He downed the bitter concoction and reached for his purse, but she shook her head. “No need. Consider it a favor for a friend. You did save my life, after all, when Zella—” She shook her head sadly. “I’m still trying to understand that. Come into the back room and let me change your bandages and look at your wounds. With all the traipsing around you’ve insisted on, I want to make certain there’s no infection.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

The back room looked rather like a simple, sparely furnished bedchamber, with a cot and table, several stools, and a chest with many small drawers. From it she took out the materials she needed and saw to his wounds as he sat on one of the stools, stripped to the waist.

“You’ve scabbed up nicely,” she noted as she sponged the scratches on his neck and chest. “I’ll bind you up, but I think after this you can do without the bandages. Now let’s have a look at your poor head.”

Seregil took off the head scarf and let her examine the stitches in his scalp.

“You’re healing well. I’d say your drysian can take the stitches out in a week’s time.” She took a small jar from a shelf. “Here’s a salve that will help you heal faster. Just keep your head covered until then.”

“That was my intention.” Seregil chuckled. “You have no idea how vain I am.”

Bidding her good-bye, he rode off to take a look at “the Point”—which, according to the girl who’d served him breakfast this morning, was one of the local burial grounds. Located on a promontory just east of Deep Harbor, it had been an Aurënfaie slave graveyard; apparently the islanders maintained their own neighborhoods even in death. Asking directions as he went along the harbor road, Seregil found the place: a low spit of land jutting into the sea.

The burial ground was a lonely, untended place. Most of the grave markers were little more than boards with names carved on them, stuck into the ground. He had the place to himself, apart from the gulls circling overhead and a flock of ravens strutting through the long grass between the markers, no doubt hunting for well-fed beetles and worms. It was a large burial ground, and an old one. In places there were no markers at all, but there were long depressions in the ground where the graves had sunk.

Among the newest markers there was a handful of fresh graves and Seregil soon located Markis the workman. Noting the spot, he whispered, “I’ll be back to see you again, tonight, my thieving cousin. Your brother sends his regards.”

He rode back to the governor’s house and found Micum waiting for him in the dining room, having a meal and flirting with the maid.

“Would you like luncheon, Baron?” she asked.