“I . . . have done nothing for this,” she said, searching his eyes. Perhaps she feared an indecent proposal. Some lords took mistresses. Gaborn would never do so.

“Certainly you have,” Gaborn said. “You smiled, and thus lightened my heart. Accept this gift, please. You will find your merchant prince someday,” Gaborn said, “and of all the prizes he may ever discover here in the markets of Bannisferre, I suspect that you will be the most treasured.”

She held the coin in awe. People never expected one as young as Gaborn to speak with such grace, yet it came easily after years of training in Voice. She looked into his eyes with new respect, as if really seeing him for the first time. “Thank you, Prince Orden. Perhaps . . . I tell you now that if Iome does accept you, I will praise her decision.”

She turned and sauntered off through the thickening crowd, circled the fountain. Gaborn watched the graceful lines of her neck, the clouds of her dress, the burning flames of her scarf.

Borenson came up and clapped Gaborn on the shoulder, chuckling. “Ah, milord, there is a tempting sweet.”

“Yes, she’s altogether lovely,” Gaborn whispered.

“It was fun to watch. She just stood back, eyeing you like a cutlet on the butcher’s block. She waited for five minutes”—Borenson held up his hand, fingers splayed—“waiting for you to notice her! But you—you day-blind ferrin! You were too busy adoring some vendor’s handsome chamber pots! How could you not see her? How could you ignore her? Ah!” Borenson shrugged in exaggeration.

“I meant no offense,” Gaborn said, looking up into Borenson’s face. Though Borenson was his bodyguard and should thus always be on the watch for assassins, the truth was that the big fellow was a lusty man. He could not walk through a street without making little crooning noises at every shapely woman he passed. And if he didn’t go wenching at least once a week, he’d croon even at the woman who had no more shape than a bag of parsnips. His fellow guards sometimes joked that no assassin hiding in between a woman’s cleavage would ever escape his notice.

“Oh, I’m not offended,” Borenson said. “Mystified, maybe. Perplexed. How could you not see her? You must have at least smelled her?”

“Yes, she smells very nice. She keeps her gown in a drawer layered in rose petals.”

Borenson rolled his eyes back dramatically and groaned. His face was flushed, and there was a peculiar excitement, an intensity in his eyes. Though he pretended to be jesting, Gaborn could see that Borenson had indeed been smitten by this northern beauty more than he cared to admit. If Borenson could have had his way, he’d have been off chasing the girl. “At least you could have let her cure you of that vexing case of virginity you suffer from, milord!”