“Ah.” Now that did sound like the sort of thing to coax a smile from Lady Kiradin. “I wouldn’t have thought your mother would have trusted a southwealder near the silver.”

“She hasn’t, not since. Stripped them all of their papers and threw them onto the streets. They’ll be in Dregmeet now, hiding from the constabulary.”

Malachi scowled. Indentured southwealders weren’t technically slaves. Nonetheless, the exodus-brand on the palm meant they couldn’t take paid work without papers. At best, Ebigail Kiradin had doomed her servants to a life of starvation and criminality.

“Hold on . . .” Rosa grunted. “Are you drawing comparison between your betrothed and Marek, or your betrothed and a thieving servant?”

Kasamor’s lip twisted. “I speak merely to my mother’s occasional lightness of character.”

“One smile. And you think Calenne Trelan can coax forth another?” Rosa shook her head. “You must be in love to be so blind. I’m surprised your mother hasn’t disowned you.”

“Disown me? Her favourite son?”

“Her only son,” said Malachi.

Kasamor brushed the detail aside. “Some friends you are, dousing my happiness. I shan’t allow it. Calenne is to be my wife, and I the happiest man in the Republic.”

Malachi let the matter drop. He felt more than a little mean-spirited for needling his friend so. Whatever the complications of Calenne Trelan’s southwealder heritage, Kasamor was besotted. After two betrothals ended by Hadari spears, he deserved a good marriage. And if it was one founded in genuine affection rather than in furtherance of a dynasty, then Malachi envied him.

Rosa drained her tankard. “It’s my round. Another?”

Malachi stared into the remains of his ale. He should have left hours ago. Now he’d face a lecture and a polite smile undercut by disdain. Easier to face them after another drink.

“Sure.”

Kasamor lurched to his feet. “Put your coin away. We celebrate in style, and at my expense. In fact . . .” He paused, brow furrowed in thought.

Malachi caught Rosa’s eye, but the moment of shared realisation came too late.

“. . . I shall buy a drink for anyone who’ll offer a toast to Calenne Trelan,” Kasamor bellowed. “The jewel of the Southshires, and the brightest star in any sky!”

The hubbub gave way to a chorus of cheers. Fists and tankards hammered at tables in approval. Kasamor grinned broadly. He clambered atop his chair and drank in the adulation. Empty tankard in hand, he goaded the Silverway’s clientele to greater uproar, conducting their raucous clamour as music sprung from an orchestra.

Malachi released a sigh of relief. For a moment, he’d worried that . . .

“Toast your southwealder whore elsewhere.”

The cheers fell away.

Kasamor froze mid-gesture. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Then I’ll say it again, and clearer.”