“Whatever gods my lord commands,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“And what god did your lord command?”

“He—” Grull trembled suddenly, as if with a chill, and the voice Dorrin had heard in her mind spoke with Grull’s mouth. “What do you think, little rabbit? He is my faithful servant.”

“Then he cannot be mine,” Dorrin said. She looked at the footman. “And you? Speak, Coben.”

“You’re not the Duke,” Coben said. “I heard about you; you’re just a runaway, not really a Verrakai, and anyway you’re just an old woman.”

“Do you also follow the Bloodlord?” Dorrin asked.

Coben smiled, showing his teeth, and licked them. “The mightiest of gods is Liart, Lord of Torments. You will never prevail against him—”

“Bind them well,” Dorrin said. “For they have spoken treason and thus fall under a sentence of death, unless the prince commutes it.”

“You cannot kill us,” Grull said, this time in his own voice. “We have done nothing. And you lack the will—you are weak—”

“You tell your Duke she is weak?” Dorrin had her sword in hand before she quite realized it. Beside her, her two escorts had drawn blades when she did. “You were not told, perhaps, that I have been a soldier more than three hands of years. I have killed more men—aye, and women—” That with a glance at the women down the hall. “—than you can count on both hands twice over.” A dark rage rose higher in her mind, urging her to prove Grull wrong, to kill both him and the footman, and that slowly. Her ruby flashed, bright in her mind. She shook her head. “You are not worth the loss of honor,” she said, shoving her sword back into its scabbard. “To trial you will go, and I doubt not the royal hangman will soil his hands with you.”

By then four of the Royal Guards were behind the two, with thongs to bind them. When they had bound the men’s wrists, then their arms to their bodies, Dorrin released her control so they could be led aside, but both lunged toward her, eyes wide and mouths open. Before she could draw her blade, her escort had stepped in front of her, and run them through.

A disturbance broke out somewhere outside—clashing blades, a horse’s squeal, shouts—and three more men pushed through the huddle of servants, waving knives and pokers as they ran toward Dorrin, only to fall to Royal Guard soldiers. Like a terrified herd of sheep, the rest of the servants surged back and forth, unsure which way to run.

Dorrin saw all this with awareness honed by many a battle. Diversion—who would want a diversion?—her gaze fell on her prisoners; her aunt and mother were grinning in triumph. Dorrin strengthened her control of them, and all those prisoners slumped. Phelani uniforms appeared behind the mass of servants; Vossik called over their heads.

“My lord, a stableboy and a gardener’s lad suddenly attacked us, but it’s all under control now.”