King Sylvarresta was in the informal audience chamber on the first story. He sat on a bench in the corner, talking softly with Iome’s mother, a rather somber Chancellor Rodderman, and a terrified Guildmaster Hollicks.

Fresh rushes had been strewn over the floorboards, mixed with balm and pennyroyal. Three hounds sat before the empty hearth. A cleaning girl was polishing the unused tongs and pokers. Iome’s Days immediately crossed the room, went to stand out of the way with the King’s Days, and the Queen’s.

As Iome entered the hall, her father glanced up expectantly. Sylvarresta was not a vain man. He wore no crown, and his only ring was a signet, which he kept chained to his neck. He preferred to be called “Lord” rather than King. But one could see he was a king when one looked into his gray eyes.

Guildmaster Hollicks, though, was another matter. He wore gaudy clothes—a shirt with false sleeves, parti-colored pants, a vest and half cape with cowl—in a rainbow of complementary colors. He was Master of the Dyers’ Guild; his clothes advertised his wares. Beyond this penchant for gaudy attire, Hollicks was not a bad man. He showed uncommonly good sense, and would have been likable, if not for the way his unsightly black nose hairs formed half his mustache.

“Ah,” King Sylvarresta said on seeing Iome, “I’d thought you might be someone else. Have you seen any of the foresters this morning? Were they in the bailey?”

“No, milord,” Iome answered.

The King nodded thoughtfully at this news, then said softly to Chemoise, “My condolences. It is a sad day for us all. Your betrothed was admired—a promising soldier.”

Chemoise nodded, her face suddenly pale again. She curtsied. “Thank you, milord.”

“You won’t let this assassin get away with murder, will you?” Iome asked. “You should have killed him by now!”

“You see,” Hollicks blurted in his high voice, “you’re all leaping to conclusions. You have no proof that this was anything other than an unfortunate, drunken brawl!”

King Sylvarresta strode to the door to the hall, looked into the courtyard a moment, then closed the door, shutting them all in.

The room suddenly became dark, shadowed, for only two small windows with wooden shutters stood open.

King Sylvarresta strode across the room, head bent in thought. “Despite your pleas for leniency, Master Hollicks, I know this man is a spy.”

Hollicks feigned an expression of incredulity. “You have proof?” he asked, as if he held serious doubts.

“While you were off entertaining your whining cronies,” King Sylvarresta said, “I had Captain Derrow track the man’s scent. One of my far-seers spotted this same man yesterday just after dawn. He’d been on a roof in town, and we feared he’d been counting guards to the Dedicates’ Keep. We tried to catch him then, but lost him in the market.