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"I'm not worried about Master Dyre," Korvaun said quietly. "Naoni's her own mistress. Alas, there the matter ends: she stands adamant against any notion of romance."

Taeros regarded his friend with amused fascination. "And you know this how?"

"I've sent her letters respectfully requesting her company. She declined, with equal respect."

"You've sent letters," Taeros echoed disbelievingly. "Have you never heard bards sing 'faint hearts ne'er won fair prize?' Seek her out, man! Chase her down!"

He shook his fist in emphasis, drawing a squawk from the hooded peahawk perched on it.

"Was that my intent, I'd need a bigger bird," Korvaun said dryly.

Taeros chuckled. "What I meant was, woo her more heartily! Flowers and gifts, pretty words and poetry."

Korvaun roared out laughter. "Oh, and who's to be my poet? You?"

Taeros grew a slow grin. "Perhaps you're wise not to be employ me as your envoy. Even so, you should speak to the girl at least."

Korvaun started to nod-and his hawk suddenly plunged to the meadow, disappearing into the grass. He kicked his steed toward her.

"Fly your hawk!" he called back. "Mornings this fine are meant for hunting!"

"Precisely, Korvaun," Taeros murmured, releasing his bird. "Precisely."

She circled twice, then stooped-and almost immediately rose with a small, long-tailed grouse in her talons.

Taeros stowed the kill in his game satchel and fed his little hunter her reward from the vial of diced giblets his hawkmaster always provided.

The Helmfast had dismounted to collect the plump hare his hawk had slain, but sent her flying again without reward-a sure sign that something other than the morning's hunt, perhaps something other than wooing the fair Naoni-rode his thoughts and heart.

"Your mind seems a crowded place this morn," Taeros said quietly.

Korvaun swung back into his saddle. "Your father told you the talk of Lord Piergeiron's death?"

"Rumors-and like most such, more smoke than embers."

"I think the tales false, too, yet they're troubling nonetheless."

Taeros chuckled in bewilderment. "You've never shown the slightest interest in politics! Why now?"

"It's time," Korvaun said simply and whistled his hawk down from the skies.

Taeros pondered that reply as they rode back to the city. Try as he might, he could think of none better.

* * * * *

Later that morning, the youngest scions of Houses Helmfast and Hawkwinter traded glances in front of a heap of rotten barrel-staves and a small, sagging door beyond it, an inauspicious ending to a narrow alley.

Korvaun shrugged and tapped on the door. There was no response.

He rapped more firmly. Still nothing.

Exchanging glances with Taeros again, the youngest Lord Helmfast shrugged. "The lad who sold this destination is doubtless snickering with his friends about now."

Whereupon the door swung open, and the two nobles found themselves face to face-or more accurately, waist to face-with a pair of grim-looking halflings who held daggers ready. They looked not at all like the plump, complacent Small Folk the Gemcloaks betimes saw drinking in the more squalid taverns: These two were lean, sharp-featured, and coldly alert.

The curly head of a third halfling thrust between the two guards, eyeing the nobles' glittering cloaks. "Gemweave; you'd be the Tall Folk who blundered by to 'save' the Dyre lasses and Lark a few days past. Your intentions are appreciated, even if your assistance was unnecessary."

Taeros blinked. "'Unnecessary'? Three unarmed girls are hardly a battle-match for half a dozen roughblades!"

"Perhaps not, but so few are no match for Mistress Dyre's guard."

"I saw no guard in that alley!"

The curly-haired hin grinned. "We do our work well, then, don't we?"

Korvaun drew a deep breath and tried again. "I'd like to speak with Mistress Naomi Dyre. We were told she might be found here."

"What business have you with Mistress Dyre?" one of the guards demanded. His voice was low, gruff, and unfriendly.

"Take ease, good fellow. We mean her no harm."

The guard sniffed. "You