Arian wondered if this was the same place where the assassination attempt of the previous spring had taken place but did not ask. As they passed through an outer room, obviously an office, she heard, “Is that you, Mikeli?” from the next.

“It is, Marshal-Judicar, and I’m bringing Lyonya’s queen with me.”

“Wait just a moment.” A thump as of chair legs hitting the floor, a mutter too low to understand but for the tone, which was clearly one of dismay. Then, “You should have let me know…” and the Marshal-Judicar appeared in the doorway.

Arian had met Marshals on her trip along the River Road; Duke Mahieran had stopped at every grange. Would a Marshal-Judicar—arbiter of the Code of Gird in Tsaia—be more like a Marshal or a noble? Marshal-Judicar Oktar reminded her at first glance of Armsmaster Carlion: square-set, moving with the controlled power of a fighter. Aside from that, he was dressed like any other Marshal.

“Lady,” he said to Arian, bowing. “You will pardon me, I hope, for not being ready to welcome you properly. I was sure you would be resting this evening after so long a journey.”

“Readily, if you will pardon my ignorance of what a Marshal-Judicar actually does,” Arian said, smiling. “We do not have many Girdish in Lyonya, and thus few Marshals and no Marshal-Judicar.”

“You have heard of the Code of Gird?” Oktar said.

“Yes, but I know little of it.”

He leaned forward a little, eyes gleaming with the joy of any expert who finds a novice to instruct, and launched into what promised to be a long lecture.

Even as Arian reconciled herself to this, the king intervened. “Another time, please, Oktar,” he said. “I’m taking Queen Arian around the palace this evening. You’re welcome to come with us if you wish. I thought I’d show her the royal salle and the Bells’ training hall and have her meet the Knight-Commander.”

“Certainly. Be glad to.” Oktar gave up his lecture, went to the weapons rack on one wall, and took down his sword. Over his shoulder, he said to Arian, “I saw you carried a sword and wondered if it was ornamental.”

“No,” Arian said. She considered telling him that she’d killed with it. Instead she said, “I am a Knight of Falk.”

“Ah. Like our Knights of Gird.”

As they neared the salle after another confusing trip through crooked passages and stairways, the clash of blades sounded clearly down the passage. The long high room had polished mirrors on two walls and a floor whose inlaid pattern, Arian saw at once, was not the elven one, merely the Tsaian Rose.