She thought now that she understood part of Lady Dia’s passion for breeding her dogs; as long as there were dogs out of one of her famous lines, her name would be recorded for others who cared about such things. Lord Jorthun didn’t share the same impulse, but he already had his name and his familial record—all highborn did. But this was the same impulse that must fuel a merchant to label his business with his name, not just the name of what he sold.

She knew that there were plenty of people who didn’t feel that way, but she did—and that wasn’t a bad thing.

Mags cared on her behalf but also on his own. That bridge would carry her name, but it would also carry his. . . . it’s nice t’hev some’un I c’n brag on wi’out givin’ away a secret . . . Even if no one ever knew what he’d done once the current leaders were gone, he’d still be the father of Abidela, who had rebuilt the bridge everyone had been sure could never be replaced safely. He would still be the father of Abidela, who discovered, or rediscovered, a new principle of building, one that would make stronger, safer bridges and buildings for hundreds of years to come.

Perry didn’t seem to care . . . But on the other hand, Perry’s name was attached to a tale already. No wonder he doesn’t show that kind of ambition—it’s been satisfied. How many people get to save the entire Kingdom from a one-man horror? There had been nothing that needed to be kept secret about Perry and Mags’ confrontation with that psychopathic lunatic out in the Pelagirs; in fact, since the Council had had to be informed about what was going on, it would have been impossible to do so. So Perry was a hero; at least among a very chosen few, and his name was certainly in the Chronicles.

And now that she thought about it, Mags himself wasn’t entirely anonymous. Papa has done things that are in the Chronicles—the madman in the Pelagirs and uncovering the devious plot of the priests of Sethor the Patriarch. So he knows what it’s like to be valued.

He really, really does. And he wants me to have that on my own.

Now buoyed by gratitude as well as relief, she set her mind on the problem of how many slices the bridge would have to be cut up into until she fell into sleep.

11

“I’m sorry that I almost never see you anymore,” Kat said, surveying the bridge model, which at the moment was being sliced up into careful pieces according to the marks painted on all four sides. “But I’m also not sorry, because we’re getting this. You do know it’s pretty much all people can talk about, right?”