In his own party there were twenty, not twenty thousand. To be sure, they had nearly two thousand men behind them, but they were more than a league behind. The queen had not wanted to tempt the Hansans into battle. Not yet, anyway.

So the northerners glared at their flag of parley, and they waited. Neil heard them muttering in their windy tongue and remembered dark nights in his childhood, creeping up on Hanzish positions, hearing the same hushed language.

"Copenwis has fine walls," Sir Fail observed.

Neil nodded and glanced at his old patron. Not long ago, he'd still had a trace of black in his hair, but now it was less gray than white. He wore it long, in the fashion of the isles, bound back with a simple leather thong. His cheek was pitted from the shatters of a spear shaft, and one of his brows lifted oddly from the time a Weihand sword had all but flensed that part of his forehead from his skull. Neil had first seen him with that purple, loose flap of skin and his eye swollen shut. He'd been six and had thought he was seeing Neuden Lem Eryeint, the battle saint, come as flesh on earth. And in the years since, serving him, in his heart of hearts he still thought of Fail that way: immortal, greater than other men.

But Fail looked old now. He seemed to have shrunk a bit. It unsettled Neil.

"It does," he agreed, tracing his gaze along the stout bastions of white stone.

"I lived there for a time," Alis Berrye said.

"Did you?" Muriele asked.

"When I was eight. I stayed here with an uncle for a few months. I remember a pretty park in the midst of the city, with a fountain and the statue of Saint Nethune."

Neil studied Alis from the corner of his eye. Her tone was light, but a little pucker between her eyes made him guess the young woman was trying to remember more: how the streets were laid out, where the gates were, anything that might help her protect and defend Muriele. For despite her youth, charm, and beauty, if the petite brunette was anything like her predecessor, she was dangerous, and the more knowledge she had, the more dangerous she could be.

Neil wasn't sure he trusted her. Her past did not speak well of her.

He suddenly found Alis staring straight into his eyes and felt a flush on his face.

I caught you, she mouthed, then smiled cheerfully.

"Stout walls, anyway," he said, sheepishly returning her smile.

"This poor city has changed hands so often, I wonder why they bother with walls," Muriele remarked. She stood a bit in her stirrups. "Ah," she said. "Here we are."

Neil saw him, coming through the Hanzish ranks, a large man mounted on a charger in gleaming barding enameled black and sanguine. He wore a breastplate made in the same colors displaying an eagle stooping. It looked more ceremonial than useful. A cloak of white bearskin hung on his shoulders, and his oiled sealskin boots gleamed.

Neil knew him. He'd first seen that pink, corpulent face at his own introduction to the court of Eslen. It was the Archgreft Valamhar of Aradal, once ambassador to the court of Crotheny.

"Saint Rooster's balls," Fail muttered under his breath.

"Hush," Muriele hissed, then raised her voice.

"Archgreft."

The Hanzish lord nodded and dismounted, aided by four of the eight young men in his livery who had come with him to the field. Then he took a knee.

"Majesty," he said. "I must say, I am glad the Ansus have kept you well. I worried and prayed for you during your captivity."

"I'm sorry you were troubled," Muriele told him. "I do so dislike being the cause of disturbance."

Aradal smiled uncertainly. "Well, I am all better now," he replied.

"Yes. And rather camped in one of our cities," she said, nodding at Copenwis.

"Oh, yes, that," Aradal said. "I'm thinking that is what you've come to discuss."

"You are as brilliant as ever, my lord," she replied.

"Well, it must be the company I keep," he said.

"Perhaps," Muriele replied. "In any event, yes, I've been empowered by Empress Anne to take the terms of your withdrawal from our northern port."

"Well, Majesty, that's a bit sticky," Aradal said. "You see, we had the king's permission to take Copenwis under our protection."

"By king you mean my brother-in-law Robert?" Muriele asked. "Robert was a usurper, never a lawful sovereign, so that's easily cleared up. His word never came from the crown, and so you've no right or reason to be here."

Aradal scratched his ear. "It's rather more complicated than that, don't you think?"

The queen drew back a bit. "I don't see how. Take your fleet and your men and go home, Aradal."

"Well, they aren't my men or my fleet, are they, Majesty? They belong to His Majesty Marcomir III, and he recognizes Robert as king and emperor of Crotheny."

"If you've given shelter to that hell-hearted bastard-" Fail began, but Muriele silenced him with a frown before turning back to the archgreft.

"If Robert has taken refuge with your liege, that is another matter," she said, her voice sounding a bit strained. "But for now, I think bringing our countries back from the brink of war should do."

Aradal lowered his voice. "Majesty, you assume that war is to be prevented. I rather think it will happen."

"Marcomir's avarice has been known for a long time," Muriele said, "but-"

Aradal shook his head. "No, there is more to it than that, Majesty. Your daughter has murdered churchmen, Muriele. William defied the Church, but Anne has denied and attacked it. Our people are devout, and the signs are all around us. There are those who say that it is not enough to conquer Crotheny; they say it must be cleansed." His voice lowered further. "Majesty, I have tried to tell you before, I am friendly to you. Take your daughter and those you care for and go to Virgenya or someplace even farther. I…" He broke off. "I have said too much."

"You will do nothing?"

"I can do nothing."

Muriele shrugged. "Very well. Then I must speak with Marcomir."

Aradal's brows raised. "Lady…"

"By the most ancient law of nations, by the covenant the free peoples created when the Skasloi were destroyed, you must provide me safe passage to the court of your king, and you must conduct me safely out of it. Even the Church itself cannot subvert that most basic law."

Aradal's cheek twitched.

"Can you do that? Can you uphold the ancient covenant?"

"I can give you my word," he finally said. "But my word does not travel very far from me these days."

The queen's eyes widened. "You cannot be implying that Marcomir would kill me or take me prisoner."

"I am saying, lady, that the world has gone mad, and I can promise nothing. My liege is a man of law, I assure you, and I would stake my life that he would not treat you ill."

"But?"

"But I can promise nothing."

Muriele took a deep breath and let it out. Then she straightened and spoke in her most courtly tones. "Will you arrange for my party to travel to the court under flag of truce so that I can press the case for peace before His Majesty? Will you do that, Archgreft?"

Aradal tried to meet her gaze and failed, but then something strengthened in him, and he lifted his head. "I will," he replied.

"I will return in the morning with my chosen companions," she said.

"No more than fifteen," he said.

"That will be sufficient," Muriele assured him.

On another day the Maog Voast plain might have seemed pretty, Neil reflected. Four months had passed since his wounding in the battle for the waerd. It was the fifteenth of Ponthmen, and summer was just coming into its own. The fields were glorious with the white spires of lady's traces, yellow oxeyes, purple thrift, and a rainbow's hoard of flowers he didn't recognize. They mingled their sweet scents with that of wild rosemary, bee fennel, and something that reminded him of apple, although there were no trees in sight on the flat landscape. Still, the riding of a league was a long time for Neil to have the army of Hansa at his back, and he glanced behind often despite the lack of cover for an ambush. But that lack of cover went two ways, and Neil felt rather as a mouse might, wondering if a hawk was about to come out of the sun.