CHAPTER SIX

THE KING

“NOW, LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF,” the big Hansan said to Neil. “I'm Everwulf af Gastenmarka, squire to Sir Alareik Wishilm, whom you've insulted.”

“I'm Neil MeqVren, squire to Sir Fail de Liery, and I've promised him I will not draw steel against you.”

“Convenient, but that's no matter. I'll tear your head off with my bare hands, no steel needed nor asked for.”

Neil took a deep, slow breath and let his muscles relax.

Everwulf came like a bull, fast for all of his bulk. Neil was faster, spinning aside at the last instant and breaking the big man's nose again with the back of his fist. The Hansan pawed air and swayed back. Neil stepped in close, snapped his elbow into the squire's ribs and felt them crack, then finished with a vicious jab into the fellow's armpit. The breath blew out of Everwulf and he collapsed.

The rest of the squires weren't playing fair. From the corner of his eye, Neil saw something arcing down toward him. He ducked and kicked, struck feet. A man went down, dropping the wooden practice weapon he held in his hand. Neil scooped it up, rolled, and caught his next attacker across the shins. This one screamed like a horse being stabbed.

Neil bounced to his feet. The fellow he had tripped was scuttling away. Everwulf was panting in a heap on the ground, and Shin-struck was gurgling. Neil leaned on the wooden sword casually. “Are we done with this?” he asked.

“It's done,” the one fellow still capable of talking said.

“A good night to you then,” Neil said. “I look forward to meeting you fellows on the field of honor, once we've all taken the rose.”

He dropped the wooden sword, brushed his hair back into place. High above, he could just make out the moonlit spires of the castle.

The court! Tomorrow he would see the court!

William II of Crotheny gripped the stone casement of the tall window, and for a moment felt so light that a rush of wind might pull him out of it. Alv-needles pricked at his scalp, and a terror seemed to burst behind his eyes so bright it nearly outshone the sun. It staggered him.

The dead are speaking my name, he thought, and then, Am I dying?

An uncle of his had died like this, one heartbeat standing and talking as if everything was fine, the next, cooling on the floor.

“What's the matter, dear brother?” Robert asked, from across the room. That was Robert, attracted to weakness like sharks to blood.

William set his jaw and took a deep, slow breath. No, his heart was still beating—furiously, in fact. Outside, the sky was clear. Beyond the spires and peaked roofs he could see the green ribbon of the Sleeve and the distant Breu-en-Trey. The wind was blowing from there, the west, and had the delicious taste of salt on it.

He wasn't dying, not on such a day. He couldn't be.

“William?”

He turned from the window. “A moment, brother, a moment. Wait for me outside, in the Hall of Doves.”

“I'm to be ejected from my own brother's chambers?”

“Heed me, Robert.”

A frown gashed Robert's forehead. “As you wish. But don't make me wait long, William.”

When the door closed, William permitted himself to collapse into his armchair. He'd been afraid his knees would give out with Robert in the room, and that wouldn't do.

What was wrong with him?

He sat there for a moment, breathing deeply, fingering the ivory inlay on the oaken armrest, then stood on wobbly legs and went to the wash basin to splash water on his face. In the mirror, dripping features looked back at him. His neatly trimmed beard and curly auburn hair had only a little gray, but his eyes looked bruised, his skin sallow, the lines on his forehead deep as crevasses. When did I get so old? he wondered. He was only forty-five, but he had seen younger faces on men with another score of winters.

He brushed away the water with a linen rag and rang a small bell. A moment later his valet—a plump, balding man of sixty—appeared, clad in black stockings and scarlet-and-gold doublet. “Sire?”

“John, make sure my brother has some wine. You know what he likes. And send Pafel in to dress me.”

“Yes, Sire. Sire—”

“Yes?”

“Are you feeling well?”

John's voice held genuine concern. He had been William's valet for almost thirty years. In all of the kingdom, he was one of the few men William trusted.

“Honestly, John? No. I just had some sort of … I don't know what. A terror, a waking Black Mary. I've never felt anything like it, not even in battle. And worse, Robert was here to see it. And now I have to go talk to him about some-thing-or-other, who knows what. And then court. I wish sometimes—” He broke off and shook his head.

“I'm sorry, Sire. Is there anything I can do?”

“I doubt it, John, but thank you.”

John nodded and started to leave but instead turned back. “There is a certain fear, Sire, that cannot be explained. It's like the panic one has when falling; it simply comes.”

“Yes, it was much like that. But I wasn't falling.”

“There are many ways to fall, Sire.”

William stared at him for a moment, then chuckled. “Go on, John. Take my brother his wine.”

“Saints keep you, Sire.”

“And you, old friend.”

Pafel, a ruddy-faced young man with a country accent, arrived a few moments later with his new assistant Kenth.

“Not the full court garb,” William told them. “Not yet. Something comfortable.” He opened his arms, so they could take his dressing gown.

“As you wish, Sire. If I may? Today is Tiffsday, so of course the colors of Saint Tiff are appropriate, but we are also in the season of equinox, which is ruled by Saint Fessa …”

They put him in raven hose with gold embroidered vines, a bloodred silk doublet with a standing collar and gold florets, and a robe of black ermine. The familiar routine of dressing— complete with Pafel's nonstop explanations—made William feel better. This was, after all, an ordinary day. He wasn't dying, and there was nothing to be afraid of. By the time he was dressed, his hands and legs had stopped shaking, and he felt only that distant foreboding he had carried for the past several months.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he told his dressers. When they were gone, he composed himself with a few deep breaths and went to the Hall of Doves.

The hall was as light and airy as a room all of stone could be, built of dressed alabaster and appointed with drapes and tapestries in pale greens and golds. The windows were broad and open; after all, if an army won past the floodlands, three city walls, and the outer fortress, all was lost anyway.

A faint rusty stain in the otherwise unblemished floor reminded William that it had happened once before. Thiuzwald Fram Reiksbaurg, the Wolf-Coat, had fallen here, struck through the liver by the first William Dare to reign in Eslen, just over a hundred years ago.

William stepped past the stain. Robert looked up from an armchair—William's armchair—where he pretended to study a prayerbook. “Well,” he said. “There was no need to pretty yourself up on my account.”

“What can I do for you, Robert?”

“Do for me?” Robert stood, stretching his long, lean body to its full height. He was only twenty, decades younger than William, and to emphasize the fact he wore the small mustache, goatee, and close-cropped hair that was currently in fashion among the more effete courtiers. His regular features were somewhat marred by a smirk. “It's what I can do for you, Wilm.”

“And what might that be?”

“I went for a walk last night with Lord Reccard, our esteemed ambassador from Saltmark.”

“A walk?”

“Yes. We walked first to the Boar's Beard, then to the Talking Bear, over the canal to the Miser's Daughter—”

“I see. The man isn't dead, is he? You haven't stirred us up a war with Saltmark, have you?”

“Dead? No. He's alive, if somewhat remorseful. War … well, just wait until I've finished.”

“Go on,” William said, trying to keep his face straight. He wished he trusted his brother more.

“You may remember Reccard's wife, a lovely creature by the name of Seglasha?”

“Of course. Originally from Herilanz, yes?”

“Yes, and a true daughter of that barbaric country. She cut her last husband into a gelding, you know, and the one before that was hacked to pieces by her brothers for slighting her in public. Reccard is quite terrified of her.”

“Not without cause, it seems,” William said.

Robert arched his brows. “You should talk, married to that de Liery woman! She's at least—”

“Speak no ill of my wife,” William warned. “I won't hear it.”

“No? Not even from your mistresses? I've heard a few choice complaints from Lady Berrye concerning your wife, in words I do not think she invented.”

“Robert, I hope you didn't come to lecture me about proper behavior. That would be the goat calling the ram hairy.”

Robert leaned against an alabaster pillar, folding his arms across his chest. “No, brother dear, I came to ask if you knew that Hansa had moved thirty war galleys and one thousand troops into Saltmark.”

“What?”

“As I said, poor Reccard is quite terrified of his wife. I guessed correctly that he wouldn't want her to know about the games we played at the end of the night, with the ladies in the Lark's Palace. So I convinced him that he ought to be … friendly to me.”

“Robert, what a schemer you are. It's not fitting for a Dare to act so.”

Robert made a disgusted sound. “Now who is lecturing on morality? You depend on my ‘unworthy’ behavior, William. It allows you to keep the armor of your righteousness clean and polished, while at the same time retaining your kingdom. Will you ignore this information because I obtained it so?”

“You know I cannot. You knew I could not.”

“Precisely. So do not lecture me, Wilm.”

William sighed heavily and looked back out the window. “Who knows about this? About these Hanzish ships?”

“At this court? You and me, and the ambassador, of course.”

“Why would Hansa invest Saltmark? Why would Saltmark allow it?”

“Don't be silly. What other reason could there be? They're preparing something, and Saltmark is with them.”

“Preparing what?”

“Reccard doesn't know. If I had to guess, though, I'd say they have designs on the Sorrow Isles.”

“The Sorrows? Why?”

“To provoke us, I wouldn't doubt. Hansa grows fat with men and ships, brother. The emperor of Hansa is an old man; he'll want to use them soon, while he still can. And there's nothing under the sun that he wants more than that crown you wear on your head.”

Marcomir Fram Reiksbaurg isn't the only one who wants my crown, William thought sourly. Or do you think me too thick to know that, dear brother?

“I suppose you could simply ask the Hanzish emissary,” Robert went on. “His ship anchored yesterday.”

“Yes, that complicates things, doesn't it? Or simplifies them. Perhaps they've come to declare war in person.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “In any event, I'm not scheduled to speak to that embassy until the day after tomorrow, after my daughter's birthday. I will not change that; it would seem suspicious.” He paused, considering. “Where is Reccard now?”

“Sleeping it off.”

“Put spies on him, and on the Hansans. If any correspondence passes, I want to know of it. If they meet, let them, but make certain they are overheard. Under no circumstances must either get a message out of the city.” He knitted his fingers and looked at them. “And we'll send a few ships to the Sorrows. Quietly, a few at a time over the next week.”

“Wise moves all,” Robert said. “You want me to act as your sinescalh in this matter, then?”

“Yes. Until I tell you otherwise. I'll draft the formal writ of investment this afternoon.”

“Thank you, William. I'll try to be worthy of you and our family name.”

If there was sarcasm in that, it was too subtle to detect. Which meant nothing, actually. William had known his brother only since his birth. It wasn't long enough.

A bell jangled faintly, from the hallway.

“Enter!” William said.

The door creaked open, and John stepped in. “It's the praifec, Sire, just returned from Virgenya. And he has a surprise with him.”

The praifec. Grand.

“Of course. Show him in.”

A moment later, the black-robed praifec Marché Hespero stepped into the chamber.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing to William. He then bowed to Robert. “Archgreft.”

“How good to see you, Praifec,” Robert said. “You've made it back from Virgenya in one piece.”

“Indeed,” the churchman replied.

“I trust you found our kinsmen as thickheaded as us?” Robert went on.

William wished, not for the first time, Robert would keep his mouth shut.

But Hespero smiled. “Let us say, they are as seemingly intractable in many ways, even in the matter of heretics, which is troubling. But the saints dispose, yes?”

“I trust they do,” William said lightly.

Hespero's smile didn't falter. “The saints work in many ways, but their most cherished instrument is the church. And it is written that the kingdom should be the knight of the church, the champion of it. You would be distressed, King William, if your knights failed you?”

“They never have,” William replied. “Praifec, what may I have brought for you? Wine and cheese? The jade pears came ripe while you were away, and they are excellent with the blue Tero Gallé cheese.”

“A cup of wine would suit me well,” Hespero replied.

John poured a goblet for Hespero, who frowned as he sipped at it.

“If it's not to your taste, Praifec, I can send for a different vintage,” William said.

“The wine is excellent, Sire. That is not what troubles me.”

“Please. Speak your mind, then, Your Grace.”

Hespero paused, then rested his goblet on a pedestal. “I have not seen my peers on the Comven. Are the rumors true? Have you legitimized your daughters as heirs to the throne?”

“I did not,” William said. “The Comven did.”

“But it was your proposition, the one we discussed while you were drafting it?”

“I believe we did discuss it, Praifec.”

“And you remember my opinion that making the throne heritable by women is forbidden by church doctrine?”

William smiled. “So thought one of the churchmen in the Comven. The other voted for the reform. It would seem the issue is not as clearly drawn as some believe, Eminence.”

In fact, it had taken some doing to get even one of the priests to vote William's way—more of Robert's dirty but effective dealings.

At times like this, he had to admit that Robert indeed had his moments.

Anger gathered for an instant on the cleric's brow, then smoothed away. “I understand your concern over the need for an heir. Charles, while a wonderful son, has indeed been touched by the saints, and—”

“My son will not enter into this conversation, Praifec,” William said mildly. “You stand in my house, and I forbid it.”

Hespero's face grew more stern. “Very well. I will simply inform you then, reluctantly, that I must enjoin the high Senaz of the church to consider this matter.”

“Yes, let them do that,” William said. And let them try to reverse a decision of the Comven, he thought, behind his smile. Let even the church convince that squabbling pack of lordlings they made a wrong decision. No. One of my daughters will rule, and my son, bless his soul, will continue playing with his toys and his Sefry jester until he is an old man.

He won't be your lack-wit king, Hespero. If it came to that, I'd rather leave the throne to Robert, had he any legitimate heirs.

“Saints!” a female voice interrupted. “You three aren't going to argue politics all day, are you?”

Robert was the first to react to the newcomer.

“Lesbeth!” He bounded across the floor and swept her up in a hug. She giggled as he spun her around, her red hair losing a comb and fanning out behind her. When Robert put her down, she kissed his cheek, then disentangled herself and leapt ferociously into William's arms.

“Praifec!” Robert said. “He is a blessed man who returns my beloved twin from her rustic exile!”

William held his youngest sister back to look at her. “Saint Loy, but you've grown, girl!”

“The image of Mother,” Robert added.

“You two!” Lesbeth said, taking their hands. “How I missed you both!”

“You should have sent word,” William told her. “We would have had a grand celebration!”

“I wanted to surprise you. Besides, isn't Elseny's birthday tomorrow? I wouldn't want to cast a shadow on that.”

“You could never cast a shadow, sweet sister,” Robert told her. “Come here, sit down, tell us everything.”

“We're being rude to the praifec,” Lesbeth said. “And after he was gracious enough to escort me the whole, long way. And such delightful company! Praifec, I cannot express my thanks.”

“Nor I,” William added quickly. “Praifec, forgive me if my words were sharp. Though it is early, it's been a taxing day already. But now you've brought me joy, and I'm in your debt for seeing my sister home safe and sound. I am ever the friend of the church, and will certainly demonstrate it to you.”

“It was my pleasure,” the cleric said, bowing. “And now I hope I may excuse myself. My staff is somewhat helpless without me, and I fear it will take weeks to straighten out my office. Nevertheless, I would be honored to advise you when you hold court.”

“I shall be honored to have you there. I've been too long without your wisdom, Praifec.”

The churchman nodded and withdrew.

“We must have more wine!” Robert said. “And entertainment. I want to hear about everything.” He spun on his heel. “I'll arrange it. Lesbeth, will you join me in my gallery, at half-bell?”

“Without doubt, dear brother,” she replied.

“And you, brother?”

“I will stop by. Then I must hold court, you know.”

“A pity.” Robert wagged a finger at Lesbeth. “Half-bell. Don't be late.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

Robert hurried off.

When they were alone, Lesbeth took William's hand and squeezed it. “Are you well, Wilm? You look tired.”

“I am, a bit. Nothing for you to worry about. And I'm much better, now.” He squeezed her hand back. “It's good to see you. I missed you.”

“And I missed you. How is Muriele? And the girls?”

“All well. You won't believe how Anne has grown. And Elseny, betrothed! But you'll see her at her birthday tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Her eyes flickered down, almost shyly. “Wilm, I have a secret to tell. And I must ask permission for something. But you must promise me that it won't interfere with Elseny's birthday. Will you promise?”

“Of course. Not something serious, I hope.”

Her eyes sparkled strangely. “It is, I think. At least I hope so.”

Muriele Dare, the queen of Crotheny, stepped back from the peephole. Whatever Lesbeth had to say to William, Muriele would let the siblings speak in private.

Quietly, she padded down the narrow passage, gliding on the smooth stone beneath her stockinged feet, through a secret red-oak panel and the small room beyond, down the stair behind the statue of Saint Brena, and finally to the locked and concealed door to her own chambers.

There, in near darkness, she took a moment for a few deep breaths.

“You've been in the walls again.”

Muriele started at the female voice. Across the room, she made out a gowned shadow.

“Erren.”

“Why have you started doing my job? I'm the spy. You're the queen.”

“I was bored, you were elsewhere, and I knew the praifec had returned. I wanted to know what he would say.”

“Well?”

“Nothing particularly interesting. He reacted as we expected to my daughters being named as heirs. On the other hand, have you heard anything about Hanzish troops in Saltmark?”

“Nothing so definite,” Erren said. “But there is much happening in Hansa. They will take action soon.”

“Action of what sort?”

“Crotheny will be at war within the year, I'm certain of it,” Erren replied. “But there are nearer things I fear more. Rumors abound among the coven-trained.”

Muriele paused at that. Erren was a very special sort of assassin, trained by the church to serve noble families.

“You fear for our lives?” she said. “Would Hansa be so bold as to use coven-trained to murder us?”

“No—and yes. No, they will not employ my sisters, for that would incur the wrath of the church. But there are others who will kill for kings, and the mood in Hansa is that there is in Crotheny a king needing killing. That I know.” She paused. “But something else is in the wind. Talk of new kinds of murder, of encrotacnia and shinecraft unknown to the coven-trained. Some say perhaps assassins from Hadam or some other foreign place are responsible. Across the sea they may have unfamiliar skills.”

“And you have cause to fear that these new killers will be turned against my family?”

“I fear it,” Erren said. Her tone held no uncertainty.

Muriele crossed the room. “Then take whatever precautions you deem necessary, especially with the children,” she said. “Is that all you can tell me now?”

“Yes.”

“Then light some of the candles and send for mulled wine. The passages are chilly today.”

“We could ascend to your sunroom. The sun is warm outside.”

“I prefer to remain here, for the moment.”

“As it pleases you.”

Erren went into the antechamber, whispered to the serving girl there, and returned with a burning taper. Its light was kind to her face, painting away the years better than blush. She looked almost like a girl, her features delicate beneath the dark, straight hair. Only a few streaks of silver gave it the lie.

She lit the taper near the writing desk, and as the light in the room doubled, crow's feet appeared, spindling out from her eyes, and other lines of age reluctantly revealed themselves, beneath her chin, in the skin of her neck and forehead.

A corner of Muriele's room appeared, as well. The portrait of her father, on the wall, his eyes stern yet kind, flecked with gilt by the painter, not nearly as warm as they were in person.

Erren lit a third candle, and a red couch appeared from shadow, a table, a sewing kit, the corner of Muriele's bed— not the one she shared with the king, that was in their marriage room—but her bed, cut from the white cedar of the Lierish uplands and canopied with black cloth and silver stars, the bed of her childhood, where she had slipped each night into dream.

The fourth candle chased all of the shadows under things, where they belonged.

“How old are you, Erren?” Muriele asked. “Exactly?”

Erren cocked her head. “How nice of you to ask. Will you ask how many children I have, as well?”

“I've known you since you left the coven. I was eight. How old were you?”

“Twenty. Now do your sums.”

“I'm thirty-eight,” Muriele replied. “That makes you fifty.”

“Fifty it is,” Erren replied.

“You don't look it.”

Erren shrugged. “Age has less to hold over one if one is never a great beauty to begin with.”

Muriele frowned. “I never considered you plain.”

“You are a poor authority in such matters. You often claim not to know you are beautiful, and yet your beauty has been famous since you were thirteen. How can one be surrounded by such admiration and not succumb?”

Muriele smiled wryly. “One cannot, as I'm sure you know, cousin. One can, however, cultivate the appearance of modesty. If the appearance is kept up long enough, who knows but that it might one day become true? And here age helps, for as you say, passing time steals beauty, and when one is sufficiently old, false modesty must become real modesty.”

“Excuse me, Majesty, Lady Erren,” a small voice said from the curtained doorway. It was Unna, her maid, a petite girl with honey-mud hair. “Your wine?”

“Bring it in, Unna.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

The girl placed the pitcher in the center of a small table, and a cup on either side. The scents of orange blossom and clove rose in steam.

“How old are you, Unna?” Muriele asked.

“Eleven, Your Majesty.”

“A sweet age. Even my Anne was sweet at that age, in her way.”

The maid bowed.

“You may go, Unna.”

“Thank you, Majesty.”

Erren poured some wine and tasted it. After a moment she nodded and poured some for Muriele.

“What is all of this about age?” Erren asked. “Have you been watching your husband and his mistresses again? I should never have shown you the passages to his room.”

“I have never done such!”

“I have. Poor puffing, panting, pungent man. He cannot keep pace with the young Alis Berrye at all.”

Muriele covered her ears. “I do not hear this!”

“And to make matters worse, Lady Gramme has begun to complain about his attentions to Alis.”

Muriele dropped her hands. “What! The old whore complaining about the new one?”

“What do you expect?” Erren asked.

Muriele exhaled a shallow laugh. “My poor, philandering William. It's almost enough to make me feel sorry for him. Do you suppose I should start my own fuss again? About Gramme's bastards?”

“It might make things more interesting. Alis wears his body thin, Lady Gramme chews his ears off, and you do away with what remains. It shouldn't be difficult.”

Muriele shrugged. “I could task him. But he seems … For a moment, watching him in the Hall of Doves today, I thought he might collapse. He looked more than weary, he looked as if he had seen death's shadow. And if a war really is coming with Hansa … No. Better I be the one that he can count on.”

“You've always been that,” Erren pointed out. “Ambria Gramme wants to be queen, and is spectacularly unsuited for it. Alis and the lesser young ones are hoping for a … shall we say, pensioned? … position such as Gramme enjoys. But you—you are queen. You aren't maneuvering for anything.”

Muriele felt the humor rush from her face. She looked down at her wine, at the light of the nearest candle wriggling in it like a fish.

“Would it were true,” she murmured. “But I do want something of him, the bastard.”

“Love?” Erren scoffed. “At your age?”

“We had it once. Not when we married, no, but later. There was a time when we were madly in love, don't you think?”

Erren nodded reluctantly. “He still loves you,” she admitted.

“More than he loves Gramme, you think?”

“More deeply.”

“But less carnally.”

“I think he feels guilty when he comes to you, and so does so less often.”

Muriele plucked a small smile from somewhere. “I mean for him to feel guilty.”

Erren arched her eyebrows. “Have you ever thought of taking a lover?”

“How do you know I haven't?”

Erren rolled her eyes. “Please. Don't insult me again. You have already made note of my advanced age. That's quite enough for one night.”

“Oh, very well. Yes, I have considered it. I consider it still.”

“But will not do it.”

“Considering, I think, is more fun than doing, in such cases.”

Erren took a sip of wine and leaned forward. “Who have you considered? Tell me. The young baron from Breu-n'Avele?”

“No. Enough of that,” Muriele said, her cheeks warming. “You tell me. What mischief did my daughters find today?”

Erren sighed and squared her shoulders. “Fastia was a perfect princess. Elseny giggled a lot with her maids, and they made some rather improbable speculation as to what her wedding night will be like.”

“Oh, dear. It's time to talk to her, I suppose.”

“Fastia can do that.”

“Fastia does too much of what I ought to do already. What

else? Anne?” “We … lost Anne again.”

“Of course. What do you think she's up to? Is it a man?”

“A month ago, no. She was just sneaking off, as usual. Riding, getting drunk. Now, I'm not so sure. I think she may have met someone.”

“I must speak to her, too, then.” She sighed. “I should not have let things go this far. She will have a difficult time, when she is married.”

“She need not marry,” Erren said softly. “She is the youngest. You might send her to Sister Secula, at least for a few years. Soon, your house will need a new …” She trailed off.

“A new you? Do you plan to die?”

“No. But in a few years, my more … difficult tasks will be beyond me.”

“But Anne, an assassin?”

“She already has many of the talents. After all, she can elude me. Even if she never takes the vow, the skills are always useful. The discipline will do her good, and Sister Secula will keep her well away from young men, of that I can assure you.”

Muriele nodded. “I must think on it. I'm not convinced something so drastic is needed.”

Erren nodded. “She has always been your favorite, Anne.”

“Does it show?”

“To some. I know it. Fastia does. Anne certainly does not.”

“Good. She should not.” She paused. “She will hate me if I send her away.”

“For a time. But not forever.”

Muriele closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the chair. “Ah. I hate these things,” she whispered. “I will think on it, Erren. I will think on it close.”

“And so now what? More wine?”

“No. You were right. Let's go to the sunroom and play nines.” She smiled again. “Invite Alis Berrye. I want to watch her squirm a bit.”