“He used a Liart priest, I’ll wager,” Stammel said. “Not magery—that’s all been lost for hundreds of years.”

“That’s what I told him, but he thinks not,” Arcolin said. “He thinks the Verrakaien have it. That’s why they’re all under attainder.”

“Good thing Dorrin’s with the Duke in Lyonya, then,” Stammel said. “It’ll be hard for her to come back through.”

Arcolin felt a jolt. He had forgotten that Dorrin was a Verrakai.

“They wouldn’t include her; she’s not even in the family book,” he said.

“They know, I would bet on it,” Stammel said. “Proper mess, it sounds like. So—we need to smarten up, before we come into the city?” Under the circumstances, he meant. Before they went into a royal barracks.

“Good idea,” Arcolin said, and raised his hand. Stammel halted the cohort. He and Devlin and their new corporals went through, checking equipment, sharpening the troops up, and then they started off again. Arcolin took the opportunity to check his own gear, stuffing his winter hat into one saddlebag and the scarf around his throat into the other, putting on his helmet. Stammel came back to the front of the cohort, gave Arcolin a nod, and again they set off, now near enough to see the guard at the first gates.

The palace guards, more alert than Arcolin had ever seen them, insisted he disarm before he came into the palace itself.

“One of us will bring your arms, sir,” the taller guard said. “Under the circumstances no one can carry arms save with the prince’s express permission.”

“That’s quite all right,” Arcolin said, unbelting his sword and dagger. “I have a small boot knife, as well.”

“That also, if you please.”

Arcolin removed it, and watched as the guard wrapped them all carefully then put the bundle under his arm.

“This way, Captain,” the shorter guard said, and led the way; the taller followed with Arcolin’s weapons.

He had been in the palace many times, carrying messages from the Duke to the Council and even to the crown prince as he grew older and more active in the government. He sensed at once the change in atmosphere, the tension showing in the way servants, guards, and nobles moved, the glances cast at him.

A young man in Marrakai red and green with the shoulder knot of the kirgan stopped him. “Sir—aren’t you one of Phelan’s captains? Is there news of him?”

“I’m Arcolin, his senior captain, yes—but I’m just in from the north and only now learning what has happened. I’ve had no news from the Duke—the king—since before he left here.”

The kirgan gave a short nod. “Thank you. I believe my father has met you before. I wondered why you were here—”

“The prince asked for him,” said Arcolin’s escort. “And we had best be going there, by your leave, Kirgan.”

“Certainly, certainly.” The kirgan bowed. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

Arcolin smiled, returned the bow, and went on, following his escort. The Marrakaien had always been Kieri’s particular friends, and Arcolin had seen the young Marrakai before. He’d then appeared to be one of the prince’s friends content to leave Council business to his elders. Now he, too, looked different.