“I am Colivar, Magister Royal of Anshasa, bound in service to his Majesty Hasim Farah the Most Merciful, scourge of the Tathys, ruler of all the lands south of the Sea of Tears.” The northern language felt harsh on his tongue compared to the liquid resonance of his accustomed dialect, but he spoke it well enough to make himself understood. Little wonder the northerners did not revere poetry as his own people did; one could hardly scribe paeans to love in such a guttural and unsatisfying dialect.

“You are welcome, Colivar. If a bit early.” The speaker was a man who had chosen to appear in the guise of a white-haired sage, though of course that did not necessarily have anything to do with his real age. His long beard was impressive, and as snowy white as the fur of a meticulously groomed cat.

“My luggage will be here on time.”

A soft murmur of amusement that did not quite become laughter coursed about the room. Only the sage’s eyes remained cold.

“The king might deem such levity offense.”

Colivar shrugged. “I made no promise of pageantry for his amusement.”

“And we made you no promise save safe passage to and from this place. Be wary of offending the one who rules here.”

The one called Colivar laughed. It was hearty, heartfelt laughter that echoed freely in the vast chamber and set the dust to shivering off the window sills. “The king rules here? Truly? Well then you must be cutting the balls off your Magisters, for I don’t know another city where men of power would stand for such a thing.”

“Hush,” one of the locals said, glancing toward the great oaken doors that guarded the room. “He has got ears, you know.”

“And servants.”

“And all of them have minds as malleable as clay,” Colivar responded, “and we are the potters.”

“Maybe so,” the white-bearded Magister allowed, “but here in the north we pride ourselves on discretion.”

“Ah.” Colivar brushed at the dust on one shirt sleeve, then the other. “So do you plan to tell me why you have asked me here, against all the tide of morati politics, or does this mean I have to guess? Mind you,” he said, his eyes growing hard for a moment, “you won’t like my guesses.”

The white-bearded Magister studied him for a moment, then nodded ever so slightly. “Perhaps introductions will make things a bit more clear. I am called Ramirus, Magister Royal of King Danton.” He introduced two more men by his side, both members of the same company. “And this …” he indicated a swarthy man wrapped in a black burnoose and turban, “is Severil of Tarsus.”

The sardonic essence faded from Colivar as quickly as it had possessed him. “Truly? A Tarsan? That is a long and arduous journey, even for one who commands the soulfire. I am honored to meet one who has come so far.”

“And Del of the Crescent Isles.”