Vahanian looked Soterius over with a practiced eye. "Captain of arms, huh," he said, his voice making it clear that he was not impressed. "You pretty good with that thing?" he said, nodding toward the sword that hung at Soterius's belt.

Soterius met his gaze and his challenge. "I didn't get to be captain by accident," he replied levelly. "I could outfight any of my men, and they were all trained by a master."

"Uh huh," Vahanian replied, looking away distractedly, as if he had already reached his conclusions. "Well, I'm your guide now, which means you're paying me to get you to Dhasson alive, so it's my rules." He turned back toward the fire. "Rule number one, kill the bastard or get the hell out of the way."

Soterius bristled, but a warning glance from Harrtuck tempered his reply. "And rule number two?" he asked, not attempting to hide the insolence in his tone.

Vahanian glanced back at him with a hint of wry amusement. "Give me plenty of leg room," he replied cryptically.

"Who does that guy think he is?" Soterius muttered later, when he and Tris headed up the stairs together toward their rooms.

Tris chuckled. "Apparently Harrtuck thinks Vahanian's opinion of himself is deserved," Tris said, amused at Soterius's reaction. "For what Harrtuck agreed to pay him, it had better be."

They entered the room that the five of them had paid extra to have for themselves, and Soterius nodded toward Vahanian, who was looking out the window onto the street below. "How much did Harrtuck tell him?" he asked in a whisper.

"Not much," Tris replied. "Gave him the basic story, left a few things out. Offered to pay him twice the bounty once we reach the palace at Dhasson alive. So Vahanian knows we're hot, but not who we are."

"Or quite how hot," Soterius added, looking toward the fighter once more. "Do you trust him?"

Tris shrugged. "No. At least, not yet. If he's an honest mercenary, he won't change sides in the middle of a war. Harrtuck's fought beside him, so that's something. But I don't think he stays alive by being overly sentimental."

"Then we're thinking alike," Soterius replied. "I'll keep an eye on him."

The sword glinted in the sunlight as it struck for its mark. Teeth gritted, the auburn-haired young woman parried, her arms aching at the jarring blow.

"Good, get in closer, closer," the instructor hissed, and she drove forward, slashing determinedly, her jaw set resolutely. And then, the opening she was watching for came. With a cry, she dove forward, beneath his guard, to score on the shoulder of his padded practice jacket. Overhead, a little greens-caled gyregon, Jae, fluttered its leathery wings and rasped its excitement, a spectator with an aerial view.

"Well done, your Highness, well done!" the instructor congratulated her, out of breath but pleased.

Kiara Sharsequin, princess of Isencroft, grinned tiredly and wiped the sweat from her brow with her padded sleeve. Her auburn hair was caught back in a knot, framing features that showed both her mother's Eastmark blood and her father's Isencroft heritage. Dark, almond-shaped eyes and a slightly duskier complexion gave an exotic look to the northern features she had inherited from her father, along with her height and high cheekbones. The little gyregon fluttered to land on her shoulder, and she reached up to stroke its scales.

"By the Mistress, you made me work for that, Darry!" she exclaimed, catching her breath.

"That's enough for today," Darry replied, still grinning at her triumph. "But your parry has gotten much better and you're taking the offensive more vigorously of late. Working out frustrations?"

Kiara reached up to loosen the knot that held back her hair, and shook her head as the auburn waves cascaded around her face. "You've guessed it. Some days, I think you and these sessions are the only things keeping me sane."

Darry sobered. "So I guessed, Kiara. But you are the Goddess Blessed," he reminded her. "The Holy Lady watches over you."

Kiara sighed and sheathed her sword, dropping down on a bench to unlace her padded gear. "I hope so, Darry. With the way my luck's been going, She's lost interest, or forgotten me altogether."

"Not likely, my princess," Darry replied, his weathered face softening with a smile as he ran one hand back through thick hair well streaked with gray. "I remember when She appeared to you, lady, everyone who was living then remembers! No, She has a purpose for you," he repeated with conviction. "But, like you, I pray it bodes well for Isencroft."

Kiara set aside her padded jacket. "So do I, Darry," she said pensively. "Of late, nothing bodes well for Isencroft, I fear."

"You are tired, my princess," the salle master replied. "Perhaps things will not loom so large in the morning," he said, reaching out to touch her chin affectionately. She smiled, but it was forced, and the smile did not reach her eyes. "Or, if not, perhaps you will feel more their equal." He paused. "At the least, you can give thanks that another day has passed without you being Chosen for your Journey."

Kiara shook her head and looked up at the salle roof. "One more thing to worry about," she said resignedly. "Trouble on the northern border, Cam and Carina gone these weeks and no word, Father..." Her voice drifted off. "And now, at any time, to be called by the Sisterhood for my Journey—"

"You are finding, perhaps, that to rule is not so easy, hmmm, my little falcon?" he said, sheathing his own sword. "But trust the Sisterhood. They do not choose these things lightly. And for you, Goddess Blessed, I expect that your coming-of-age Journey will not be ordinary."

"I'm not sure that's comforting, if you were trying to reassure me," Kiara said, already feeling her aching muscles protest as she rose. Once more, to no one in particular, she cursed Isencroft's tradition of insisting that all of its nobility, male or female, excel at the swordsmanship which distinguished the realm. She knew better than to let Darry hear her, since the arms-master was wont to remind her that even the peasant folk, except for women with suckling babes and children too young to wield a weapon, were expected to drill with the homeliest of arms. To be of Isencroft was to know the sword. She prayed that her people's preparations might be enough.

She feared otherwise. Broad and vast, Isencroft was populated more by herds than people; scattered pockets of townspeople staked a hard-won home on Isencroft's flat plains of fertile ground and good pastureland. There had been no famine in Isencroft for longer than anyone could remember. But in generations past, wars came almost as regularly as the rains, as one neighbor or another advanced, hungry for Isencroft's land and access to the Northern Sea.

Kiara no longer trusted in the skill at arms of her people. The threat that lurked beyond the borders was of magic, not of men. "And then, there's Margolan," she sighed, helping Darry pick up the weapons strewn around from their practice.

"I heard there was a messenger," Darry replied noncommittally.

Kiara gave an undignified snort. "Messenger indeed. A little overstuffed hedgeweasel arrived with an invitation from His Majesty, Jared of Margolan, bearing royal greetings and an invitation to visit the palace. And a reminder of a betrothal contract signed when I was born." She grimaced as she helped Darry replace the weapons. "His Majesty," she repeated derisively. "All our spies report the same thing, that he murdered his family to seize the throne—"

"Dangerous words, my princess," Darry cautioned, "even if true."

"Of course they're true!" she retorted, resting her hand on her hip and fixing Darry with a glare. "And now he wants to enlarge his empire. By marriage."