Albarn settled himself at a table to one side of the dais where an unsullied ledger lay open beside an assortment of pens and ink. He didn’t look too enthusiastic for someone eager to be acknowledged as Temar’s designated successor.

“Poor lad, taking notes himself rather than lording it over copyists,” I said with light mockery. “Still, if you want to reap, you’ve got to sow.”

“I haven’t seen you doing much sowing.” Ryshad shot me a quizzical look. “But I tripped over Fras making a mess in our garden this morning. Why is that?”

“He’s as handy with a spread of runes as he is with that hoe.” I spread my hands, unconcerned. “He’ll get the job done.” And I’d washed the bed linen, so felt entitled to some entertainment today.

Halice strode through the crowd and pulled up a stool. “How long are we going to be sitting on our hands?”

“We’re waiting for their nod.” Up on the dais Guinalle was emphasising her point to Temar with sharp gestures. “What does she reckon to this notion?”

“A sensible custom long overdue some use.” Halice grinned. “If we can convince her to turn away anyone plaguing her outside of these sessions, she might learn to relax a little.”

Ryshad laid a hand on my thigh to silence me. “Here’s the old wether to break the snow.”

The crowd stilled as a white-haired man stepped forward, nodding a polite bow to Albarn before standing below Temar and Guinalle. “My duty, Messire, Demoiselle.”

“Master Drage.” Temar inclined his head and Guinalle favoured the man with a courteous smile.

He coughed. “It’s about these land grants. I’m wondering if we can’t break them up a bit. Back home, we held land in different parts of a demesne, some meadow, some plough land, all different tracts, so no one got all stones or bog.”

Temar nodded. “But there’s sufficient land here to give everyone good soil.”

“But what about hail or storm?” Drage spoke with the confidence of age and experience. “Larasion be blessed, we’ve mild enough weather here but if all a man’s crops are in the one field, any misfortune could ruin his harvest.” A murmur of agreement supported him but I could see a few belligerent faces determined to dispute this. Yeomen newly come from Tormalin liked knowing exactly where their boundaries ran and their precise rights to enforce them.

Temar bent to confer with Guinalle before answering Master Drage. “You raise a valid concern and I imagine others share it. But equally, many folk prefer their grant within a single enclosure. We suggest anyone wishing to swap a portion of their holdings with another gather in the trading hall tomorrow. We can have exchanges recorded by formal charter—”

Guinalle’s scream came like lightning from a clear sky. She stumbled to her feet, head shaking like a horse tormented by hornets, hair lashing wildly as she clutched at her temples. Temar barely caught her as she fainted, falling to his knees on the hollow dais with a thud that echoed around the stricken silence.

Ryshad’s long legs ignored the stairs, me taking them in two strides. Halice was barely a pace behind us.

“Is she breathing?” I demanded. Her colour was ghastly, lips bloodless, face slack.

Temar ripped at the lace secured around her shoulders with a silver and sapphire brooch. “Her heart’s racing.” We could all see the beat in the pale hollow of her neck.

Ryshad scooped her up in his arms.

“Through to the back.” Halice lent a steadying hand as he got to his feet.

“Keep them here.” I held Temar back before pushing him towards his seat of authority and the open-mouthed consternation below. “Carry on or gossip will have her dead and on her pyre before sunset.”

Halice was holding the rear door for Ryshad. She beckoned me with a jerk of her head. “We’ll send word as soon as we know what’s wrong.”

Temar visibly composed himself and turned to the astonished gathering. “It seems the demoiselle is taken ill.” His voice strengthened. “But she would be the last one to wish for any fuss and the first to urge us to continue.”

That much was true but the thought did little to relieve my anxiety as I closed the door on his words.

Ryshad was standing in the middle of Temar’s hall, frowning. The walls were still bare stone but Bridele was doing her best to make the place more comfortable. High-backed settles flanked the wide hearth, mismatched but well made and softened with linen-covered cushions bright with more of the housekeeper’s embroidery.

Halice was tossing them to the floor and delving in the hollow bottom of the settle to find a blanket. “Livak, have that woman find us some decent wine.”

I ran to hammer on the kitchen door. Bridele opened it, startled.

“Demoiselle Guinalle’s taken ill,” I told her rapidly. “Fetch wine or white brandy if Temar’s got a bottle hidden away.”

As she scurried away, I went to look for kindling in the cluttered inglenook. Ryshad laid Guinalle gently down. “Is she stirring?”

“Barely,” said Halice, chafing the noblewoman’s fragile wrists between her own muscular hands. “Have either of you heard of any contagion?”

We all looked at each other, relieved to see mutual head shakes. Drianon save us from another outbreak of the fever that had left Tedin orphaned and in his grandam’s care, I thought. Especially if we didn’t have Guinalle to curb its virulence this time.

Ryshad snapped open the clasp of her chain girdle. “Where are the laces on this cursed gown?”

“Under the arm.” I pointed before turning back to the hearth. “Talmia megrala eldrin.fres.” A flame sprang up among the twigs and I fed it with bigger sticks. Guinalle might scorn such Lower Artifice but she couldn’t deny it was useful. I saw a feather poking through the linen of a cushion and, recalling my mother dealing with a light-headed housemaid, plucked it out.

“On there.” Ryshad directed Bridele to set her tray on the low table between the settles. Guinalle moaned, a low sound of acute pain. He knelt beside her. “Can you tell us what’s wrong?”

He didn’t tell her she was going to be all right, dark eyes scanning her pale skin for any sign of a rash or some other ill omen. Ryshad’s sister had died of a spotted sickness and Halice and I have seen people healthy at dawn and dead before dusk.

Halice brushed Guinalle’s disordered hair aside, testing her forehead for fever. The girl caught her breath and opened frantic brown eyes like someone roused from nightmares. She tried to raise herself but Halice restrained her. I poured a goblet of dark ruby wine and stood at Ryshad’s shoulder.

Guinalle’s eyes were disconcertingly distant. “Parrail?”

“What about him?” Halice demanded.

“Is he in trouble?” asked Ryshad.

She seemed deaf to their questions. I lit the feather and waved the smouldering fragment beneath her nose. Guinalle coughed on the acrid smoke and her indignant eyes focused on me.

“Parrail’s in the most dreadful distress!” She sat up, a rush of colour to her lips and cheeks reducing her corpse-like pallor.

I handed her the wine. “Is it the ship?”

“He’s terrified.” The demoiselle took a shuddering breath.

“It’s a wonder he could work any Artifice!”

“Could you tell where he is?” Ryshad got to his feet, trying not to press her too hard.

“On land or at sea?” I amplified the question.

Guinalle drained the cup of wine before speaking. “On land, I think, but not on Kellarin. Or perhaps not. I felt the ocean hindering his enchantment.” She set down the goblet and knotted her fingers in her lap, knuckles white.

“Trouble at sea comes fast and furious.” Ryshad’s concern was plain. “Especially if they’re making landfall. Can you reach him with your own Artifice?”

Guinalle’s dogged self-possession was returning. “Give me a moment.”

I perched with Halice on the low table, trying not to look too impatient.