The Duke de Barratin suddenly looked, Thierry thought, as if he’d been slapped. His face slowly reddened. He closed and opened his hands, twice. Anger, and something else now, even more. The duke drew a long breath, as if to find self-control. There was a silence. Thierry felt genuinely afraid, but also oddly detached, fascinated, as if all of this were happening at a distance, and to someone else. A performance, puppets on a stage in a marketplace.

It wasn’t, though. He was here, and could be killed. He was nothing. The duke might be the most powerful man in Ferrieres now. The woman, he thought, was astonishing. It helped, he also thought, to move among power, be familiar with it.

And have the queen of Ferrieres wanting her company.

He himself had no protection that meant anything at all. He kept quiet. Hadn’t been addressed or even acknowledged.

Barratin said, more calmly, “My lady, a very great lord has been foully murdered. Orane is a dangerous place right now. And I do not know this man in my house.”

With seemingly effortless poise Marina di Seressa said, “Ah. I see. You are afraid. Understandable. Let me assist. My lord duke, permit me to present Thierry Villar, one of the best-regarded poets in the city. His name is known in every tavern in Orane, I dare say.”

Thierry received the force of the duke’s hard gaze for the first time.

He bowed. “My lord, it is an honour to be in your presence. I would not have offended you for anything in Jad’s world.”

Which last was entirely true.

The duke nodded, a registering of words spoken, of his existence. To be forgotten in moments, Thierry thought. Hoped.

“I do not know your writing,” he said.

“I would never dream you might, my lord. I write for the people of Orane, not the powers of the realm.” His voice, Thierry thought, was acceptably level.

“We were just discussing one of his more recent poems,” said the woman, her own tone shading back towards cordial, as if to guide the three of them there.

Dear Jad, let her not recite it again, Thierry thought. It was a prayer, really.

“I see,” said the duke.

He looked Thierry up and down again. Too much registering, Thierry thought. He really didn’t want to be remembered by this man.

“And he was kind enough to express admiration for some of my own writings,” Marina di Seressa added brightly.

“I should hope so,” said the man Thierry was here to investigate for murder, if he could. “Everyone knows your worth.”

She smiled. “Not everyone,” she demurred. “But thank you, gracious lord. Again, I am sorry to have distressed you. I will make arrangements to leave at first light.”