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By Root 1791 0

to make a few passes in the air and then vomit out some ambiguous prediction? Come on, you might at least go through the motions, woman – or what’s a charlatan for?’ After just a few steps, he had backed her into a corner, trampling over Felipe’s flowers. ‘Because they claimed you could help, and now I’m cursed if I have anyone else to turn to. They said her self had been cut loose, whatever that’s supposed to mean, and all I know is that something struck her down, and I can’t tell what’s wrong, and it might as well be . . .’ He realized that he had her by the shoulders, in a grip that must surely have hurt, and was staring her right in the face, and about to do who could know what.

Her expression had gone from alarm to calm acceptance, and now to curiosity. ‘Magic?’ she whispered.

Feeling suddenly defeated, Thalric let her go and stomped back over to Che. ‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘What’s left except lies like that? Why not magic?’

‘My name is Maure, sir,’ she told him. ‘Will you pay me for my work?’

He turned back to her, frowning. ‘What sort of magician are you?’

‘One that has to eat,’ she stated. ‘And there’s no payment promised by Prince Felipe, and living off the gratitude of princes is like to leave me hungry, in any event.’

‘Recover Che and I’ll pay you,’ he told her gruffly. ‘And no “sirs”. We’re neither of us in the army any more. I’m Thalric, that’s Varmen, she’s Cheerwell Maker.’

Maure approached Che’s body almost casually at first, but then she flinched back, eyebrows vanishing under her uneven fringe. ‘Oh, now,’ she murmured, ‘what am I looking at? What did they do to her?’

‘The consensus of the prince’s seers was that she represents some kind of menace best destroyed, or so the steward said,’ Thalric said acidly.

‘Is that the truth?’ Maure wondered. ‘Well, then, I should do my best to bring her back to herself as quickly as possible, if only because it will annoy that man so. Now, you two, sirs, give me room and time to work, and don’t expect too much too soon, sirs – and, yes, I know you said not to call you that, sirs but, as a halfbreed and a woman and a Commonwealer to boot, I’ve not enjoyed the best experiences with any of your people, so you’ll appreciate if I keep myself on the windy side of civil.’

Twenty-Six

The hall of Leose was busy now, far more so even than when the young nobles had danced here. Salme Elass was holding her council of war.

She held pride of place, with Alain sitting to her left, and Isendter Whitehand to her right, whilst the seneschal, Lisan Dea, hovered in attendance behind. Around the room she had assembled many of those same aristocrats that had been hunting the stag, together with their own champions, their war leaders and headmen of their retinues.

Elass watched the Lowlander take her place. Telse Orian gave the new arrival a companionable nod, and young Chevre Velienn was scowling at her as an upstart, but Tynisa ignored them both. Partly that was because the girl’s attention was directed instead at Elass’s son, who was, after all, the hook that the princess had caught her on. There was more, though, for there was a casual arrogance about the girl suggesting that opinions of the assembled nobility were now beneath her notice.

In truth, it is a shame that she is a Lowlander. Were she of our kinden, and of halfway decent blood, then perhaps she might make a good match for Alain after all. He could profit from being taught that kind of self-assurance.

Almost directly across from Elass sat Lowre Cean, with some of his own people about him. Tynisa’s chosen seat placed her on the periphery of his influence, which was fitting enough, for she was the thread by which Elass had hauled the old man in, after all.

She surveyed the mustered war leaders and let her wings shimmer a moment about her shoulders, her signal that she was about to speak. ‘You all know why I have gathered you here,’ she addressed them. ‘Elas Mar has suffered grievous incursions from the lordless lands to our south. For a long time that wilderness has been a breeding ground for bandits and killers,