“No.”

“Don’t offer. Let him come around his own way. I don’t want to do business with people who have to be bribed. Other people can bribe them too. He’ll just have to settle for secure trade.”

Dantice nodded. “Far as I’m concerned, trade is the whole point of the exercise.” Once a less belligerent, more commercially oriented regime was established in Shinsan, the riches would flow in rivers. All Kavelin could fill dippers in the stream—the way it had been before the Great Eastern Wars.

Aral believed in what he was doing. He was a patriot. His conscience was healthy. He’d had a bad moment when he learned Prataxis was making headway with Lord Hsung, but Mist had calmed him, and had assured him that Hsung was playing diplomatic games, that he had no intention of relaxing his stranglehold on the trade routes.

“What is happening in Shinsan?” he asked. “The wizard had something on his mind.”

“I really don’t know. They’re restructuring army commands and shuffling legions. Lord Kuo’s people give the orders. They don’t explain. My friends can’t tell me much.”

“Or won’t?”

“I’ve thought of that, too. There’s always a chance they’re working the other way, or both ways. I’m considering bypassing them. I have other resources.”

Aral shuddered. He had seen some of those resources during the war. She was one of the great wielders of the Power, a fact emotion tended to obscure.

“I’d better get back. When I’m away too long the whole shop goes to pot.”

She touched his hand lightly. Her eyes misted. “You’re sweet, Aral. You’re not quite real. Valther was that way too.” She sounded wistful.

If only he were a tad more bold. It had been four years since Palmisano and her husband’s death. She should be ready.

Aral took his leave. He tried to distract himself with debate on how to bet the day’s Captures matches.

FOUR: YEAR 1011 AFE
A FLASHBACK TO THE WAR

It was one of those mornings when spring became an insidious disease spreading disaffection and restlessness. It communicated an undirected desire for action, for movement, for the doing of anything but the task at hand. The dawn breeze off the Kapenrungs had been cool, piney, and invigorating, virile with the seed of unrest. Now the air was still and warm, incubating ill-considered actions.

Nepanthe stood at the window of her second-floor bedroom in her brother’s Lieneke Lane home. She stared at the towers of Vorgreberg, visible between the tops of the trees. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she whispered. “I’m going to go crazy if I don’t.” Her gaze touched the palace. Maybe Bragi could arrange for her to move in there.

Her thoughts turned to her husband, Mocker, who had been gone for a year. An erotic image sprang into her mind. She pushed it away, disgusted with herself. She wasn’t that kind of woman. Base physical desire was the mark of a street wench.

She pounded a fist against the windowsill. “I really am going mad,” she whispered. And, “Bragi, why couldn’t you just leave us alone?” Poor Mocker never did have any sense when it came to Bragi or Haroun. They’d put him up to the stupidest things… This time it had been some kind of spy work for Bragi. And he hadn’t come back.