Something struck me in the backs of my calves, and I turned to see a troll woman limping slowly away. It had been her cane that had hit me, and I did not think it had been an accident. Sure enough, she glanced over her shoulder, expression far from apologetic. I recognized her as the sculptor called Reagan. She was a nasty-spirited creature, but had gained a certain notoriety for the Guerre sets she made for the upper classes.

“Female, age twenty-six, scaled at five.” the auctioneer shouted, the number catching my attention back to the stage. Half-bloods scaled at more than a four were rare to see at the auctions – their sales were normally conducted privately. That the woman was being sold here indicated something about her was undesirable.

“House born and trained!”

But no mention of which house, which meant they did not care to be associated with her. One of the auction workers snapped a lash of magic at the woman’s feet, and she jumped before following the instruction to walk the length of the stage and back. To my eyes, she looked normal enough. No obvious deformities, twitches, or signs of madness. She kept her face lowered, as any house trained servant would, but I was close enough to see the tears dripping off her chin.

“Reads and writes in four languages! Takes dictation with an excellent hand.”

Which meant nothing to any of the buyers here. Her power made her too expensive for bourgeoisie who might use her skills, and whatever she’d done made her unpalatable to the upper classes. The Miners’ Guild would take her, I was sure of it.

“Proven breeder.”

And there it was. An indiscretion, and it would not matter whether it was voluntary or not.

“We’ll start at fifty!”

The bidding began fast and furious, but my attention snapped away from the proceedings as I felt a familiar and impressive amount of power coming up behind me. Turning round, I came face to face with my brother. On his arm was the impostor, and behind her, the Duke d’Angoulême.

“Your Highness.” I inclined my head slightly. He had always been fond of any show of subservience or reminder that he was a royal. And it was always best to placate him – to do otherwise invited disaster, and with my manacles on, I was in no position to do anything about it. I ignored the impostor and Angoulême.

“Tristan.” Roland’s eyes gleamed bright and unblinking, but he didn’t seem to be of a mind to make trouble.

The impostor glared at me, clearly waiting to be acknowledged. “You should show courtesy to your betters,” she snapped.

I flicked my gaze to her. “That’s true.” I did not move and said nothing more. Roland tittered softly, shifting from one leg to another. “He’s right, lady Anaïs,” he said. “For all he’s done, Tristan is still a Montigny, and that makes him better than you.”

The mask of Anaïs’s face seemed to quiver, and my pulse quickened the second I thought the illusion might fracture enough to reveal who was underneath. But she regained control, inclining her head to Roland. “Of course you are right, Your Highness. I meant only that Tristan owes more courtesy to the future king of Trollus.”