“You were kind to me, that evening. You give the best gifts.” Rikke hooked the emeralds around her neck and held them up to the light, then peered down at the runes Savine was wearing. The ones Rikke had given her in return. “And you even kept mine to you.”

“Nothing else would have suited the occasion.”

“Well, I won’t be swapping back, if that’s what you’re hoping.” And Rikke flicked open a fan with a snap, started wafting herself as gracefully as any regular at the theatre. “Am I doing it right?” And she peered down her nose, setting a few strands of hair no doubt left loose for the purpose fluttering about her tattooed face.

“I may have to come to you for lessons.”

“Ha again! You were kind to me that night and you’re being kind now. You’re a lot kinder than folk make out.”

“I doubt everyone would say so.” Savine lowered her voice. “I did betray you to Stour Nightfall, after all.”

“I did betray you to King Orso. No doubt we both had our reasons. Doesn’t mean we’re not friends.” And she grinned sideways. A grin with a hint of danger. “I mean, what’s the use of stabbing your enemies in the back?”

“Those bastards you can stab in the front,” murmured Savine, taking a quick pinch of pearl dust. There was a time she would have hidden it, but who would dare disapprove now? She offered the box to Rikke.

“My governess in Ostenhorm once said that, when abroad, one should observe the local customs.” Rikke drained her glass, then whipped off one of her gloves to take a hefty pinch, nudged the gold ring through her nose to the side and noisily snorted it up. “By the dead.” She stuck her tongue out, blinking back tears. “That burns.”

“It grows on you, believe me.”

Rikke held on to Savine’s arm as she stifled a sneeze, then pulled a little brown pellet from her glove and held it out. “We can swap gifts this time, too.”

“Chagga?” Savine took it from Rikke’s fingers and tucked it down behind her lip, then could not help a shudder. “That tastes…” She could hardly find the words to describe its earthy bitterness.

Rikke chomped on a pellet of her own and winked. “It grows on you, believe me.”

All about the gardens people were swapping gifts and stories, forming strange partnerships and embracing the unknown. Curnsbick was talking in a mixture of broken Northern, shouted common and flamboyant gestures to a set of merchant women swamped in furs. Something about chimneys, Savine thought. Probably they understood the details as well as she ever had.

Selest dan Heugen, meanwhile, giggled as she worked her own brand of magic on the monocled hillman. “There’s copper in these mountains of yours?” Her nose twitching as if she could smell the profits, while his gaze strayed so far it was a wonder his eye-lens didn’t drop down the front of her dress.