The chamber was busy, the benches loaded with petitioners or supplicants or merely those interested in the results of whatever occasion this was. Chel counted heads as he slid behind the Urbu along the side walls, guessing at the number of Andriz who lived on the estate. Most seemed older, their hair the same colour as their eyes, some very frail and ancient types near the front. He saw few children beyond a couple of babes in arms, guessing that the young of the Wards were either working in fields or gardens, like the girls outside, or undergoing some level of education. He wondered where his fate would lie, should he prove unable to extricate himself from Laralim’s schemes.

The Urbu went straight to her, bending to whisper or grunt into her ear, just as his namesake had on the day of Chel’s arrival. The elder woman nodded, her eyes still on the sheaf of thick, genuine paper notes before her, then she looked up at him, locking eyes across the wide table. Her expression was neither angry nor disapproving, more appraising, a hint of calculation behind those faded silver eyes. Chel shifted, defensive. He’d done nothing wrong, after all; nobody had forbidden him to talk to anyone else. If anyone had the right to be angry, it was him.

The reader standing before the table completed her oration, closed a heavy book and, tucking it beneath her arm, nodded in acknowledgement to both the folk in the high-backed chairs behind the table and the audience on the benches. Conversational hubbub rose around the chamber as the reader departed, and Laralim signalled for Chel to approach.

‘Did you enjoy your walk?’

‘I did, Auntie.’

She smiled, a quick twitch of one corner of her puckered mouth.

‘I’m afraid you missed the reading, but I can summarize things for you, unless you’d care to read them yourself?’ She pushed one of the thick sheets toward him, its scribblings arcane and impenetrable.

He shook his head. ‘Not my letters.’

She nodded as if this had confirmed a long-held, and disappointing, suspicion, then lifted the paper, squinting just a little as she read.

‘Only one entry even mentions Barva. Your mother was born Hurania of Pasaj, hailing from the heartland. She was promised union to Lorash of Aratesh, local to these parts, as part of an arrangement contingent on the acquisition of certain new lands.’

‘That’s my father?’

She didn’t answer directly. ‘The archives, at least those we have within the walls, specify only that the arrangement was agreed, and that these lands would be entering his family’s possession in return for what was recorded as “Service to the Lord”.’

‘Was that church or king?’

‘Uncertain, and unimportant. It’s dated twenty-four years ago, so although the archives are somewhat dry after that, it’s all too obvious what happened.’

He shifted, irritated. ‘Which was what?’