his hand and bowed deeply, mindful of Court protocol. "Forgive me, your highness."

"Oh, call me Titus," he said. "Please."

I straightened and found him smiling. "Imriel."

"Imriel." The princeps of Tiberium turned to Eamonn. His gaze rested on the gold tore around his neck, oddly wistful. "And you must be Prince Eamonn mac Grainne of the Dalriada, from the far reaches of Alba. I've just been reading about it."

"I am." Eamonn bowed.

Titus Maximius sighed. "Come and take a cup of wine with me, won't you?"

We spent an hour with him, drinking and talking. He wanted to hear of our adventures, here in the city and in Lucca. To my surprise, I found I both liked and pitied him. The princeps had led a sheltered, protected life. He yearned for more, more than his role would ever allot him.

"I wanted to go, you know," he said sadly. "To Lucca. I wanted to lead the army myself. But the Senate refused to allow it."

Eamonn coughed. I daresay he thought it was the right decision.

"Terre d'Ange is grateful beyond telling for Tiberium's aid in this matter," I said diplomatically. "To risk yourself in such a manner would have been far too much to ask."

"That's what they said." Titus Maximius snorted. "You needn't be grateful. I would have done it for the sport. For the glory. And unless your ambassadress is a liar, and I am assured she is not, your queen will pay dearly for our assistance. After all, it was a prince's ransom of sorts."

"Lady Denises word is Queen Ysandre's bond," I assured him.

"That's good." He drummed his fingers restlessly on the arm of a chair. I noticed his nails were bitten to the quick. "It was my wife's idea, you know. She's very clever."

I met his gaze. Although his pale blue eyes were a trifle watery, it was frank and ingenuous. I wondered if his wife was a member of the Unseen Guild. If she was, I wondered if he knew. "Will we be meeting your lady wife?"

Titus blinked his watery eyes. He looked from me to Eamonn, then back at me. He was an unlovely man with unrealized dreams of heroism and glory, and I didn't need to step outside myself to see the shadow of envy that lay on his soul. But he knew it, and he bore it with a kind of forlorn dignity.

"No," he said, slow and sorrowful. "No, I don't think that's a good idea."

We parted with mutual assurances of goodwill. I left in a pensive mood. There are all sorts of prisons in this world, and Titus Maximius was trapped in one of them. I'd often felt the same way myself before I'd reached my majority. While Tiberium had been my escape, its princeps would never taste freedom. I could not help but pity him.

At least he was shrewder than Deccus Fulvius where his wife was concerned.

"Dagda Mor!" Eamonn shook himself. "I'm glad that's over." He punched my arm and grinned. "Come on, let's go find out what message the lovely Claudia holds for me. If I wait any longer, I'm like to burst."

We arrived at the Fulvii domus unannounced, but not unexpected. A heavy knot of guilt settled into my belly as I entered the atrium, rendered all the worse by Deccus Fulvius' hearty greeting.

He embraced us both, pounding our backs. "Good lads, good lads! By the gods, I'm glad to see that dead madman didn't get you killed!" I smiled at him. "Thanks in large part to you, my lord." "Eh." Deccus shrugged, a twinkle in his eye. "I promised you I'd do my best. I'm an old lion, but not yet toothless." Claudia emerged, a letter in her hand.

She was every inch the Tiberian matron, clad in a demure gown of amber velvet with a high throat, her extravagant hair braided in a coronet. It didn't fool me, not for a heartbeat. I could see the way her breasts moved beneath the velvet, the sway of her hips. I swallowed hard as we exchanged greetings. Eamonn, quivering with impatience, didn't notice. His gaze was fixed on the letter she held.

"Prince Eamonn." She handed it to him. "This is yours."

He tore it open, scanning the page, his lips moving soundlessly.

"Well?" I asked.

Eamonn showed it to me. I thought he'd been reading a lengthy missive, but I was wrong. He must have been uttering a silent prayer, or whispering place-names to himself. There was a crude map of Skaldia drawn on the parchment, with one spot circled over and over again. At the top, it simply read, Come.

"What happened?" There was a note I'd never heard before in his voice. "And when?"

"Ten days ago?" Claudia glanced at her husband for confirmation. "Her brother came for her," she said gently. "I'm afraid that's all we know. One of Master Piero's students brought this, along with the tale that Brigitta was returning to her family in Skaldia. You might question him."

He nodded. "I will."

Out of the dictates of politeness, we stayed for a while longer, sipping wine and telling them all that had transpired since they had left Lucca. This time, the telling fell to me. Eamonn was distracted and restless. I recited the tale of the battle, all the while wracking my wits to find a way to have a private word with Claudia Fulvia. When one of Deccus' colleagues called upon him in a business matter, he excused himself and Eamonn sprang to his feet.

"We should go," he said.

Claudia rose. "I'll show you out."

I let Eamonn hurry ahead and caught her by the arm. "I need to see you."

She turned her head. I could feel her quivering under my grip, but no trace of distress showed in her calm profile. "Afternoon. Erytheia's atelier."

I exhaled hard. "My thanks."

It left me with time to spare. Since I had naught better to do with it, I accompanied Eamonn; and in truth, I wanted to see Master Piero.

Like fools, we searched in the least likely places first, remembering all the tricks he'd played upon us to get us to think and to see. The sun was standing high overhead by the time we thought to look in the Great Forum. People scattered before us, some cursing in irritation, some shouting in recognition. A flock of pigeons rose, wings clattering.

By all rights, we shouldn't be riding roughshod through the city, but Eamonn reckoned the honor Titus Maximius had accorded us was good for the span of a day, and I was in no mind to argue with him.

"Master Piero!" Eamonn shouted.

He was seated on the ledge of the Fountain of the Chariot, clad in his scholar's black robes. There were a handful of students with him, most of them strangers. At Eamonn's call, he lifted his head and smiled.

"Dismount!" I hissed at Eamonn. "Show a measure of respect."

"Sorry," he muttered.

We both dismounted and led our horses across the Forum's plaza. The Bastard behaved himself admirably, although once we reached the fountain, he shoved his muzzle unceremoniously into it and drank in noisy gulps. The new students gaped at us in what was either awe or appalled shock.

Master Piero laughed, and stood.

"Master." Eamonn dropped to his knees, still holding his reins, and gazed humbly at him. "What can you tell me of Brigitta?"

"Ah." He laid his hand on Eamonn's shoulder. "We were speaking of the virtues and pitfalls of love, were we not?" he asked his students. "And here we behold them both, wrapped up in one mortal package." He looked at Eamonn with fond sympathy. "I fear your Brigitta's brother Leidolf came to fetch her home, accompanied by several strapping companions. He threatened violence if she did not consent immediately."

Eamonn gritted his teeth. "He threatened her?"

"No," Master Piero said mildly. "Me."

"Oh." Eamonn was quiet. "I'm sorry."

Master Piero shook his head. "Why should you be? You are not responsible for his actions, Eamonn; only yours. And as Brigitta is responsible for hers, she chose to avert his anger by acceding to his demand. So, all is well." He took one look at Eamonn's expression and laughed again. "Ah, lad! You'll find her. I trust you received her map?" Eamonn nodded, and Master Piero patted his shoulder. "Try the University archives," he said kindly. "I daresay you'll find more detailed maps in their keeping. Brigitta sketched in haste."

Eamonn bounded upright and embraced him. "Thank you, Master!"

Since Eamonn was in a fever of impatience, I bade him go on to the University without me, promising to meet him later at the embassy. He swung himself into the saddle and raced away in a clatter of hooves, scattering pigeons and pedestrians.

With Master Piero's permission, I stayed and listened the end of his lecture. Having drunk his fill, the Bastard was in a placid mood, dozing in the autumn sunlight with one rear leg cocked. Despite the day's chill, the sun was warm. I listened with half an ear, mostly thinking how young all the students looked, their faces keen and attentive. I thought about the harsh lines engraved on Lucius' face. I couldn't imagine any of us had looked that young.

When he had finished, Master Piero dismissed them. They wandered off in groups of three and four, talking animatedly. Heading for their favorite wineshops, no doubt. I smiled, remembering the excitement, the profound engagement in a heady world of ideas.

"Thank you for allowing me to stay, Master," I said to him. "It's good to see you have new students."

"There are always students." Master Piero sat beside me on the ledge and patted my hand. "And you will always be welcome among them, Imriel nó Montrève. Tell me, how is Lucius Tadius?"

"He's well," I said. "And grateful for your teaching."

"And you?" he asked.

I glanced at the charioteer in his fountain, his face filled with stern resolve. Sunlight reflected on the glittering water, dappling the Bastard's spotted hide with bright, moving patterns. I listened to the music of the falling water, the cluck and coo of pigeons, the ordinary sounds of the marketplace. All sounds of life, with all its myriad pitfalls and virtues. There was so much I yearned to discuss with Master Piero, but it would take a lifetime. I didn't even have a day.

"I'm well," I said. "And grateful for your teaching."

"Then I am pleased," he said.

I stood, and Master Piero rose with me, clasping the hand I proffered. He smiled at me one last time, that smile of unexpected sweetness that transformed his plain features. He was a good man and a wise one. I was lucky to have met him.

I bowed, according him the respect due to a sovereign. "Good-bye, Master."

Taking my leave of Master Piero and the scholar's life, I led the Bastard across the crowded Forum and into the narrow streets. The stable-lad at Lollia's inn, where Gilot and I had stayed on our first night, agreed to sell me a half-day's lodging.

I still had things to do.

I went to the banking house where I'd drawn on the letter of credit Jacques Brenin, Phèdre's factor, had given me. It had been a considerable sum and I'd been living frugally. Even with the payment I'd made to Ruggero Caccini, the balance would suffice for my purposes. At the banking house, they issued me the monies I requested and a new letter of credit for the remainder under the name I specified.

Lady Denise had been generous and thoughtful. She'd had our things collected from the insula weeks ago, after the first news from Lucca, and settled our debt.

But I had other debts.

By the time I was done, it was nearly time. The sun moved more swiftly across the sky than it had during the summer weeks. I hurried to Erytheia's atelier. Her door was closed, but she opened it to my knock, inclining her head in greeting.

"Prince Imriel," she said. "You are expected."

"Yes, my lady," I said wryly. It was the first time she'd acknowledged knowing who I was. "I know." I jangled the purse at my belt, newly bulging with coin. "I come as a patron, too. Have you sold it?"