Guinalle sat on a stool herself. “No, I don’t suppose he does.”

“I don’t want Peyt to sniff an excuse to go stirring up any bad feeling between mercenaries and colonists. This seems as good a time as any to agree a few rules about exactly where D’Alsennin’s writ runs and where my authority holds.” Halice studied Guinalle’s heart-shaped face before turning to Mistress Cheven with firm assertion. “But Peyt definitely comes under my lash and I’ll see it bites him. He won’t sully Catrice’s name again.”

“That answers your complaint, doesn’t it?” Guinalle brushed absently at the chestnut braids coiled high on her head and I noticed green stains on the ladylike softness of her small hands, grime beneath her precisely pared nails.

The habit of obedience to anyone noble born prompted the older woman to stand. “I suppose so.”

“Send Catrice to see me,” Guinalle smiled reassurance. “I can see how far along the babe is.”

“That would be a kindness, Demoiselle.” Mistress Cheven looked relieved. “It being her first—well, there are things a girl won’t ask her mother.” She glanced at Halice and me, colouring as she curtseyed a farewell to Guinalle.

“Didn’t women ever wear breeches in the Old Empire?” I watched her go with amusement.

“Not that I’m aware,” replied Guinalle with a smile too brief to reach her hazel eyes.

“Can Artifice tell you if Deg truly is the father?” Halice asked bluntly.

“I might get some sense of it.” Guinalle hesitated. “Does it matter, if he loves Catrice and acknowledges the child?”

“I’d like to be forewarned, if it’ll come out wearing Peyt’s nose.” Halice looked stern. “I’ll ship him back across the ocean before Catrice’s due season for a start.”

“Which will almost certainly be For-Autumn.” Guinalle’s unguarded face showed an instant of weariness. “Another one. Drianon only knows where we’re going to find enough Bluemantle.” She looked at the long table where her women were still diligently sorting herbs between whispered comments and snatched glances in our direction. “I wonder how anything got done over the winter, there are so many babes expected between hay and harvest.”

I couldn’t decide if Guinalle sounded disapproving or envious. No matter, midwifery was none of my business and I’d make doubly sure of that with a little herb gathering of my own, as soon as Halcarion’s Vine came into bloom on this side of the ocean.

Halice had other concerns as well. “We need D’Alsennin—” She broke off as two men with belligerent expressions hurried into the hall and hailed Guinalle.

“Demoiselle—”

“My lady—”

One was a colonist I vaguely recognised; the other a craftsman come over the previous year after D’Alsennin had taken ship to Toremal to settle a few matters with Emperor Tadriol and start recruiting new blood and necessary skills.

“It’s the piglets,” one began.

“I’ll pay with a share when it’s killed,” protested the other.

His Tormalin lilt was already coloured with the ancient intonations and mongrel mercenary accents that were blending into Kellarin’s speech.

“There’s ten in the litter,” the first man appealed to Guinalle. “Me and the wife can’t eat that much sausage! We need firewood. He’s got it stacked up to the eaves—”

“And I sweated for every axe stroke,” protested the craftsman. “And Estle’s boar did the work on your sow, not you!”

“I was talking with the demoiselle.” There was an ominous edge to Halice’s voice and both men took a pace back.

The colonist twisted his cap awkwardly in square hands. “Beg pardon, Mis—” He swallowed the word ’Mistress’ as Halice glared at him.

“If you want D’Alsennin to extend his authority over Deglain, Corps Commander, take it up with him.” Guinalle stood, smoothing the front of her plain gown. “I have more than enough to do here.”

“So I see.” Halice frowned and the men with the squabble took another step back but I didn’t think her anger was directed at them. “Have you any adepts trained to share your duties yet?”

Guinalle stiffened. “We’ve managed some study over the winter but time is limited with so much to do.”

“And it’s always quicker and easier to do things yourself rather than show someone else. Why risk them fouling it up?” Halice’s voice was firm but not unsympathetic. She looked down at Guinalle with a rare smile. “Which is all well and good but you need to let folk learn by their own mistakes.”

“It’s for me to judge how best to train practitioners of Artifice.” Guinalle’s chin came up, her expression one of frosty hauteur. “Haste is often at odds with wisdom, especially when we can ill afford even the most trivial errors. Good day to you.” Guinalle nodded a brusque farewell and swept back to her waiting women, leaving the men with the squabble looking blank.

Halice strode out of the hall and I followed, noting she was rubbing absently at the thigh she’d broken a couple of years back. Guinalle’s skills with the healing power of Artifice had saved Halice from life as a cripple and Halice was ever one to honour her debts, whether the noblewoman wanted her help or not.

“That girl needs to take a bit more time for herself and ask a lot more of other people. I can’t recall when we last talked without someone interrupting to ask her to judge a barter, solve a quarrel, or advise on some triviality.” Halice shot me a glare. “There wasn’t one of the adepts she’s supposedly training around that table.”

“Don’t look at me,” I warned her. “My tricks with the Forest charms are only Low Artifice and that’s as much as I’m interested in.” That Guinalle barely concealed her disdain for such minor magic didn’t exactly endear her to me.

“You could learn the Higher Artifice,” Halice challenged. “You’ve shown an aptitude for enchantment.”

“I don’t want to,” I told her bluntly.

“You mean Ryshad doesn’t want you to,” countered Halice.

“When did I last hide behind a man’s say-so?” I scoffed. Ryshad hadn’t told me he didn’t want me studying Artifice with Guinalle. He probably wouldn’t, even if I did. But he wouldn’t like it all the same and that was enough to tip the balance in favour of my own reservations, even if I was curious to learn how Guinalle worked her enchantments without the songs that were the only way I knew of using aetheric power. I wasn’t that curious. Tricks to light fires or smooth over footsteps are all very well but I knew better than most how Artifice could get inside people’s heads, even leave them dead without a mark on them. I could count the people I’d trust with that kind of power, even with the best of intentions, on the fingers of one hand.

Halice was scowling. “D’Alsennin’s some skill with aetheric magic, hasn’t he? He should lean a bit more weight on the traces.”

It was a safe bet who’d be telling him that. Which would certainly be more interesting than going home to do the laundry. A new thought occurred to me. “Sutal will probably come back if Lessay does. She’d take some of the load off Guinalle.”

Halice nodded grudgingly. “We could do with a proper surgeon, regardless.”

We got a ride back across the river on a flat-bottomed boat laden with salvaged masonry and I scrambled gratefully ashore at the jetty that marked Vithrancel’s first proper landing. I spotted Werdel among the men piling stone up beyond any risk of flooding.

I waved to him. “Where’s Rysh?”

He rested dusty hands on his thighs. “Taken D’Alsennin up to the drying sheds.”

I looked at Halice. “Do you want to go after them?”

Halice looked around the buildings that were finally giving Vithrancel some appearance of a real town. Colonists and mercenaries alike had tacked haphazard shelters on to ancient remnants of walls and roofs, scant defence against that first uncertain winter. A full eight seasons later, the last of these makeshifts were being cleared as new buildings staked firm claim to the land and we even had an irregular space people were calling the market square. A brewer had claimed the first plot to universal approval and his solid establishment now offered Kellarin’s only taproom where I occasionally found a friendly game among those keen to quench their thirsts. The long low building beside it sheltered looms shared informally by men and women with the skills to use them and I saw the usual throng of people with wool to swap for yarn or finished cloth around the door. The loft above served as a store for the dyers and fullers who’d set up pungent work further downstream.