“But is its sovereign your enemy?” Arianya asked. “Witting or unwitting?”

NO! came the voice in her head, and by the king’s expression, it said the same to him.

“It is lonely and wants to go home,” Paks said.

“It spoke to you, too?”

“Not spoke—more like sang. It is from far away and grieving, homesick. I don’t understand it all, but I believe it is right to protect it, and then … then something will happen.”

“Something always happens,” Arianya said. “Perhaps it will happen in the time of the next Marshal-General and not on my watch. At least you need not worry about thieves.”

Halfway from Vérella to Fin Panir, Paks suddenly reined in her horse. “I must go,” she said.

“What—you have a call?”

“Yes. Somewhere south …” The red horse jigged, sidling off the road and bobbing his head.

“Do you know what?”

“I never know what,” Paks said with a grin. “But I must go—I’m sorry, Marshal-General, but there’s no time.”

And with that she was gone, the red horse kicking up clods from a field as he surged into a gallop.

“Well,” Arianya said to her horse. “You are not going anywhere that fast, so don’t get ideas.” The rest of the journey to Fin Panir, she put her mind firmly onto her many tasks, including finding the right young Marshals for Duke Verrakai’s domain. And the necklace … should she send it to Vérella? If it joined the rest of the regalia—and would the box open for that?—it would be safe from thieves, but she felt certain no thieves would breach the treasury in her own hall.

Cortes Andres, Aarenis

Jeddrin, Count of Andressat and the South Marches, sat in the cool of his loggia on the east side of his residence, overlooking the walls of Cortes Andres. He had a fine view of the pastures where his horses grazed, steep vineyards, and the walls of a village clinging to the slope, its white walls gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Though the day had been hot, on this side of the house he had a little breeze, and the damp cloths his servants had hung chilled the air just enough to make it pleasant.

He had been up at dawn, as always, for a Count of Andressat (as he said daily to his sons and grandsons) must be diligent if he was to do the best for his people. He had duties, not merely privileges; it was in the performance of such duties that a true nobleman distinguished himself from pretenders, those who thought wealth alone or power could make gold from lead by painting it yellow. Ruling—ruling well—could never be easy, and was less easy now, though he had hoped—believed—that with Siniava gone, it would be easier.

He had claimed the South Marches, the cities of Cha and Sibili that Siniava had ruled so badly, and at first this security on his southern border gave them all confidence. His son-in-law Narits governed Cha; his son Ferran governed Sibili. That should have given Andressat direct access to the Immerhoft trade, but he had recurring problems with Confaer, the only port he’d captured, and pirates controlled the island that lay in the harbor’s throat like a stone. Andressat wine and Andressat wool piled up in the warehouses of Confaer, easy prey for thieving gangs—pirates ashore allied with pirates afloat. None of the allies of Siniava’s War had the resources or will to help him clean out the other port cities or the island towns.