It would be untrue to say Gauvard Colle never left his house. There were clients with enough power and money to summon him, and they’d send a carriage. One time it was a litter, sent by the queen: poles held by four men as they carried him through the streets of Orane. He’d enjoyed that. Memories of the east, in fact. She had likely done it with intent, since they’d talked of his time in Sarantium more than once. A remarkable woman, in his view, Queen Bianca, and he didn’t think that of many women, or men.

He was judgmental and knew it. Didn’t cultivate friends, found most people tedious, unnecessary. He had two or three colleagues he’d invite over, or visit. Hired a coach and horses for occasions when he dressed with care and went calling. Seldom in winter, of course. He was happier then by his fire, with books and good wine. Any sane person would be, was his view. Not infrequently visitors would knock at his door by appointment. One did need to have clients, charge them his substantial fees. Nothing was cheap in Orane, especially in winter. He certainly wasn’t.

All of which is to say that on the morning, springtime warming the city, that Gauvard Colle ventured forth in a small carriage to make three calls it was noteworthy to the neighbours, and also somewhat so to himself.

He’d had one of his visions in the night.

It had been alarmingly specific. He didn’t feel right about delaying a response, even if this had nothing to do with him at all. He was a selfish person but not a bad one, or so he always told himself. And if the half-world sent a message, he listened to it.

He. Today he was male in his thoughts. It changed, but he always was so for the world outside. Safer that way.

He named his first destination to the coach driver and was pleased the man knew it. He wouldn’t have been able to offer more than vague directions. Once they arrived, he dismounted, with assistance, gratified to see the street had been swept in front of the doors.

He was wearing lined, stylish boots he liked.

It was pleasingly warm inside this tavern, The Lamb. Three fires, and very clean. The owner, Gauvard decided, took pride in his inn. He liked that. Not crowded just then. The first-light people had gone to work—or elsewhere—and the midday-meal arrivals were not yet present, though he saw servers busy behind a long counter preparing cheese and meats in anticipation. A perfectly agreeable place, he thought, if you liked taverns.

He addressed a slim, neat woman going quickly by. “A word?”

She paused, glanced at him. And then looked more carefully. Facial expressions were always interesting when people looked at him. He was very well dressed that morning, as it happened, for his next stop of the day.