Guinalle sat on the edge of the settle, smoothing her skirts as she took a deep breath. She spared a vexed look for her torn lace before folding her hands slowly beneath her breastbone. Closing her eyes she spoke with measured calm.

“Lar toral en mar for das, ay enamir ras tel. Parrail endalaia ver atal sedas ar mornal.”

Her squeal made us all jump and Halice’s grab for a nonexistent sword hilt sent the tray and goblets crashing to the floor.

“What?” Ryshad was braced for action.

“He’s in fear of his life.” Guinalle was shivering like someone cloakless in the depths of midwinter.

“From the sea?” I recalled the lad was as bad a sailor as me.

“He’s not alone. He fears for the people with him.” Guinalle’s brow furrowed, eyes dark and inward-looking. The demoiselle raised a hand and I saw marks on her palm where her fingernails had dug in. “He’s surrounded by dangerous men, thieves and killers.”

“Elietimm?” Ryshad looked murderous.

“No,” Guinalle said slowly. “I’ve no sense of them.”

“Can you talk to Parrail?” Ryshad was all but pacing the floor with frustration.

“He’s scared out of his wits.” Guinalle shook her head, distraught. “He won’t hear me and for me to see through his eyes with Artifice—”

I wasn’t waiting for explanations. “We need scrying. I’ll find Allin and set Temar’s mind at rest.” I added with a smile at Guinalle. Embarrassment at the realisation of her public collapse wiped away the last of her pallor and, mortified, she looked surprisingly young.

I left her to Ryshad and Halice, slipping discreetly on to the dais in the reception hall through the rear door. Albarn had his head down, scribbling rapidly and Temar looked to have kept the business of answering appeals to his authority as Sieur going fairly smoothly so far.

“Make an offering to a shrine, that’s where it stays.” A woman with a figure like a peg-dolly was standing before Temar, hands on hips.

“Mistress Beldan, you have said your piece. Please let Mistress Treda have her say!“ I was impressed by Temar’s firmness.

His chair hid the second woman from me but from her accent, she was one of the original colonists. “I know nothing of practice over the ocean nowadays but we hold to an older custom.” Her effort to sound placatory was obvious. “If I give a cooking pot to Drianon by way of thanks, I expect the goddess to bring someone with the need for it by her shrine and have them find it there. I don’t look for it to gather dust for all eternity.”

“A cook pot’s no fit devotion—”

“Thank you.” Temar cut across Mistress Beldan’s scorn. “Does anyone claim responsibility for the shrine? Is anyone willing to take on a priesthood?”

I saw people looking at each other with confusion and reluctance. Priesthoods and confraternities for the upkeep of shrines have been hereditary for generations out of mind on the other side of the ocean but there was no such tradition here.

As uncertain muttering occupied everyone, I stepped up to Temar’s side. “Guinalle’s all right, just fainted.” That reassured him even if I wasn’t entirely sure it were true. “Parrail’s in some sort of trouble and used Artifice to call for help. It took her completely by surprise and he’s none too adept, so that made things worse.” I noted people stepping eagerly forward to listen and considered how much bad news to chew on would stop their vivid imaginations supplying worse.

“What kind of trouble?” Temar’s pale blue eyes fixed on me.

I wasn’t going to speculate with all these ears around. “We need Allin to scry for us. Do you know where she is?”

“With Master Shenred.”

I patted Temar on the shoulder. “You’re doing well. Keep it up.”

Temar allowed himself a grimace of frustration before I took myself out by the back door. I heard him return to the matter in hand with tense deliberation. “We should establish a confraternity to agree such practices for the shrine. Anyone willing to serve should give their name to Albarn and lots can be drawn. Those who prefer a different rite can set up their own shrine.”

Back in Temar’s residence, Bridele was cleaning the floor and Halice was tending the fire while Guinalle sat frozen on the settle. Ryshad looked up from searching among Temar’s charts and spared me a brief smile.

“Any idea where Shenred is?” I asked him.

He thought for a moment. “Try the slaughter ground.”

Hurrying down the tiled lane, I ran down river past the hillock that shielded the sights and sounds of the bloodier end of a master butcher’s business. Allin was by the hanging store, apron over her gown, sleeves rolled up and one hand carefully testing a vat of brine. “It’s all a question of evaporation,” she said earnestly. “With water antithetical to my fire affinity, it’s a delicate balance.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but D’Alsennin needs a little magic working.” I smiled briefly.

Shenred sighed. “Go on then, lass.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Allin apologised earnestly.

“It’ll keep, lass.” He smiled at her. “That’s what brine does.”

I forced a rapid pace to take us out of earshot as soon as possible. “How well do you know Parrail? Well enough to scry for him?”

“I don’t think so.” Curiosity followed Allin’s honest regret. “Why?”

“He’s in trouble and we need to know how bad,” I told her bluntly.

“Naldeth’s on the same ship, isn’t he?” She dried her hands on her apron. “I know him, and his brother.”

“Then that’s who you scry for.” We returned to Temar’s residence as fast as I judged we could go without attracting undue attention.

Allin stripped off her apron as we entered. “Do we have—good, thank you.”

Ryshad was already filling a broad silver bowl from a prettily glazed ewer while Halice added to a motley collection of bottles on the table. “We’ve got you all the inks and oils Bridele could find.”

Allin rapidly selected a glass vial of green oil with sprigs of herb in it. She uncorked it with care, letting a few drops fall on to the surface of the water. “I may not be able to hold the image for long,” she warned.

The vivid green of the oil vanished as it spread across the water, a hint of thyme scenting the air. Allin cupped her hands around the rim of the bowl and set her round jaw resolutely. I joined Ryshad on one side of her, Halice and Guinalle on the other, all of us trying not to crowd the mage but increasingly anxious to see what her magic might reveal.

The invisible film of oil shone as if sunlight were playing on it. The green-gold sheen thickened, trails of radiance falling through the water, spreading and diffusing until the colour filled the bowl. It deepened to a grassy hue, then to a mossy darkness and, faint at first, a reflection formed on the glassy surface. “Don’t jog the table.” Allin concentrated on the bowl, her tongue caught between her teeth.

“Is that the ship?” I saw an ocean vessel drawn up on the shingle strand of Suthyfer’s best anchorage.

“That’s Den Harkeil’s.” Ryshad pointed to a ram’s head carved on the stern rail.

Halice scowled. “Hardly fit to sail.” The wheeling magic showed us where planking had been stripped from the ribs of the ship, leaving it broken like the carcass of a dead animal.

“What do they want the wood for?” As I wondered, Allin sent the spell searching across from the shore. We saw crude shelters sprawling over the grass, some canvas, others built from hatch covers and doors. Chests and casks were stacked beneath crude nets weighted with pulley blocks.

“Who are they?” Halice put careful hands behind her back as she bent closer to study small figures, some barefoot in shirtsleeves with an air of purpose, others more leisurely in boots and cloaks.

“Pirates,” said Ryshad coldly. “Scum of the seas.”

“Where’s Parrail?” Guinalle’s eyes went from the image to Allin and back, frustration chasing anxiety across her face.