“My mind will not settle.” The Duke gently stroked the letters with his fingertips, as if the paper were living skin. “Sometimes when I have been reading these letters I look into the clouds for the face of my enemy, and I seem to see Aramai Goshawk staring back at me. But, Tamarind, what am I to do? This radical conspiracy must be crushed—I see their hand in everything—helping highwaymen escape, rousing my people to riot . . . My constables are useless. The Stationers too. Goshawk tells me that he has troops upstream who can be in Mandelion in two days if I give the word. Only the Locksmiths can help.”

“That is not true.” Tamarind circled her brother to stand before him, and dropped to her knees. “Goshawk is not your only choice. I can help. Off the coast a ship stands ready with troops from Jottland—awaiting word from me.”

“The Watermen have sworn that they will not permit any troops to be brought along the waterways from the coasts, until the Succession is decided,” the Duke answered dully.

“You might distract them. If you gave them enough money, you might persuade them to go upstream and delay the Locksmiths’ ships and . . .”

“Why do you wish to put me at odds with the Watermen, Tamarind?” The Duke scowled, and Tamarind could sense the floor becoming quicksand beneath her feet. It was time to gamble all her gains, and she did so without a tremble.

“You must listen to me, Vocado. The Locksmiths are playing you false. The Stationers have discovered the identity of the man running the radical conspiracy, the master of the villainous printing press. They have not arrested him because he is being protected. The Locksmiths are hiding him, Vocado.”

An ugly sickle curl was developing in the corners of the Duke’s mouth. The curl appeared when he was on the brink of some cruel or violent act. It had appeared on the day of the fateful badminton match.

“I can prove it.” A frightened moth was a-flutter behind Lady Tamarind’s scar. She could not read her brother, or guess whether his current anger boded ill for Aramai Goshawk or for herself. “Put some men at my disposal, and I will prove it to you by tomorrow night. You . . . will want time to think about this, Vocado. I will leave you.”

She composed herself outside the door. Her scar throbbed so hard it numbed her cheek. In one instant she had staked everything—her influence over her brother, the fate of Mandelion, her own life. All now depended on the decision the Duke was about to make. Vocado Avourlace was alone with the voices that only he could hear. They murmured from twinned smiles in painting, tapestry and stained-glass window. The words that whispered from the newly arrived letters, however, spoke most clearly.