Annoyance flickered. “Is my word not enough for you?”

She hesitated, straightened and looked him dead in the eye. “No.”

Kurkas chuckled. “So much for the famed Akadra charm.”

Viktor sighed. If there was such a thing as the “famed Akadra charm”, this was the first he’d heard of it. Then again, Kurkas’ sense of humour was seldom bothered by fact. And the poor joke at least elicited a thin smile from Calenne.

Her manner had otherwise been cheerless and withdrawn all morning. He’d thought it provoked by the smoke curling up from the eastern mountains. Or perhaps the bustling military presence in Eskavord as Governor Yanda set her scant forces moving. But no. This was the fearfulness of a prisoner donning shackles recently split. Understandable, but irritating.

“That brooch is your guarantee,” he said. “Wear it, and this cage cannot claim you.”

Calenne narrowed her eyes. She nodded at the proctor, and at the trio of hawk-tabarded soldiers who stood silently in the lodge-turned-guardhouse. “And what about them? What if they try to stop me?”

“You are under my protection. I’m sure deeper wisdom would prevail.”

The proctor flinched. Calenne snatched up the remaining brooch.

“You see?” said Kurkas airily. “The famous Akadra charm. Works every time.”

On the long walk up the driveway, Viktor bent his attention on the meeting to come. Whether he liked it or not, the southwealders had every reason to fear and distrust him, Josiri Trelan most of all. Perhaps Calenne’s reluctance had less to do with returning to her prison, and more to do with the man who brought her beneath its walls.

The thought bothered Viktor. More than it should. But the smoke on the eastern horizon bothered him more. The Hadari were but two days’ march from Eskavord, even with the poor roads of the Trelszon borderlands to slow them. Calenne Trelan’s battered feelings would heal, and time was running out.

Lost to downcast introspection, Viktor scarcely realised his shadow was rising. With a scowl, he hauled it back. He glanced at Calenne. Had she noted anything untoward? He’d had one near-miss already, back when he’d learned of Kasamor’s death. It was a topic he still dared not think on without further information. Kasamor would understand if need outweighed justice.

Viktor raised his eyes to the manor stairs – and the slender white-haired woman in the seneschal’s uniform – and realised he’d badly misread his shadow’s unease. The challenge didn’t lie in the woman’s manner. That was of a cat basking rapturously in sunshine. It lay in her very being.

“His grace, the Duke of Eskavord, is in discussion. He has no time for chance callers.” Her gaze shifted to Calenne. “Even those who come slinking back to the warmth of his hearth.”