She smiled. ‘Workers and soldiers. Queens and kings. Gods and goddesses, all overseeing their fine and finely ordered creation. The worker enslaved to work, the soldier enslaved to the cause of defending and killing. The helpless doomed to remain helpless. The innocent cursed into a lifetime of naivety—’

‘And children? What of defending them?’

‘Ah yes, the children who must grow up to make more workers and more soldiers.’

‘You find your own arguments dragging you into a quagmire, beloved sister.’

She strummed the strings again, making Rancept wince. ‘Language keeps us in our place. And, when necessary, puts us in our place. Let’s go back to that question of compensation. The poor legion out there, even now marching down upon helpless Kharkanas. Land. Wealth. In answer to the sacrifices made. The castellan speaks of that sacrifice: the killing, the wounds, the friends lost. Name me the number of coins sufficient to compensate for being made into a murderer. How high the stack to match a lopped-off limb, or a lost eye? How broad the stretch of land needed to keep the ghosts of fallen comrades at bay? Show me, I beg you, the coin and the land sufficient to ease a soldier’s anguish and loss.’

Slowly, Horult Chiv leaned back.

Sekarrow’s smile was soft. ‘Brother, the man who loves you fears your wounding. Your death. Against that, land is worthless, coin an insult to the soul. He hesitates, because he sees clearly what he might lose. For love, he will do nothing. And, perhaps, love is the only valid reason for doing nothing.’ She shifted her attention to Rancept. ‘What think you on that, castellan?’

He wiped again at his nose. ‘I would hear you play,’ he said.

Snorting again, Horult Chiv stood. ‘She can’t,’ he said, moving off to collect a new jug of ale, and two tankards.

Sekarrow shrugged apologetically. ‘No talent.’

‘The arguments begin in yonder hall,’ said Horult, sitting back down and pouring ale into all three tankards. ‘Let us drink, and in silence – such as we can manage here – bemoan the cruel misuse of horsehair, wood and glue.’

Rancept squinted at the siblings, and decided he liked them both. He reached down for his tankard.

* * *

Families were sordid things, Lady Hish Tulla reflected as she looked upon the uncle she had not seen in decades. The curse of estrangement burned like a brand when its subject made a game of sudden, unexpected appearances, bearing an expression of amusement and expectation, as if past crimes could settle like sand. In the moment of seeing the tall, thin form of Venes Turayd, however, as he brushed snow from his furs just within the entranceway, the storm within her ignited with all the fury of its shocking birth.