“Not without arming,” Juris said, nodding to the prince’s private chambers.

In moments, Mikeli had belted on his sword and the young men had retrieved theirs from the racks. Roly and Juris each checked that their saveblades were in place. Roly’s, Mikeli remembered, was an ancient stone-bladed knife, supposedly brought all the way from Old Aare when his ancestors came over the sea. His own—he checked it—had been his father’s, given to him after his father’s death.

As they went into the passage, Mikeli felt his skin tighten on his body as if he had gone out in midwinter in summer clothes. For the first time in his life, he thought he knew how the older men felt, who had faced death. His training, he realized, had been only a shadow of the real thing. Kieri Phelan had been in danger, and so had others, but he himself had always been protected.

In the Knight-Commander’s chambers, they found Beclan Mahieran, Knight-Commander of the Bells, and Donag Veragsson, Marshal-Judicar of Tsaia, enjoying mulled wine and pipes and toasting their sock-clad feet before a crackling fire. Their damp boots stood propped on bootholds a careful distance from the hearth.

“You look grim, nephew,” Beclan said. He didn’t rise, but raised a hand in salute. “What’s amiss to bring three of you young rascals here this time of night?”

“There’s trouble,” Mikeli said. The two older men didn’t move, but for Beclan nodding at the other two chairs, an invitation to sit. “It’s serious,” Mikeli said. He didn’t want to sit down; he had to move, and strode to the far end of the room, to the table where Beclan kept a copy of the Code of Gird, before whirling and striding back. “It’s treason. We must raise the Order of the Bells, uncle, immediately.”

“Treason!” Both the older men sat up straighter at that. “What do you mean?” The Knight-Commander got it out first.

“A messenger arrived just now, from the east. Kieri Phelan was attacked by a contingent of Verrakai troops, joined with some from Pargun, and they used magery and had a priest of Liart—”

“But you gave a warrant of safe passage—and the Royal Guard escort—”

“This is from Sir Ammerlin,” Mikeli said, handing the larger scroll to the Knight-Commander. “And this from Phelan—” He handed that one to the Marshal-Judicar. As they read, he moved around the room, noting the sword rack with Beclan’s weapons, Donag’s belt and sword hung on a wall peg, the men’s damp cloaks hanging on adjoining pegs. They must have been out in the city together, he realized, checking what progress the Marshals had made in uncovering Thieves’ Guild hideouts and secret passages.

“Sit down, will you? My neck hurts having to follow you around.” Beclan rolled his head; the prince could hear the crackle. “Striding around in here won’t accomplish anything. What have you done so far?”

Mikeli threw himself into one of the chairs; his friends remained standing. “I was at dinner—” He told them what he had done. “And then I came here.”