“So—who’s going to take over the Company? And his domain—he had a domain in Tsaia, didn’t he?”

“I am,” Arcolin said.

“So you’re a duke—the Duke—now?”

“Lord of the North Marches,” Arcolin said. “Nothing more now; the Council knows I’m from Aarenis. And not nobly born.”

“He wasn’t either, that they knew about,” Kavarthin said. They went up a flight of stairs; Kavarthin paused at the landing. “When will you want the money out, Captain?”

“Some tomorrow, to pay for expenses here.”

“You know we still have money Phelan deposited two years or more back. And it’s earned. You have his seal and authority—what should I do with that?”

“Send half north with the first Guild caravan, to his usual bank in Vérella,” Arcolin said. That had been Kieri’s practice: leave most of a season’s earnings in the bank in Valdaire, but once the first campaign money was paid, half went north. “Send it to Captain Cracolnya; he’s in charge up there for now.”

“Not that good-looking woman captain? I thought she was second to you.”

“By your leave,” Arcolin said, “that’s another long story. Tomorrow, if it please you, but now I must go.”

A soft mist drifted down as he came out into the street, the afternoon darkening to evening. Jamis and Tam had left with the mule and the kegs, to deliver ale to the cohort. Arcolin checked the hang of his sword and walked swiftly.

For a wonder, the streets were silent on his way to the Golden Fish, idlers urged back inside by mist that turned to drizzle, then to thin rain as he walked. When he arrived, he saw someone leading Aesil M’dierra’s horse away from the entrance; she was silhouetted in the doorway. Arcolin stretched his legs and caught up before the door wards closed the door behind her. He handed his damp hat and cloak to a servant and they followed the innkeeper to the private room Arcolin had reserved. It was nicely furnished, the table covered with a clean cloth and set with dishes bearing the golden fish emblem of the place, chairs cushioned with padded leather, a weapons rack on one wall, more sweet herbs scattered on the shining floor.

“Very nice,” M’dierra said, sitting in the chair to the heart-hand side; Arcolin took the other.

During dinner, they didn’t talk; both had the soldier’s habit of eating while food was available. But when servants had taken away the meager remains of the leg of lamb, the pastry stuffed with steamed grain, vegetables, and bits of chicken and pork, the buttered redroots, the bread, and brought in a compote of mixed fruits simmered in spices and honey, M’dierra said, “Well?”

“I didn’t see it myself, but I heard it from those who did,” Arcolin said, ladling a serving of dessert into the small bowls the servants had put down on fresh plates. “Including Tsaia’s prince. You remember Kieri’s wife, Tammarion.”

“Indeed I do.” They both understood the slight edge in her voice.