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“You look tired,” Deirdre told me.

Since I felt tired, I probably looked that way as well.

Every night I set wards on the shop, but I wasn’t sure what good they would do, and I kept my staff close to my bed.

I used my senses to keep studying the wood each step of the way, checking to make sure that no hidden cracks or stresses would erupt to mar the wood or the finish. When I found two, both Bostric and Destrin thought I was crazy for refusing to use sections of what appeared to be perfectly good wood.

“It’s good wood, Lerris.”

“Not good enough. It’s flawed.”

“How? Where?”

“It just is.” How could I explain without letting them know I was a beginning order-master?

“If the honored craft-master who claims he is only a journeyman says so, it must be so.”

What bothered me most about Bostric’s flip comment was that he and Destrin both looked at each other, nodded, and didn’t say anything more.

I groused and I growled, and even Deirdre stepped away from me at dinner and supper.

Not only did I do the smooth finish myself, I even worked with the varnishes until I had what not only looked right, but felt right all the way through. Then I spent time steeping the chairs in order, reinforcing their strength with order and more order, until chaos itself might have had a hard time sitting in them.

We got all five chairs done. And done well.

Brettel lent us his cart and Gairloch even pulled it, with more than a few protests, to the same front steps of the sub-prefect’s house.

I hadn’t planned on the welcoming committee. Not only was a scowling Jirrle there, but Perlot stood at the back, as did other crafters I did not know.

The sub-prefect was not there, but a thin man in a uniform, some sort of functionary, was.

First they had us line up the chairs side by side on the granite paving-blocks. In the morning light, the officer stared and scowled. He looked under the chairs. He studied the joins, the finish. He compared each chair with every other chair. He ran his fingers over every exposed surface.

Bostric, standing beside me, began to sweat, even though the day was overcast and the heat of the late summer day had not yet arrived.

I pursed my lips, knowing that the inspection was far from normal.

The one reassurance was Perlot’s presence. With each inspection, with each frown by the officer and each accompanying scowl by Jirrle, Perlot’s faint smile became more pronounced.

Finally, the officer turned to me. “The chairs seem acceptable.” He pulled out a long paper and a servant proffered a pen. “Put your mark at the bottom.”

I read the paper, but all it said was that the sub-prefect had accepted five chairs for the sum of ten golds. So I signed on behalf of Destrin, copying his mark as well for good measure.

The officer’s eyebrows raised, but he said nothing.

Jirrle edged forward to look at the chairs, finally shaking his head and looking at me. For a long time, it seemed, his eyes rested upon me. I just waited for the coins, which arrived in a leather pouch.

Although I could tell they were good, I checked each against the steel of my dagger, since no tradesman would have done otherwise. The officer nodded, as if to himself, and seemed reassured.

Jirrle looked back at the chairs, then at me, before walking back toward the avenue.

The other crafter I did not know also stepped up to the chairs. Unlike Jirrle, he stepped up to me. “Good work.” He nodded pleasantly, and his whole manner inside and out was honest, even if there were traces of chagrin beneath.

As the officer’s servants began to carry the chairs inside, the officer sniffed down his nose. “That is all, tradespeople.”

I inclined my head. “Thank you.”

He ignored me and turned.

“Damned fine work there,” rasped another voice. Perlot stood by the cart traces.

Whheeee…eeee…Gairloch wanted out of the traces—the sooner the better. Bostric looked at the pony nervously, then back to me.

“Thank you.”

“No. I mean it. Sedennial was trying to find a reason not to accept them, and he couldn