“You’re right. I need proof.” Rosa stood, seized of fresh determination. “Thank you.”

“So you’ve used me up, and now you’re to abandon me on the dockside?” Sevaka asked without rising. “You dragged me down here, you can at least share another drink or two. We never finished our toasts . . . and I’m in no hurry to return to Freemont.”

The need in her voice chimed kinship in Rosa’s soul. There was little she could do at that hour save dwell on her next move. And unless she was prepared to aimlessly walk the city streets, she’d do so amid the lights and laughter of Abbeyfields. She couldn’t face that. Alone in a crowd was alone in a crowd, whether you were a solitary drunk at a tavern table, or a guest in a family home.

“All right,” she said. “But no politics, no intrigue and no brawling.”

Sevaka beamed. “Agreed!”

She emptied her glass and called for another bottle.

“The situation is intolerable!” insisted Makrov. “I demand the Council take action!”

The archimandrite stood with his back to the window and the moonlit gardens, his scarlet robes ominous in the gloom. Outspread arms and rigid posture drew forth Marek’s childhood memories of fiery sermons delivered from high pulpit. Expected in the solemn confines of a church, but wholly unfit for Lady Ebigail’s drawing room.

Possibly the archimandrite knew no other way of making address. More likely he was too angry for appropriate behaviour.

“Demand, archimandrite? Lord Akadra and I are not children. Nor are we penitents seeking absolution. Kindly refrain from addressing us as such.” Lady Ebigail returned her attention to her teacup, leaving her guest in the throes of speechless apoplexy.

Makrov glanced at Lord Akadra, reclining in the chair to Lady Ebigail’s right and received a weary wave of the hand. “Sit down, Arzro. No one disputes your intentions, but as Ebigail says, we should manage a little decorum.”

Makrov havered, grimaced, and finally lowered himself into a chair.

“Better.” Lady Ebigail set aside her teacup and at last looked up at Makrov. “But I feel you may be overstating the situation, Arzro.”

“Overstating?” Makrov bit out. “Hadon’s son mocks everything I’ve worked for! And with the Council’s backing!”

“With the Council’s reluctant backing,” said Lady Ebigail. “The Southshires have always been . . . problematic. I think it’s something about the soil. It grows rebellion as readily as crops.”

“Then you agree nothing good comes of letting them off the leash?”

“Oh, of course. It has been my guiding light that orderliness arises from strength. Better a Republic unhappy at the boot on its throat than one lost to anarchy. If we cannot keep the darkness of the soul in check, we must trammel the flesh with steel and the mind with law.”

“You’re talking about tyranny,” objected Lord Akadra. “It goes against everything the Republic was founded upon.”