Reaching the central plaza, he paused before its beautiful fountain and laughed without restraint at the day’s water-trickery, rainbowed dolphins leaping and dancing. Childishly entranced, he lingered longer than he should. But then the sonorous chiming of the city’s grand clock recalled him to his obligations.

“Morgan,” said Brice Varen, glancing up from the scattering of papers and unrolled parchment on the Council chamber’s table. “How does your father prosper?”

“Well enough, my lord,” he replied, waving the imposing door closed behind him. Councillor or not, he wasn’t free to make free with Varen’s given name. He was not yet a lord himself and was decades too young, besides. “My thanks to you for asking.”

Varen indicated the Council table’s last empty chair. “Sit. As you can see we have been waiting for you.”

The words were said mildly enough, but beneath them he felt the slap of censure. So he humbly took his seat beside Venette Martain, nodded to Sallis Arkley and Shari Frieden, and with his fellow councillors waited at Varen’s pleasure. Stained-glass light washed over table and floor, painting their faces motley and turning their soberly rich clothes garish.

“First order of business,” Varen said, his spine straight, his hands neatly folded, “is a matter referred to us by the General Council. Do we sanction the establishment of a second trade fair?”

“And the request comes from…?” said Shari, slender fingers idly playing with her long blonde plait.

As usual, she sat beside Sallis. Two mages, one thought… and never was it friendly. Not where Morgan Danfey was concerned.

“The Iringans,” said Varen. He half smiled, his seamed face wolfish. “They claim Brantone is too great a distance to travel for those not blessed with mage powers.”

“It is a goodly distance from Iringa to Brantone,” Sallis agreed. “And in principle I have no objection to the notion of further commerce. Any expansion of trade must benefit our coffers.”

Morgan hesitated, then raised a cautioning hand. “Unless there are those behind the request who would halve our profits by doubling the availability of what we sell. We should remember, Lord Arkley, that our neighbours love our magework. They do not love us.”

“How cynical you are, Morgan,” said Venette, slyly grinning. “Mind you, I’d trust my housemaid with the key to my treasury box before an Iringan with a small purse only part-full of cuicks.”

“Cynical or not, Morgan is correct,” said Shari, and looked unhappy admitting it. “Don’t forget that only last month the General Council had to impose sanctions on Feen for attempting to evade tariff collections. If we let them, these magickless nations will ride over us roughshod.”

“But if it can be shown that a second trade fair would benefit Dorana,” Sallis said, “then the General Council can tell the Iringans we’ll approve one in Manemli, say, provided certain fiscal conditions are met.”

Venette’s nose wrinkled. “Not Manemli. They have unsavoury practices.”

“So do others we truck with,” said Shari. “But I haven’t noticed any taint on their coin. Have you?”