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had dressed in sober clothes—black trousers and soft black boots, a dark grey tunic with a high collar. Idisio saw a thick silver band on his left thumb, stamped with what looked like a family crest, and a thin silver chain around his throat. His long dark hair was carefully pulled back and tied with a black leather thong.
    In this crowd, all in silks and riotous colors, he stood out like an axeman at a wedding, and most people avoided him after a quick, uneasy glance his way. Idisio had the feeling that Scratha had aimed for exactly that effect.
    Idisio's boots began to chafe. His legs hurt; his back and neck ached. He couldn't wait for this to be over. Servants didn't sit, the eunuch had told him. They stood at their lord or lady's side, hour after hour after hour, until the dinner ended. Only then, and only if they were lucky enough to have their lord's approval, could they go to the kitchen to scrabble over scraps.
    Idisio had been unable to hide his dismay at that information. The eunuch had checked mid-sentence and given him a hard look.

“You haven't eaten yet today, have you, boy?” he demanded, then sent a servant for a plate of food. Crusty bread, still warm from the ovens, a wedge of fine white cheese, and thick slices of sand-pear; it had been a feast, and only the eunuch's restraining hand kept him from tearing into it like a hungry asp-jacau. Idisio's stomach still felt warm and full from that first lesson on eating in polite company.

Idisio looked over the before-dinner crowd with a rather benign feeling as a result, ignored his multiplying aches, and tried to see if his lord watched anyone in particular. He couldn't see any pattern, and his own gaze often wandered; a number of pretty girls were drifting around the room, most of them clad in thin silks and flowing gowns. The sight caught his breath hard in his chest. He looked at the ugliest old men in the room to calm himself.

“My lord,” he said after a while, “may I ask a question?”
    “What?”

“Why did the king say Arason is of special interest right now?”
    “Ghost Lake,” Scratha said, not looking down at him. “The people of Arason believe strange creatures live in the lake, creatures that come out and seduce unwary women. The children of such a union are supposed to have unusual powers, reading minds, seeing the future, and so on.”
    “Witches,” Idisio said. Something about his lord's words sent a shiver up his back, as if there were more to the story. Seeing the future? He won't kill me. This is a good thing happening. . . . He blinked hard and tried not to think about whether his intuition could be considered witchcraft.
    “Yes. The Church convinced Ninnic to investigate. Troops were sent to Arason to root out the witches. It got . . . ugly. Oruen called the troops back when he took the crown, but the damage will take generations to heal.”

Arason is dangerous. Very, very dangerous. Idisio tried to quell the panic rising in his throat.

“Do we have to go there?” he husked.

Scratha made no reply beyond a faint smile.

They stood in silence for a time, watching the room; then the faintest of sighs came from Scratha, drawing Idisio's attention. His lord's expression had shifted from bland to stony.

“Damn,” the noble said, just barely audible.

A tall, thin young man strode towards them, aristocratic jaw set hard and ugly. Idisio had seen him before, moving through uptown and downtown streets with no worry over safety: Pieas Sessin didn't need any thieves' warning passed before him to warrant caution.

Scratha shifted slightly, as if considering rapid evasion, then stilled and waited, expressionless again. Pieas came to a halt before them, fine dark brows drawn into a fierce scowl.

“You, Lord Scratha,” he said. “I've words for you.”

“Sessin,” Scratha said, making the name sound like an insult. “I've none for you.”

Pieas's dark face flushed further. “You dishonored my sister, Scratha.”
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