To kill or not to kill.

If only, thought Sander, he had a choice in the matter. He didn’t. Decisions had been made a long time ago. Now he had to live with their consequences.

The assassin sent to dispose of the Lady Evadne circled the room with the stealth and attentiveness of a stalking elec. He approached the tapestry. Sander, standing in the nook which it concealed, could see his outline through the weave. He hoped that the man would not look down. The tassles did not quite reach the floor, and though Sander had shrunk into the nook as far as he could, a glance at the floor...

The assassin paused in his progress. Sander stopped breathing. The assassin resumed stalking. Sander exhaled softly.

To kill...

The action had to be decisive, final. The assassin must not live to report that Councillor Sander had taken the side of the Lady Evadne; that he was willing to do whatever it took to ensure her survival. This intelligence would instantly render all Sander’s efforts futile—and make him into the target of assassination attempts as well. Such were the ways in the courts of Tergan.

Sander grimaced. He detested having his hand forced. But events in Keaen had precipitated corresponding upheavals in Tergan. Everything was in a state of flux: a situation both dangerous and full of potential. All pivotal periods in history were like this. Always had been and always would be.

Prevarication came to an end. Sander activated the weapon in his right hand and raised it into a firing position. His left hand reached out and slowly pulled aside the curtain and aimed the weapon.

From the rod suspending the tapestry came the faintest of creaks. The assassin whipped around and stared at the Sander, distracted for a fatal moment. His right arm jerked up. Too late. Sander performed a minute correction of his aim and pulled the trigger. A soft hiss. A half–second spurt of tiny, almost invisible, needles impacted on the assassin, penetrated his clothing and his skin, buried themselves in his flesh, and released their poison.

The assassin stood still. Sander waited impassively. The dosage of poison carried by ten needles or more was invariably fatal. The assassin had received maybe twice that.

Thus I am compounding my crime, Sander thought. The technical term was ‘active interference’.

If they knew...

Sander shook off the thought. It was too late for second–guessing. His only hope was to have it all done before his sins were finally discovered.

The assassin collapsed into an untidy heap. Sander stepped out from behind the curtain, went across, hunkered down to search the body. Two wrist–knives, their projectors’ springs cocked. A belt holding throwing knives hidden under a loose jacket. A long thin dirk, its blade mottled with poison. Another, broad–bladed, dirk with a wicked double serrated edge. A strangling cord. Three five–pointed throwing stars. All that to kill one woman?

Sander smiled grimly. He considered the man’s face, slack in death, open eyes staring vacantly. Number two, he thought. I wonder how many more they’re going to send? Though the pockets of those wanting to get rid of Evadne were deep, high–class assassins like this one didn’t come cheap. Vexation at their failure would surely cause many a sleepless night and mutual recriminations. How could it be that such competent killers were disposed of with such efficiency? What agency might be responsible? Ample cause to nourish distrust and suspicion.

Sander pondered the disposition of the corpse. It would leave the room the same way he’d come in: through the window. When they found him in the morning they’d wonder yet again. Death would be attributed to the long fall. The needles were too small—almost invisibly thin. They left no marks.

Sander gripped the corpse under its arms and started to drag it toward the open window. He rested the upper torso onto the sill and bent down to take the legs, ready to heave it out.

A sound at the door.

Sander dropped the legs and spun around. The door opened a fraction. Sander saw the green of Evadne’s flowing skirt. Her face was turned away as she spoke to someone outside. A tinkle of laughter, sounding faintly artificial. Probably dismissing Gizel, who would have followed her like an eager puppy all the way from the ceremony to her quarters. A dangerous puppy, Sander reminded himself. Gizel’s pathetic desire to bed Evadne masked the other aspects of his personality: the scheming, treacherous, opportunist backstabber and climber. Maybe even one of those who’d paid for the assassins. That sounded like a contradiction, but in Tergan it need not be.

Evadne’s efforts appeared to have been successful. Footsteps faded away. She turned around, stepped into the room—and froze.

“What?...”

Sander raised a warning finger to his lips. A brief flash of anger flitted across her face. Sander, despite his predicament, felt a flicker of amusement. Evadne wasn’t used to being ordered around by a Councillor. The situation was so novel that she’d probably take a moment to adapt. For a breath or two they stared at each other.

Evadne opened her mouth. Sander pointed at the corpse and shook his head. Her mouth snapped shut. Sander signaled her to close the door. A minute hesitation, then she complied. She leaned her back against the closed door.

“What are you doing in my quarters? What is this man doing here? Is he dead? Did you kill him? Why?”

Sander sighed. His carefully laid plans were about to be disrupted by contingency.

“I would like you to look at this man.”

She raised a questioning eyebrow, detached herself from the door, and stepped closer. Sander watched her approach, his face carefully impassive. The damage had been done. Now she needed to be told at least some of the truth. As she came closer he thought—again—that she was not only Tergan’s best hope for peace with Keaen, but that she also happened to be beautiful. A finely chiseled face, untainted by the blemishes and distortions created by inbreeding. She had a presence that surrounded her like an aura. Hardened by the necessities of survival in the unforgiving environment of the Tergan court, repeated rape by her cousin Gervase and his father—yet she remained unbroken; and something told Sander that the rape had not been forgotten, and that one day there would be a reckoning.

Evadne stopped beside Sander. He opened the man’s garments and pulled back his sleeves to reveal the hidden armory. Evadne’s eyes widened; her face tightened.

“He came here to kill me,” she said tonelessly.

“He was the second,” Sander told her.

Her head whipped around; her dark–brown eyes, now hard as flint, bored into his.

“What?”

Sander shrugged. “And, like the other, he failed.”

Her features softened a trifle, but did not lose their vigilant mien.

Good, he thought. Don’t take anybody at face value. Not even those who claim to have saved your life.

“You?” she said softly.

He motioned at the corpse. “May I continue what I started?”

Evadne nodded, distracted. Sander took hold of the legs and heaved the body over the window sill. He looked out and saw it spread out on the battlement below.

“I’ll have to go down there,” he said to Evadne, “and drag it out of the way. When they find it...it would be better if it weren’t under your window.”

“Quite.”

“So...if you’ll pardon me...”

Again she gave him a stare that tried to probe right into his soul.

“I wish to speak with you when you’re done with...this.”

“Of course.”

“Then you may go.”

“Thank you, Mylady.”

He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked to the door. He opened it a slit and peered out; saw nobody and slipped into the corridor. Around a few corners, down a passage, through a guard’s access tunnel, and onto the battlement outside.

Nobody here either. Sander stepped into Caravella’s bright light and sauntered over to where the corpse lay askew. He looked around, saw nobody, bent down and dragged it about twenty steps further along the battlement. He peered over the parapet. Below lay a passage connecting two internal courtyards. A couple of grooms leading horses passed by below. He waited until they were out of sight and pushed the corpse through an embrasure; watched as it impacted with a sickly thud on the pavement below. He stood for another moment, looking around to make sure that his act had remained unobserved. From her window he saw Evadne’s face looking down. Sander returned to the small access door and re–entered the castle.

Evadne was awaiting him. In the short time he’d been out of the room she had changed from her ceremonial dress into a simple gown of pale–blue gauze, with a thin, red sash around her waist. The outfit accentuated the contours of her figure: lithe, well–toned, with breasts provocative enough to make her into a prime object of desire for every male around the castle and beyond. Sander noted that she wore nothing underneath the gown. The effect was...revealing.

Haste or design? Knowing Evadne, Sander suspected the latter. She wanted him off–guard when she questioned him. Nothing more than that. Councillors were too far down the hierarchy to be attractive to those in the lofty realm where the Lady Evadne lived. But Councillors were men, and if Evadne had learned anything it was that men were easily distracted by the appropriate stimuli. And there she stood, hoping to befuddle him; not knowing that this was his game.

“I suppose I should thank you,” she said thoughtfully. She sat down on a chaise–longe. The act was calculated for maximum effect and would, by itself, have hopelessly confused an unfocused male.

Sander bowed politely. The best thing was to tell her as much of the truth as he possibly could.

“You were protecting me,” she declared.

“That Mylady, is my mission.”

“Who instructed you to do this?”

“That I cannot reveal,” he said—quite truthfully. To admit that he acted entirely under his own initiative...it would not have been productive. Not...yet.

“Could you at least give me an indication?” Evadne’s tone and facial expression suggested, ever so subtly, that the act of providing such ‘an indication’ might be of a nature as to incur her everlasting gratitude and whatever that might imply.

“The intent is benign,” he assured her.

“Truly?” She didn’t believe a word of it.

“Truly. How could it be otherwise?”

“I have been used before,” she said, making it sound like an exchange of confidences. “I will be used again. What else could motivate anybody in this place?”

No need to win me over.—I’m already on your side...

“Whoever...instructed me...has...plans for you.”

A brief flicker of surprise, immediately suppressed. Her eyes turned flinty.

“Plans,” she repeated.

“There are those,” he said carefully, “who would like to see you on Tergan’s throne.”

She stiffened and sat up. “What?—Why?”

“Because they don’t want to war with Keaen. Because they think that you don’t want to either.”

“Why would they think that?”

“They have not seen fit to communicate this to me.”

“I see.” She considered him from narrowed eyes. The seductive mien had disappeared. “And why did they choose you?”

Sander shrugged. “They trust me to carry out their wishes.”

She nodded. “And you seem to be good at it.” She gazed at him for another moment, and he thought that, for an instant, her eyes had warmed, before shrouding themselves again.

“How did that man die?” she asked.

She was far too observant!

“He allowed me to get too close.”

“A professional assassin...” she mused. “And you...what did you do? I saw no injury. Did you break his neck? Because he let you get too close?” She eyed him shrewdly. “Then who are you?”

“I used to be someone else than I am now,” he said obliquely.

She took a deep breath. Her chest heaved enticingly. It was, Sander realized, done without intent. But when she exhaled again, then she knew what she was doing. The guarded, calculating look returned to her eyes. Watching for his reaction. Trying to catch him out. Waiting for a lingering look on her breasts maybe; or a flash of desire behind his carefully controlled countenance. Still trying to find a way to weaken his resistance and make him reveal more than he should.

Keep trying, he thought. It’s not that I don’t enjoy watching it.

“I’m not supposed to know about all this, am I?”

“No,” he admitted.

“And now that I do?”

He grimaced. “They don’t know that you do.” A rueful smile. “I’m not going to tell.”

“It would not reflect well on you,” she guessed. That was a motivation she understood. Never admit your mistakes—unless it is beneficial to do so.

He shrugged, admitting it. Let her think that she had found a weak spot.

“What now?” Evadne wondered.

“I shall continue to fulfill my assigned duty.”

“Until what happens?”

“Until they give up trying to kill you.” He looked at her meaningfully. “Which may or may not be soon.”

“Or they may not give up.”

“Then, sooner or later, they will make a mistake and reveal themselves. Once their anonymity is shattered, they themselves become open to certain...countermeasures.”

Her face lifted. “So,” she gave him a wintry smile, “I’m being used to bait a trap.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You know this? You? A Councillor? What do you know of your masters’ true intentions?”

He smiled. “They are not my masters.”

Careful now! Watch what you say...

“I am in their...employ,” he amplified. “That doesn’t mean they own me—nor that I am ignorant of their goals.” He bowed perfunctorily. “And now, with your permission, I’d better leave.”

Before I say too much.

She favored him with a dyspeptic smile. “You have my permission.”

“Before I go though...if I may make a suggestion?”

“Suggest away. You’re a Councillor after all.”

“As if that mattered,” he said, giving her a wry look. “Anyway, I have two suggestions. Firstly, it is essential that my role in this matter remains a secret. Only in that way can I remain...effective. Secondly, I believe that—in order to provide you with some extra security—you would benefit from some...martial instruction.”

“I carry a weapon.”

“I am aware of that,” he admitted, suppressing a smile at her astonished face. She’d been certain that nobody knew about the little dagger strapped in a sheath to her left leg. “But this may not be sufficient. The carrying of a weapon and its effective use are two very different things.”

“Unfortunately instruction in such matters would make my enemies aware of my...alertness to their plans,” she pointed out.

“True,” he admitted, apparently regretfully. “Anyway, it was just a thought.”

“Unless, of course,” she continued, as if speaking to herself, “I did this...secretly.”

He hesitated, as if the notion had not occurred to him. “That, too, is correct. Still, there is another problem I had not considered. Almost all of those qualified to provide such instruction are...how can I put it delicately...”

“Suspect?” she suggested.

“Precisely.”

She shifted on the chaise longue. “As a member of the royal family I’m entitled to take a personal Councillor from the pool,” she mused idly. “I have never done so, because,” she shrugged, “what possible use could a Councillor be to me?”

She eyed him speculatively. “On the other hand, it has just occurred to me...” She paused. “You’re not attached to anybody.”

He thought it appropriate at least to feign reluctance. “Mylady, I’m not sure...”

“Why not?” she inquired.

“I’m just a Councillor.”

“Yes, I can see that,” she retorted sarcastically.

“I’m not really qualified...”

“You killed two assassins,” she said crisply. “That’s qualification enough for me.” She made a dismissive gesture. “The decision has been made. Consider yourself my Councillor—and personal instructor, and protector—as of now.”

Sander made a point of looking uncomfortable. Evadne’s face broke into a smile.

“Come! Surely, there are worse things,” she said.

“It’s not that...”

“Then what is it?”

“There are considerations of propriety.”

Evadne laughed. It was the first time he’d seen her laugh; and it lit up the room like a thousand candles. The experience was...unexpected.

She caught her breath. “Tamar has Delfis,” she said.

“Indeed,” he retorted dryly. The sexual antics between Evadne’s aunt and her Councillor had long been the subject of extensive scandalmongering around the castle.

Evadne sat up, all laughter draining from her face. “You will do this?” This time it was a plea.

He nodded. “I will.”

Evadne released a small pent–up breath. “Good. I shall attend to the organizational issues associated with having you assigned to me. It’ll probably take a few days, as I’ll have to contrive some reasons to make it look better.” A wry twitch of the mouth. “To give it...propriety...”

“Very good,” he agreed. He inclined his head. “With your permission...”

“You have it,” she said graciously.

He left the room, careful to keep his face indifferent. The situation had developed much better than he’d dared hope when she had surprised him.

The door had closed. Evadne remained in an attitude of deep thought.

What exactly happened just now?

The fact that she was asking the question was bothersome. The whole interview, this whole situation—it had left her in complete confusion.

Confusion? About what?

About—well, everything. Her sexual stratagems had been totally ineffectual. Apart from a slight gleam of interest toward the end, her revealing attire had had no effect on Sander.

Sander.

A major source of confusion. He probably thought that, until she’d found him in her quarters trying to dispose of a corpse, she hadn’t even been aware of his existence. He would have thought that, because he was astute enough to know the conventions governing the court and its interactions, and because he didn’t appear like a man who was easily deluded by his own self–importance.

Which was refreshing.

Bothersome, too.

The other Councillors, twenty–four in all—this being the unchanging size of the ‘pool’ since time immemorial—were mostly self–deluding, pompous fools, inflated by an excessive sense of their own importance. They were at best moderately influential, and at worst completely irrelevant. They were also a bunch of conniving cretins, whose gowns of office barely concealed middle–aged overweight bodies that you wouldn’t want to touch with a prodding stick, let alone anything else.

Except for Sander, of course. Not only was he the youngest of the lot, but his gown hid what Evadne had always suspected to be a very flexible and probably not unattractive body. Now it appeared that it was also quite lethal. Which, she ruefully admitted, added to the attraction. And then—finding him in her quarters in such compromising circumstances, and what he’d revealed during their subsequent conversation—that made him even more interesting.

Interesting, yes. But troublesome, too. Because something was not right. It wasn’t just his lack of a suitable response to her charms either. Though that was vexing enough.

Maybe he preferred boys. It was possible. A lot of Tergan men did; though why Evadne never really understood.

But then Evadne remembered a tiny moment when the disinterested mask had slipped. No! Not boys. Just a mind kept in careful check; unwilling to allow himself to be dominated by the urges of his nether regions—or his heart, for that matter. Focused on the task at hand.

Which was...

What?

Evadne got up and stretched. She rubbed her stiff neck with both hands.

What was Sander’s task?

Superficially: to protect her. But nothing was ever what it appeared. Somewhere there were other plans, intentions, levels of meaning and purpose. And she would find out what they were. Which was why she’d used his suggestion that she acquire more martial skills to her own advantage. Having him as personal Councillor—and instructor—should prove very interesting indeed. In the long run he would weaken to her charms. She would find out just what exactly motivated him.

Evadne froze in the midst of her self–ministrations when a thought struck her. Step one on her new quest. Find out more about Sander of Orgond. How did he get to be a Councillor so young? His father or an uncle must have held the same position: this was the tradition.

Uneasy about something she could not define, Evadne paced back and forth, then stopped in front of a mirror of Nacra crystal in the far corner of her room, beside the massive wardrobe. She dropped her hands to her sides and stood still; watched the woman in the pale–blue gown looking back at her; tried to see her as someone else than herself.

Who likes you?

Why was the other woman asking her that? She, of all people, knew that Evadne didn’t even much like herself...

A knock on the door. Evadne jerked.

“Who is it?”

“Arguitte, Mylady.”

Her abigail, returning from errands.

Evadne sighed. “Come in.”

Arguitte came into the room, and curtsied. “Mylady.”

Evadne considered her abigail. She suspected Arguitte to be one of Silas’s many spies. If she were, however, she had always been careful not to provide Evadne with any evidence to support such a hypothesis. In any case, it did not matter. Anybody at court was a spy for somebody. It was inconceivable that things could be different. Intrigue permeated the castle’s corridors like a vile stench that clung to everything and everybody and would never go away—but to which everybody was so used to that its presence was almost unnoticeable.

“Did you get the lotion?”

Arguitte nodded and stepped forward. She undid the string from the purse in her hand and extracted a small, capped glass jar, which she handed to Evadne. “This,” she said, “and more.” A hand went into the purse and came out with another jar. “The apothecary gave me this unguent and suggested that Mylady try it; it has amazing properties.”

“Charging you an exorbitant price, no doubt,” Evadne said dryly.

Arguitte shook her head. “He charged me nothing.”

“Did he not?” Evadne uncapped the jar and sniffed at the white, slightly oily–looking, substance inside. A faint scent of wertberries, mixed in with just a notion of jasmine.

“What does it do?” she asked Arguitte.

“It tones the skin and makes it more supple and radiant.”

Evadne reflected that it was time to change apothecaries—but maybe not time to tell her abigail. Or maybe, and this was a real possibility, it was time to change abigails as well.

She took the other jar off Arguitte and nodded. “I might try these—tonight.”

Arguitte smiled. “Would Mylady like me to help her select a dress for the reception tonight?”

Evadne shook her head. “Not yet. I’ll call you when I’m ready. You may leave now.”

Arguitte hesitated for a minute instant. “Of course, Mylady. I’ll be in my cubicle.” She curtsied again and left.

When the door had closed behind her, Evadne stood for a while, contemplating the jars in her hand. She went over to her dressing table and placed them to one side, away from her other cosmetics. She would not use them until someone whose competence and intentions she could trust had tested them and declared them to be safe. If they had been willing to send assassins to dispose of her, they might also have engaged an apothecary to prepare lethal ointments, which a vain young woman might carelessly smear onto her skin, thereby disposing of herself.

Evadne paused. Someone she could trust? The notion was almost an absurdity. There was no such somebody: only those she distrusted less than others. Unless...

The image of Sander standing over the body of the assassin came unbidden. Whatever Sander’s schemes, whoever his masters, the simple fact was that he had saved her life. It was also a fact that she had believed him when he’d said that it was the second such emissary of death. He had no reason to lie about it.

Braggadocio?

No. He wasn’t the type; nor did he have a credible motive. He would have studied her carefully and know what impressed her and what didn’t.

Evadne walked over to the window and looked out over Sacrael, wondered what it would be like not to be who she was, but one of those teeming tens of thousands of people who knew little or nothing of the intricacies of intrigue and treachery at the Junco court. She grimaced ruefully.

She would never know.

Her gaze traveled down to the castle grounds. Down by the fence the guards lockstepped in their interminable rut. Along the main accessway two men stood talking; one of them wore the prim, black–and–purple uniform of the Castle Guard; the other...

Evadne squinted against Caravella’s bright glare.

Sander!

Now he patted the guard on one shoulder. A gesture like that of an old friend or maybe a confidante.

Evadne smiled cynically. Sander seemed to go out of his way to become familiar with the lowest ranks of servants and guards. An eccentricity which, on the surface, seemed quirky and pointless, but which just might turn out to be more devious than anything the other Councillors chose to devise.

Sander left Evadne’s quarters and headed for the lower levels and the exit. Apart from a few guards, stationed at certain strategic junctions, the passages were empty. Evadne’s rooms were situated on the fourth level in the western quarter of the roughly circular, tapering structure that was Sacrael Castle. Beneath her, in somewhat more expansive rooms, resided her aunt. Human traffic on levels four and three was mostly confined to servants and a few guards. On the second level it was a different matter. Here lived and worked Roi Hengiste. Here also were the quarters of Hengiste’s de facto successor, Gervase.

Sander descended to the second level, but kept to those passages assigned for use by servants. Right now he had no taste for meeting Hengiste, Gervase, or any of their Councillors.

The servants who passed Sander greeted him with nods of easy familiarity. Nobody wondered why a Councillor should use such lowly thoroughfares. Sander was different. Everybody knew that. Less powerful, of course, than Toffel or Jago; maybe a bit odd as well. But they’d gotten used to him.

As he stepped out of the narrow stairway from the second to the first floor he almost bumped into Arguitte, a somewhat corpulent young woman, with a round face ringed by drooping curls of muddy–red hair. Arguitte was Evadne’s abigail. She was also in the employ of Silas, Hengiste’s spymaster.

Arguitte curtsied. She kept her eyes averted. For some obscure reason she appeared intimidated by Sander, no matter how much he’d tried to put her at ease.

“What have you been up to?” he asked her lightly.

“Running Mylady’s errands and getting Mylady salves and tinctures,” she replied, her eyes unable to meet his. With anybody else Sander would have instantly understood this as a indicator of a guilty conscience. With Arguitte he expected it—and so he silenced the tiny nagging voice inside him, that told him that something was not totally as it should be.

Was it sabér? It was difficult to tell. The symptoms of sabér bore a close resemblance to anything from anxiety attacks to unfounded—and possibly quite mistaken—intuitive processes. After decades of carrying this gift around with him—sometimes thinking of it as a talent, sometimes more like a curse—he still could not tell the difference. Besides, sabér was a fickle companion. Often enough it had deserted him when he really needed it. At other times he had confused it with any number of other inklings: the kinds that ordinary people might have as well.

But if something were not totally as it should be, nothing at the Tergan court ever was. They were the most twisted freaks imaginable. A veritable parade of psychopaths; Machiavellian schemers; self–delusional, inbred half–wits. With the exception of Evadne—who was half–Keaenean; the result of a union that caused a not inconsiderable stir around the palace when it became public. Only the political acumen of Prince Bartle, Evadne’s father, had prevented him and his wife—Myria of Kint province—from becoming ostracized. Of course, they’d both been discreetly assassinated some years later.

“Well,” Sander said to Arguitte, “you’d better run then.”

She curtsied again. “Thank you, sir. Mylady doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” She hurried past him and disappeared into the stairwell.

Sander stared after her and shook his head. Evadne could be difficult. A lifetime’s exposure to Junco habits of living, thinking, and acting had left its marks.

Sander left the castle through the main entrance. He walked, as he always did. An idiosyncrasy, which continued to attract snide remarks on his eccentricity, but which he maintained, because it gave him the opportunity to get to know the faces of the guards—and, more importantly, for them to get to know his. Thus familiarity was created, maintained, and fostered. Sander made a point of stopping and talking to them. Initially, they had looked at him askance, in perplexity, even suspicion. Councillors did not behave in such a manner; and deviations from the norm needed to be treated with utmost circumspection. However, after years of his patiently maintaining the same habits, they had begun to feel at ease with him and felt free to share news and gossip. They even forebore to ask him for his papers of admission, something they were obliged to do with everybody below a certain level of significance. Even Councillors were not exempt, some of them having had their access permits withdrawn by capricious royalty, usually for limited periods and as a method of punishment for real or imagined transgressions. However, with Sander, most of the guards didn’t even bother to look at the pass he waved at them. He could have used a blank piece of parchment to the same effect.

But Sander seldom just passed through, and today, too, despite being in a hurry, he made it a point of pausing to chat. He inquired about the health of the son of the sergeant commanding this watch. Sander expressed his delight when he found out that the boy had not had a recurrence of the ailment which had almost killed him some months ago. He had lived only because Sander—following not so much sabér as a compulsion born out of compassion, occasioned by the obvious distress of the guard, then not a guard, but just a desperate father—had intervened to heal the boy; providing a flimsy and entirely fictitious explanation of how he had been able to do it.

It had been a dangerous move, and Sander had often asked himself what could have prompted him to have been so reckless and risk exposure. Still, the boy lived, and that was a reward in itself. The guard—a certain Keran—was pathetically grateful and assured Sander yet again that he was forever in his debt.

Sander clapped him on the back. “Think nothing of it. Your son’s well. That’s what matters.”

“A debt is a debt,” Keran insisted.

Sander grinned. “I’ll collect on it one day.”

He excused himself and left, nodding at a patrol lock–stepping along the endless iron picket fence as he exited left the castle grounds. Before him stretched Sacrael, Tergan’s sprawling capital, enveloping the castle like a protective barrier. Sander stopped at a stray notion and looked back at the tapering shape of Sacrael Castle. He located the window to Evadne’s suite. A pale shape filled the dark rectangle. Sander wondered what she was looking at. At him? Sander turned away. The notion was curiously unsettling.

He refocused his attention on other matters. Like Fridswid. Sander sighed. He would have to deal with Fridswid, who was becoming somewhat of a nuisance. His factotum’s putative absence to visit relations in Pruid Fair had, in truth, been an extended debriefing visit to Roi Hengiste’s spymaster Silas. The fact that Silas should have seen fit to summon Sander’s servant to such a visit indicated an unhealthy increase of interest in his person.

Sander paused. Something—was it sabér? anxiety? other unknowable impulses?—urged him to return to the castle. Other considerations advised against such a course of action. Evadne was an extremely observant woman. It had taken more than just luck and Sander’s protective umbrella to survive the massacres at the court which had decimated the ranks of her cousins over the last few years. He would require an excellent reason for his return so soon after he had excused himself. He had none.

Sander turned away, continuing on toward the city. He entered the alleyways of Sacrael, choosing a route deliberately different from any he’d taken in the last days or weeks. Routines were dangerous. He had enemies aplenty. Every Councillor had them; even Sander, who tried to keep himself out of the fray as much as possible. When Evadne declared him to be her personal Councillor his carefully cultivated insignificance would evaporate. The incentives to dispose of him would inflate to grotesque proportions; as would his value to those who preferred the more venal approach. So far, attempts to bribe him had been few and far between, perpetrated mostly by outsiders who did not appreciate his unimportance. That would change soon.

Sander cast furtive glances at the buildings around him. The dark rectangles of the windows stared back at him, concealing whatever might wait in their cover. He could be waylaid just like anybody else, and a hit by a crossbow bolt in the wrong place—like the head—was capable of killing him just the same as it would any ordinary man.

He immersed himself in the afternoon crowds thronging Upanish Square, and headed for the eastern exit. His residence, a comparatively modest two–story edifice in an elite part of town, lay just a few minute’s walk beyond. He had just crossed the square, when he felt like something had jolted him.

Sabér! No doubt this time!

Sander froze. Someone behind him bumped into him and cursed.

“Get out of my way!”

Sander made a polite gesture and stepped aside. The man behind him—a sailor of unidentifiable origin, surrounded by a halo of the rancid stink of one who hadn’t washed for days or weeks—was not mollified. He was also intoxicated and, not being Terganese, failed to recognize the color and cut of Sander’s garments.

He gave Sander a one–armed shove. Sander reeled back. A hollow pit had formed where his stomach used to be. A sure sign of sabér. Sander fixed the sailor with a stare. The man was several inches taller than himself, making the efficacy of the gesture dubious.

The sailor took a step forward. Sander held up a hand.

“Wait.”

The sailor stopped in mid–stride, a perplexed frown on his coarse face.

Sander took stock of the situation. The sailor was not going to be placated; his frown was turning to a nasty sneer. Sander, however, could not afford to be distracted. The choice, once more, had been pre–empted.

He took a quick step toward the sailor, feigned with his left, and, as the man reacted instinctively, brought up his right and drove the knuckles into a nerve node just underneath the man’s left ear. The sailor stood for a moment, transfixed, his face frozen into a sneer. Then his legs gave way and he collapsed on the ground.

Ignoring the stares of the people around him, Sander stepped back into the crowd and pushed his way through as he hurried back toward the castle.

Without bothering to summon Arguitte, Evadne tried on several dresses for the evening’s event. She discarded the gown she’d put on for Sander’s benefit and held the dresses this way and that, inspecting herself in the mirror of polished crystal; actually stepping into some and doing them up as much as she could, then turning around to examine their appearance from all angles.

Evadne made a vexed sound. None of them truly pleased her, but there was no time to commission another. Besides, she had no idea what she would like to be wearing right now. Something to impress and befuddle; put them off–guard, so that she might derive the best advantage from whatever interactions would ensue.

Evadne shook her head. Futility. Wasted time. Another evening wasted away in pointless posturing.

If only there were somebody to be befuddled...

The notion occasioned a involuntary grimace of distaste. The thought of the only two candidates likely to respond to her sexual allures invoked instant revulsion.

Gizel: a repellent fop, with the conscience of an elec and all the attraction of a slime–fish.

Gervase: the very name occasioning a wave of intense, hot hatred. The memory of the rapes was as alive and vivid as if they had taken place yesterday. And to be forced to dissemble every day; to bury the loathing under a carefully crafted mask; to have to speak to this monster...

A rap on the door. Evadne jerked; almost dropped the dress she was holding up.

“What?” she snapped.

“I wish to speak with you.” Gervase’s voice.

Evadne swayed. She felt like being ill. Was that all it took: a thought?

What was she to do? She looked around. The room was a mess. Garments lay strewn across the bed. She was wearing next to nothing. The thought of his eyes feasting on her made her want to retch. The notion of him being alone with him was...

Sending him away: the most desirable course of action. Implausible though. He would wait. We would see her. He had the right to do so, and the arrogance to insist on it. He was the first in line to the scepter: the eldest son of the eldest brother to Hengiste. With the demise of Hengiste’s own children and Gervase’s older brother, he was the implicit successor.

She could not just send him away. Or push him out of the window. That was the stuff of dreams—and equally unrealistic. Gervase was strong and agile. Always had been.

His hated face above her, now contorted in agony. Blood dripping from his mutilated nose into her face. The vile taste of his blood in her mouth as she spat the severed tip of his nose back into his face. His contorted visage. A scream of pain and rage. Narvin, Gervase’s father, looming above them, reaching down to...

The whole thing had been covered up as an unfortunate accident during weapons training; but everybody around the castle had a fair idea of what really happened. The girl Evadne became somebody to be wary of. Which suited her well.

Her gaze fell on the bell–cord.

“Wait!” she said aloud. She pulled the cord. Hard.

She went back to the bed, swept up the garments and threw them into the wardrobe; picked out a simple, gray, one–piece dress and pulled it over herself. A quick look in the mirror crystal. Far too revealing! Her breasts—he would leer at them incessantly. Maybe he would even choose to become ardent; forget his clipped nose, and, after all these years, try again. Maybe this time...

She remembered Sander’s suggestion of martial arts training. Suddenly, the wisdom of it was so obvious that she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t done it of her own accord.

She rummaged through the wardrobe and came out with her riding outfit: a two–piece garment, consisting of a sturdy, gray, short–sleeved vest that buttoned up at the front, and effectively hid what was underneath; and a pair of moderately tight–fitting ankle–length linen trousers—very unfeminine and generally disapproved of by just about everybody.

Evadne slipped out of the gray dress, put on a white blouse, the riding vest, and the trousers.

Another, impatient, rap.

“Just wait!” she called out. “Or come back later.”

There was no reply, but the doorknob moved.

Evadne smirked to herself. She had driven home the inside latch. Years of habit, born of justified suspicion and distrust.

Evadne completed dressing by putting on her riding boots. She closed the wardrobe door, glanced at herself in the mirror crystal, took a deep breath, went to the door, and opened it.

“What do you want?” she spat.

Gervase raked her up and down with one glance and pushed past her into her room. He turned around to face her.

“Going anywhere?”

“What does it look like?”

He said nothing, but looked around the room, as if suspecting somebody else to be lurking near. Finding nobody he turned back to her. Evadne composed her face to conceal the emotions that roiled inside her. The sight of his nose, the tip an irregular jagged flap of skin, brought memories and savage satisfaction. Above it, a pair of black eyes, set too closely together under thin eyebrows. A willful forehead, bordered by thick, straight, dark–blonde hair, cut in a sharp horizontal line.

She was going to ask him again what he wanted, but stopped herself. Repeating the question would place her in an undesirable position.

She turned away from him and moved over to her dressing table. His gaze was like a clammy physical presence on her back.

“I have a proposition,” he said.

She did not turn around. “About what?” she asked.

“About resolving...certain matters. Presenting a united front.”

“What are you talking about?”

She finally turned around to face him. He took a step toward her. She forced herself not to flinch or try to back away.

“The succession,” he said.

Despite herself she was intrigued. “Why would you have a problem with that?” she said acidly. “You’re the first in line.”

“One of three,” he reminded her. Three indeed. When once there were fifteen...

...most of them murdered by their own relatives—with the notable exception of Hoegen, who had fallen to the sword of Armist of Keaen.

“So?”

“I want to avoid further needless conflict. The dynasty is thinning to the point of there being no one to carry it on.”

“I still don’t know what you want,” she said curtly.

“To marry you,” he said.

The words at first did not sink in; didn’t make sense; refused to give a coherent meaning.

When they finally did, she found herself speechless.

“It would help to continue the dynasty,” Gervase said, “and it would...discourage...Gizel from persisting with his attempts to...change things.”

Translation: try to murder those in his way; especially Gervase.

“Take a leap off a cliff—and make it a tall one!” She pointed at the door. “Get out of here.—Now!” At this point she didn’t care about status, tradition, or the consequences of her actions.

Gervase stood still.

Evadne shrugged. “You’re not going? Then I am.”

She took a step toward the door. Gervase moved to block her way and slammed the door closed, leaning his back against it. Evadne stopped abruptly, a step or two away from him.

Gervase grinned. The tip of his mutilated nose pulled slightly downward.

“I think you will change your mind.”

“Never.”

“Then you will die.”

“We’ll see about that.”

She backed off a couple of steps. Gervase smirked crookedly.

“Waiting for your abigail? I’ve sent her on an errand. You’re waiting in vain.” A look of anticipation flitted across his features. “It’s been a long time, Evie.”

That’s what he used to call her when she was little. When...

Gervase pushed himself away from the door.

“Think of it,” he said. “It could be like it was. For the rest of your life.”

“No.”

He took another step.

A rap on the door.

Evadne’s heart jumped with relief.

“Come in!” It didn’t matter who it was.

The door handle moved.

“Stay out!” Gervase commanded.

The door opened. Gervase took a quick step toward it and reached out to slam it closed. From the other side, somebody pushed hard. The door slammed into Gervase’s face. He reeled backwards, holding his hands to his newly battered nose, his assailant still hidden from him by the bulk of the door.

But Evadne saw Sander. Already she had collected her wits. She shook her head and made a quick gesture, indicating for him to back away. If Gervase saw him, the consequences would be severe.

Sander nodded and stepped back into the corridor and out of sight. Evadne heaved a sigh of relief at his alacrity. She wondered if he’d known just who had been at the other side of that door.

Gervase straightened, a hand still over his face. Blood dripped onto the floor. Evadne kept a carefully neutral face.

Gervase stumbled toward the door and peered into the corridor. Evadne held her breath.

Gervase whipped around. “Who was it?” he said, his face twisted in pain. The blood seeped over his lower jaw.

Evadne shrugged. “I have no idea.”

He advanced on her.

“You lie!”

He took his hands away from his face. His nose was slightly twisted to one side, a dark discoloration spreading from the point where the cartilage had broken. He advanced another step toward her, reaching out with a bloodstained hand. Evadne stepped back nimbly.

A movement at the door. Sander. In his hand he held a small instrument which he pointed at Gervase. There was a tiny sound. Sander lowered the instrument and stood, watching alertly. Gervase paused as if to listen, began to turn. His eyes unfocused and glazed over. He took another halting step and stumbled against a chair, only to collapse in a limp mound on the floor.

Evadne looked up at Sander. The audacity of the Councillor’s action took her breath away. This, after all, was Gervase.

“He’ll come to in a little while,” Sander said casually. He pushed himself off the doorjamb, came into the room, pulled the door close behind him, and engaged the latch. Curiously enough—or maybe it wasn’t so curious at all?—she felt no alarm at his action; despite a notion that Sander was potentially far more dangerous than Gervase could ever be.

“What did you do?”

“I administered a harmless poison, Mylady,” he assured her as he stepped close and knelt by Gervase’s body. He turned it over, so he could see the face, pulled up the eyelids, and performed an inspection of sorts. Apparently satisfied at the result he rose.

When he looked at her, Evadne suddenly became aware of a disconcerting fact: that Sander was much, much more than he appeared to be. Behind the assumed air of measured subservience lurked...what?

Power. The knowledge of power. A willingness to use it.

She started to say something, but stopped herself. Maybe this was not the time to push too hard. Maybe the illusion had to be maintained. For a while at least.

Sander straightened. “Mylady,” he said softly. “Are you...well?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, thank you.”

He glanced at Gervase. “I think it would be good if...”

“Nobody will know,” she assured him.

He appeared relieved. “Thank you, Mylady,” he said softly.

“Think nothing of it,” she replied, attempting a lofty, though benevolent, air.

Sander nodded at the body. “He will be displeased at his...situation.”

Evadne was unsurprised at Sander’s evident concern.

“True,” she admitted.

“He...” Sander hesitated.

“We were arguing,” she said.

Sander gave her a glance which told her that he knew pretty much what had really happened.

“He will be wondering how he got to be in this position.”

“I’ll contrive a plausible story,” she said.

Sander nodded, plainly unconvinced. Evadne found the response irritating. No matter what he had done for her, how dared he to even think of doubting that she would do exactly as she said?

“Another remedy suggests itself,” Sander said quietly.

For a moment she thought that he was going to suggest killing Gervase right there and then.

Sander must have read her mind. His lips twitched in a quickly suppressed smile.

“If he could be made to forget what happened...”

She looked up in surprise. Sander made a small gesture. “I have access to...substances...which will have that effect.”

Another apothecary. Which reminded her...

She went over to her dressing table and picked up the jars Arguitte had brought back earlier.

“If you know so much about poisons,” she said to Sander, “do you think you could find out if these contain anything unsalutary?”

He took them. “I can try.” He pointed at Gervase. “What would you have me do with him?”

“No memory at all?”

Sander nodded. “He will not recall anything that’s happened since he went to sleep last night.”

“You have ready access to this...substance?”

“I carry it with me.”

Really? The man was a bottomless repository of surprises.

Sander shrugged at her questioning look. “One must be prepared for eventualities.”

“He’ll wonder what he’s doing in my quarters.”

“We could carry him into the corridor. Maybe deposit him at the next junction.”

“It would be risky.”

“Life is a risk. Your cousin took a risk when he came here without an escort.”

“He didn’t think so.”

“Evidently not.”

Evadne came to a decision. “How do you administer the poison?”

Sander smiled. “That, with all due respect, is a secret of the trade, so to speak. If Mylady would look away while I attend to the matter.”

Impertinence!

Evadne hesitated—then shrugged with feigned disinterest, turned away and, as Sander knelt beside Gervase, moved toward the window. There was a scraping sound as Sander got up again.

“I may need your help,” came his voice.

She turned around.

“It is done,” he said to her surprised face.

What else was he going to come up with?

She stepped closer. “You will be my Councillor?” she half–stated, half–asked.

“If Mylady wishes it.”

“I do.”

“Then, of course, I will obey.”

“Good,” she said crisply. “And I accept your offer of tuition in the martial arts. We will begin tomorrow at first light.”

He nodded, but kept his face studiously unmoved. Despite this, she sensed an underlying amusement. More impertinence!

Sander pointed at Gervase: “Let us be quick about this.”

Evadne refrained from a snappy comment on his assumption of command.

Sander went to the door, unlatched and opened it, peered out into the corridor. He disappeared, only to return almost immediately. He lifted Gervase under both arms and waited. Evadne froze. Was he expecting her to assist in this?

Apparently he was. She drew in a sharp breath and, overcoming her reluctance bent down to pick up Gervase’s feet. A quick glance at Sander’s face. Emotionless but for a slight twitch around the mouth. Evadne suppressed a vexed mutter. If he even thought of laughing at her... Which, she admitted ruefully, he probably did.

They paused to listen for footsteps. They encountered only silence and the sounds of their own breathing. Together they carried the limp man into the corridor. Again Evadne had a fleeting notion of the ludicrous nature of the whole enterprise. How completely undignified and simply unthinkable that she should be doing this. And yet she was...

Twenty steps they arrived at a juncture of corridors, where they propped the body against the wall. They hurried back to Evadne’s quarters. When the door closed behind them they stood for a few moments, looking at each other. Evadne noted with detachment that Sander made no effort to even appear subservient.

“He wanted to espouse me,” she said; and wondered why she was telling him this.

“Really?”

“He meant to...” She stopped herself, unsure of why she was even contemplating...

Sander nodded. “If Mylady will excuse me,” he said. “Important matters have been left unattended.”

Relief. Evadne considered Sander for long, thoughtful moment. What was going on behind that high forehead of his?

“Tomorrow morning,” she reminded him.

“Of course.”