A bolt of longing convulsed him. He had no home, anywhere in the world, except where Lindon arranged a safe house and summoned him to stay. Svir would come up the back way, through the storeroom or the kitchens, to find Lindon reading in that horribly uncomfortable wooden chair he loved, the one that left dents on his buttocks. The fire would be low, the wine cold from the cellar. There would be a little vidhara extract in a cup, for later; a game of Rule or Purge or grids arranged in some interesting puzzle; and Lindon’s stubble rasping on Svir’s chin as they fell on each other, the heady oakmoss smell of him. His hard ass (a nervous ass, Svir liked to tease him, permanently clenched) cupped in Svir’s hand as he came. Then the long, lazy, half-dressed afternoon with books and games and gossip, and the daydreams of what they would do when they reached their goal. With luck Enwan would visit, Lindon’s wife, and they would have one of those dinners the Falcresti loved to write about, where every sentence was a game. She would tell Svir about the children, all Lindon’s but that precious one, and he would make her laugh and laugh and laugh, the only way he had known, in those fraught early days of their arrangement, to set her at ease. And if the night came with thoughts of Ahanna Croftare, the khamtiger pacing her war-deck, and of Parliament’s masked choir singing a hunting song, well, there was vidhara in the cup, and Enwan would give her silent permission for Lindon and Svir to go to bed.

And now Baru could destroy him, and Lindon with him, and Enwan and the children with Lindon. And Ahanna Croftare was out there waiting, waiting, to seize the navy she thought she was owed.

Someone knocked at his cabin door. Svir’s fist clenched but he was quick enough to avoid the wound. “Come in,” he called, cheerfully. “I’ve just broken my mirror!”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, my lord.” It was Helbride’s Captain Branne. “I’m sure the crew will miss the shriek of your grindstone very much. We’ve had a signal rocket from the sentinels. There are ships coming in.”

Svir whirled. “Ships? Plural? Hesychast was supposed to come in alone.”

“Alone, yes, sir. But he’s picked up a navy escort. They’re from Aurdwynn, sir, Fifth Fleet. Province Admiral Ormsment’s flagship and a consort.”

“No.” Svir sighed. “You forgot to account for the new flags, they must be First Fleet. Ormsment’s got no idea about this place—”

“I’m sure, sir. We checked the latest Navy List.”

Svir stared at her. Then he said, concisely, “Shit.”