“We will not linger, de Thunier,” repeated Marina. No title, Silvy realized. “Nor, if you are wise, will you. I mean that very seriously. And you’d best hope Messire Villar is safe and well. There are loyal allies of the crown who would enjoy this château, and use it and the power it offers to serve the court, not endanger a man the queen values. You need to make it extremely clear that your heartfelt desire is only to please Queen Bianca. And the king, of course, may Jad defend him from all enemies.”

“That…that tavern poet has the favour of her grace?” Words uttered as if from the edge of a chasm…or the foot of the gallows.

“He very much does,” said Marina di Seressa calmly. “As high cleric Mercier is about to discover. Also,” she added, “if we come to learn you have sent another messenger to him today, after we leave, a warning, you will not be permitted to defend your actions before you are sent to Gallows Hill in Orane. Am I understood?”

De Thunier could manage only a spasmodic nod. The colour of his face had changed again; it was unique in Silvy’s experience now. Or maybe not: it was akin to that of a man about to violently vomit forth whatever food and drink he’d had through a tavern evening. It was, she had to admit, pleasing to see.

A thought came to her. She spoke before she could stop herself.

“Was he critical of your poetry, perhaps?” she asked.

His mouth fell open. Marina’s eyes narrowed.

Later she would wonder why she’d said it, how she had formed the question, and knew the answer to it, even though the man did not reply. But Thierry was more passionate about writing than anything else in the god’s created world. If he was to have offended here, risking a place of refuge…

She looked at Marina, who nodded.

They turned and left.

She had been anxious before. She was afraid now.

—

Back in the carriage, on the same road west. They were in the country of hunting lodges for members of the court, scattered along the course of the Livraise. They could see the river at times on their left as they rolled and bumped along. One château and then another. This was a playground for the wealthy. Gardens and forests and the river, a landscape made for pleasure.

Another night in an inn, two rooms free for the women this time. It was easier. Marina di Seressa seemed disinclined to talk about what had happened earlier. Silvy didn’t press her. The poet was scented and slender, kept to her side of the bed.

One more day, another night. It had been possible to keep going, arrive at Aurage in the dark, but Medor had refused. “This is not safe country,” he repeated.