It was a very beautiful piece, Clariel noted with reluctance. A slim goblet of beaten gold raised upon a long stem set with small rubies, arranged so that a red glow wrapped the cup above and the circular foot below, which was also rimmed with rubies or tiny chips of ruby.

Jaciel’s eyebrows rose as she saw it.

‘Show me!’ she demanded, rising from her seat. Aronzo stood too, and both moved around opposite sides of the table towards the major-domo.

‘It really isn’t ready, Lady Jaciel!’ he said, in his most charming manner. ‘Please don’t touch –’

Even as he spoke, Jaciel put out one finger and touched the foot of the goblet. It was the slightest touch, a mere graze of her fingernail, but as it passed, tiny white sparks flew from her hand.

‘You didn’t make this alone,’ said Jaciel, her voice harsh. ‘This was made by a Dwerllin or Hish. It was forced by Free Magic from the raw gold!’

‘True,’ sighed Aronzo, and drew his sword in one swift motion. A moment after he did so, Kilp thrust his chair back and drew also. The servants, all save the major-domo, drew daggers. Clariel pushed her chair back, but before she could rise there was a dagger at her throat from the servant who been standing behind her, and another had her weapon at Harven’s neck. He looked bewilderedly from side to side as two more servants moved in front of Jaciel, their daggers ready, though they did not lift them.

Jaciel stood very still, clearly unarmed in her white and gold silks.

‘I’m sure we can forget this,’ said Kilp. He darted a sharp glance at his son, who looked down and bit his lip. ‘So my son had some help. It is of no great importance. Let’s sit down and talk, there are many arrangements we need to make –’

‘I beg to differ,’ interrupted Jaciel. She stood tall and imperious, speaking as she might to a forgehand who had spoiled the work of days. ‘You have knives at the throats of my husband and daughter. You deal with Free Magic. No.’

She spoke a word then that could not be properly heard or understood, a word that Clariel saw emerge from her mouth in a flash of golden brilliance. A master Charter mark that was linked to hundreds of other marks, that came out of her mouth all together like a sudden storm of rain, but here the drops were molten gold, spraying out at neck height, passing over Clariel’s head so close she felt the burn of their passage. If it were not for her scarf, her hair would have caught on fire.