"Of a sort," DeWar said. "Perhaps more missionary, or even spy, than soldier."

Perrund shrugged. "The balnimes of Quarreck are said all to be warrior women."

DeWar sat back, smiling.

"Oh," Huesse said, looking disappointed. "Is that all?" she asked.

"That's all for now." DeWar shrugged.

"You mean there's more?" Perrund said. "You'd better tell us. The suspense might be too much to bear."

"Perhaps I'll tell you more some other time."

"What about Hiliti?" Huesse asked. "What became of him after his cousin left?"

DeWar just smiled.

"Very well then," Perrund chided him. "Be mysterious."

"Where is Lavishia?" Lattens asked. "I know geography"

"Far away," DeWar told the boy.

"Far away across the sea?"

"Far away, over the sea."

"Further than Tyrsk?"

"Much further."

"Further than the Thrown Isles?"

"Oh, a lot further than that."

"Further than… Drizen?"

"Even further than Drezen. In the land of make-believe."

"And are the mountains sugar hills?" Lattens asked.

"All of them. And the lakes are fruit juice. And all the game animals grow on trees, ready cooked. And other trees grow their own tree-houses, and catapults and bows and arrows grow on them like fruits."

"And I suppose the rivers run with wine?" Huesse asked.

"Yes, and the houses and the buildings and the bridges are made of diamond and gold and everything precious."

"I've got a pet eltar," Lattens told DeWar. "It's called Wintle. Want to see it?"

"Certainly."

"It's in the garden, in a cage. I'll fetch it. Come on, let's go," Lattens said to Huesse, pulling her on to her feet.

"Probably time he had his run round the garden anyway," Huesse said. "I shall be back soon, with the unruly Wintle."

DeWar and Perrund watched the woman and the child leave the chamber under the watchful eyes of a white-clad eunuch in the high pulpit.

"Now then, Mr DeWar," Perrund said. "You have delayed long enough. You must tell me all about this ambassador assassin you foiled."

DeWar told her as much as he felt he could about what had happened. He left out the details of exactly how he had been able to respond so promptly to the assassin's attack, and Perrund was too polite to press him further.

"What of the delegation that came with the Sea Company's ambassador?"

DeWar looked troubled. "I think they knew nothing of what he intended. One of them did, maybe. He had charge of the drugs the assassin had taken, but the rest were ignorant. Naive innocents who thought this was a great adventure."

"Were they sorely questioned?" Perrund asked quietly.

DeWar nodded. He looked down at the floor. "Only their heads are going back. I'm told at the end they were glad to lose them."

Perrund put her hand briefly on the man's arm, then drew it away again, glancing at the eunuch in the pulpit. "The blame lies with their masters who sent them to their deaths, not with you. They would not have suffered less if their plan had succeeded."

"I know that," DeWar said, smiling as best he could. "Perhaps it might be called professional lack of empathy. My training is to kill or disable as quickly as possible, not as slowly."

"So are you really not content?" Perrund asked. "There has been an attempt, and a serious one at that. Do you not feel this disproves your theory that there is someone here at court?"

"Perhaps," DeWar said awkwardly.

Perrund smiled. "You are not really appeased by this at all, are you?"

"No," DeWar admitted. He looked away. "Well, yes; a little, but more because I think I have decided you are right. I will worry whatever happens and always put the worst construction on it. I am unable not to worry. Worrying is my natural state."

"So you should not worry about worrying so much," Perrund suggested, a smile playing about her lips.

"That is more or less it. Otherwise one might never stop."

"Most pragmatic." Perrund leant forward and put her chin in her hand. "What was the point of your story about Sechroom, Hiliti and Leleeril?"

DeWar looked awkward. "I don't really know," he confessed. "I heard the story in another language. It doesn't survive the translation very well, and… there was more than just the language that needed translation. Some of the ideas and… ways that people do things and behave required alteration to make sense, too."

"Well then, you were mostly successful. Did your story really happen?"

"Yes. It really happened," DeWar said, then sat back and laughed, shaking his head. "No, I'm jesting with you. How could it happen? Search the latest globes, scour the newest maps, sail to the ends of the world. You will not find Lavishia, I swear."

"Oh," Perrund said, disappointed. "So you are not from Lavishia?"

"How can one be from a place that does not exist?"

"But you are from… Mottelocci, wasn't it?"

"Mottelocci indeed." DeWar frowned. "I don't recall ever telling you that."

"There are mountains there, aren't there? It is one of the… what are they called, now? The Half-Hiddens. Yes. The HalfHidden Kingdoms. Unreachable half the year. But a small paradise, they say."

"Half a paradise. In spring and summer and autumn it is beautiful. In winter it is terrible."

"Three seasons from four would be sufficient to please most people."

"Not when the fourth season lasts longer than the other three put together."

"Did something like your story happen there?"

"Perhaps."

"Were you one of the people?"

"Maybe."

"Sometimes," Perrund said, sitting back with a look of exasperation on her face, "I can quite understand why rulers employ torturers."

"Oh, I can always understand," DeWar said softly. "Just not…" He seemed to catch himself, then sat upright, pulling his tunic tighter down. He looked up at the vague shadows cast on the softly glowing bowl of the light dome overhead. "Perhaps we have time for a game of something. What do you say?"

Perrund remained looking at him for a moment, then sighed and also drew herself upright. "I say we had better play 'Monarch's Dispute'. It is the one game you might be suited for. Though there are also," she said, waving to a servant at a distant door, "'Liar's Dice' and 'Secret Keep'."

DeWar sat back on the couch, watching Perrund as she watched the servant approach. "And 'Subterfuge'," she added, "and 'Blaggard's Boast' and 'Whiff of Truth' and 'Travesty' and 'The Gentleman Misinformant' and…"

"My master has a plan for your mistress. A little surprise." "I'll bet!" "More like a big one! Eh?" "So would mine." There were various other comments and whistles from round the table, though nothing, in retrospect, that seemed much like wit.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Feulecharo, apprentice to Duke Walen, just winked. He was a stocky fellow, with wild brown hair that resisted all attempts to control it save those employing shears. He was polishing a pair of boots while the rest of us tucked into our evening meal, in a tent on the Prospect Plain, one day into the 455th Circuition. On this first rest stop it was traditional for the senior pages and apprentices to dine together. Feulecharo had been allowed to join us by his master, but he was being punished for one of his regular misdemeanours with extra work, hence the boots, and a set of rustily ancient ceremonial armour he was supposed to polish before we set off the next day.

"What sort of plan?" I insisted. "What can the Duke want with the Doctor?"

"Let's just say he's suspicious," Feulecharo said, tapping his nose with a polishing brush.

"Of what?"

"My master is suspicious, too," Unoure said, breaking a piece of bread in half and smearing some gravy round his plate.