He gave his daughter a sharp look. “You haven’t farsighted that, have you?”

“Really, Daddy! No, I did not. And I’m shocked you should think so.”

“Yeah,” he growled. Jiska had a farsight even more powerful than his own.

Maybe I should get her to track down my secret watcher. But the idea of Wenalee being pregnant really buoyed him up. A third grandchild. That would be something. He loved having little Garant and Honalee (everyone called her Honeydew) running around the tenth floor. Rolar, his oldest, certainly hadn’t wasted any time settling down and starting a family.

“Uh oh,” Jiska murmured silkily. “Twins warning.”

Edeard scanned around to see Marilee and Analee worming through the guests, heading straight for him. His fifth and sixth children were identical twins, and right from the start they’d relished making a play of their matched looks, always styling their hair the same and wearing indistinguishable clothes. Tonight they’d dressed in synchronized satin gowns, except Marilee’s was shimmering burgundy while Analee sported yellow-gold. Edeard smiled indulgently at them; not that they deserved it, but what could a father do? They were twenty-five and the absolute stars of Makkathran’s high society. As tall as he, slim like their mother, faces where girlish wickedness forever lurked among exquisite fine-boned features, and thick raven hair that came from his mother’s family. Add their good looks to their status, and basically, whatever they wanted, they tended to get, from clothes to pets and parties to boys.

“Daddy!” they chorused delightedly. He was kissed simultaneously on both cheeks.

“We’ve been very good tonight.”

“We talked to so many people.”

“And convinced them to vote for you.”

“They all got reminded of what you did for the city.”

“Even though it was so long ago.”

“A debt like that can never be ignored.”

“So they’ll remind all their friends.”

“And their family to get out there on election day.”

“And put their cross where it counts.”

“Or they’ll have to answer to us.”

Being talked at by the twins was like being deafened by birdsong. “Thank you both,” he said.

“So now we’ve done our duty.”

“And we’d like you to set us free.”

“Because there’s a super party at the Frandol family mansion tonight.”

“And we’ve found us a suitable escort.”

They both giggled and looked at their father pleadingly.

“Uh …” Edeard managed.

“Utrallis.”

“He’s gorgeous.”

“And tall.”

“And serves in the Pholas and Zelda regiment.”

“But he’s independently wealthy, too.”

“Not just some minor son.”

“A gentleman of honor.”

“Happy to serve his city.”

“All right.” Edeard held his hands up. “Go on, go away, the pair of you. Have fun.”

“Oh, we will.”

Another burst of giggling assaulted Edeard’s ears as they turned away. Each girl raised a gloved hand. Two fingers beckoned imperiously. Through the melee of guests Edeard saw a young man in his militia dress uniform, all polished buttons and perfectly tailored scarlet and blue jacket. Utrallis couldn’t possibly be older than the twins, though he held his broad shoulders square and had a strong jaw. Edeard regarded his nose charily, suspecting a distant Gilmorn heritage-he had a nasty flash memory of Ranalee and the helpless lad in her office. Their eyes met, and the young man produced such a panicked guilty look as his cheeks flushed crimson that Edeard couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Then Utrallis was suddenly caught between the twins and hauled off.

Jiska shook her head as she sighed. “And he looked so sweet. Poor thing. How is it they’re always so elated at the start of the evening, then when morning comes, this tragic broken husk creeps out of the ziggurat looking like he’s managed to escape from Honious itself?”

“The twins aren’t that bad,” Edeard said mildly.

“Daddy, you’ve got such a blind spot when it comes to them.”

He grinned roguishly. “Because I was so tough on you.”

Jiska raised her glass. “I’ll get around to Natran, don’t you worry. I suppose five years is long enough.”

“No pressure. From me. Besides, it’s only two months till Marakas goes before the Lady.”

She smiled with a kind of fond bewilderment. “I can’t believe he’s marrying that one. I mean … Heliana is nice, and shapely, but really, what else has she got? Are men genuinely that shallow?”

“Of course we are.”

“Poor Taralee.”

“Taralee will do fine; she’s destined for great things. One day she’s going to be grand mistress of the Doctors Guild.” He was still inordinately proud of his youngest, not yet twenty-two and already a Doctors Guild journeyman. She’d completely eschewed the dizzy party life the twins had chosen so she could devote herself to medicine.

“Let’s see,” Jiska mused. “After the election you’ll be Chief Constable. So now that Dylorn’s joined the militia, you just need me or one of the twins to become a Novice and work our way up to Pythia, and you’d be king of the city.”

Trying to visualize either of the twins in a novice’s robing was plain impossible. “Not the first time someone’s accused me of that ambition,” he said.

“Really? Why?”

He looked at his daughter, smart, elegant, courted by every eligible man in the city, completely carefree, and with such astonishing opportunities ahead of her. But above all, his greatest triumph was to make her safe, to give her that wonderful future. Yet she didn’t see that. The battles fought before her birth meant very little to her generation. It was a depressing thought how established he’d become, just to be taken for granted as one of Makkathran’s principal figures. No questions asked, no need to prove himself, not anymore.

“Long old story. Ask Macsen sometime.”

“Oh, Lady. I know he’s your oldest friend, but I really can’t take any more of those stories about the old days.”

“Good old days,” he corrected.

“If you say so, Daddy.”

It must have been something about Jiska’s skepticism or the appearance of the Skylord, but Edeard gave Macsen an unusually critical appraisal as he made his way over to his friend. The robes of office Macsen wore were fanciful, allowing thick fur-trimmed fabric to flow easily around him. It was a generous cut, perhaps designed to deflect attention from the equally generous belly Macsen had cultivated over the last couple of decades. His handsome face, too, was now a lot rounder. A fashionable short beard showed several gray strands.

“Edeard!” Macsen opened his arms wide and hugged him enthusiastically as if they’d been parted for years. Edeard gave him a slightly stiff response. After all, they had seen each other at least twice a week most weeks for the last forty years.

“Lady, this wine is dross,” Macsen complained, holding up his glass to the twilight seeping through the crescent windows.

“Stop whining; one of my potential voters donated it,” Edeard replied.

“In which case I’ll be honored to quaff a few more bottles for the fine chap.”

Lady, we even talk like the aristocrats these days. “Don’t bother. I don’t really care if I make Chief Constable. Face it, we’ve had our day.”

Macsen gave him a startled look. From the corner of his eye, Edeard saw Kanseen frown, but as always her mental shield allowed no knowledge of her feelings.

“Speak for yourself, country boy,” Macsen said; he was trying for a jovial tone but couldn’t quite reach it. “Anyway, from what I gather, you’re well ahead of our glorious current incumbent. Makkathran needs you to take a more prominent role.”

Edeard nearly said Why? but managed to hold his tongue. “I suppose so.”

Macsen draped his arm around Edeard’s shoulder and drew him aside with several insincere smiles directed at the group he’d been chatting with. “You want us to return to the old days? After everything you did?”