They had come within sight of the royal city late the previous day, following the waters of the Kett away from the setting sun, through fishing villages, farmlands, and patches of dense forest. They could have entered the city at any time, but as he usually did when they arrived somewhere new, Grinsa chose to wait for morning, when the peddlers and shepherds would file through the city gates and make their way to the city marketplace. As two travelers entering Solkara, or any other Aneiran city, Tavis and he couldn’t help but draw the attention of the city guards. As part of the horde flooding the city each morning, they could avoid close scrutiny. Every city to which they journeyed presented risks, none more so than the royal city in the wake of Carden’s death, with every Aneiran noble and his best soldiers walking the streets. But short of abandoning their search for the assassin and his Qirsi allies, such small precautions offered the most safety for which the gleaner could hope.

Standing amid the beggars and merchants waiting for the ringing of the morning bells and the opening of the gates, Tavis stamped his feet in the cold and muttered to himself impatiently. He wore an old woolen riding cloak with its hood drawn up to hide at least some of his livid scars.

“Any other city in the Forelands would have let us in already,” he said with petulance. “Certainly they would have in C-” He stopped, glancing about as if to see if anyone was listening. “At home,” he continued a moment later, lowering his voice.

Grinsa had to smile. The morning had brightened considerably, and the boy was probably right. The bells should already have been rung. But it was a matter of moments. As much as Tavis had matured in the half year since his Fating, he remained terribly young, as only a noble could.

“It won’t be long now,” Grinsa said, gazing up the city lane through the iron grating of the gate. “Here come the morning guards now.”

A murmur went through the crowd as the soldiers approached. Tavis wasn’t the only one growing cold in the early-morning air.

The guards unlocked the gate, pulled both sides of it open, and waved the men and women into the city.

“Keep your head down,” Grinsa whispered.

Tavis gave a quick glance, glowering at the Qirsi. “Yes, I know!” he answered. “Nod my head a lot and say ‘good morning,’ though not so loudly that the guards can hear my accent. You don’t have to tell me every time!”

Grinsa smirked. “But I enjoy these conversations so.”

Tavis glared at him a moment longer, before smiling himself and shaking his head. “I should have gone to Glyndwr when I had the chance,” the boy said, the grin lingering on his lips. “Exile would be better than this.”

Grinsa nodded, facing forward. “For both of us.”

They passed the guards without incident and began to follow the crowd toward the marketplace. But before they had gone far, the gleaner heard the jangling of a sword and the scuffling of a soldier’s boots.

“Stop right there, you!” came a hard voice.

Grinsa kept walking, and gestured for Tavis to do the same, but his heart was pounding at his chest like a fist.

“I told you to stop!” the guard said.

A sword was drawn, the morning air ringing with the sound of steel.

“Another step and you die!” the man warned.

Grinsa froze, putting out an arm to stop his companion as well. He turned slowly, only to see the guard pressing his blade against the throat of the man walking just behind him.

“What’s this,” the guard said, removing a two-handed sword from a baldric on the man’s back. “Peddlers don’t usually need such fine blades.”

“I carry it for safety, good sir,” the man said, his voice quavering. “There are thieves on the roads throughout the forest.”

“That may be,” the guard said. “But you don’t carry such a blade into Solkara unless you’re a noble or a soldier in the service of one.” He paused, glancing over at Grinsa and frowning. “What are you looking at, white-hair? This doesn’t concern you.”

“Of course not, good sir,” the gleaner said quickly, lowering his gaze. “Forgive me.”

He hurried on, Tavis beside him, but for some time his pulse continued to race, as if he had just come through a battle. He looked forward to the day when they could leave Aneira for Caerisse, or Wethyrn or Sanbira. Any place where Tavis’s lineage wasn’t grounds for immediate execution, and where his accent didn’t draw the unwished-for attention of everyone from castle guards to innkeepers.

“They stopped that man just for carrying a sword,” Tavis said quietly. “No wonder my father hates the Aneirans so.”

“We’re in their royal city, Tavis. Their king has just died and one of their dukes was murdered barely a turn ago. Houses will by vying for the throne, old rivalries will be rekindled. This is a time for vigilance. I wouldn’t assume that the guards always treat strangers that way.”

Tavis eyed him briefly. “Why do you always take the part of those I dislike?”

“I’m not taking their part. I’m merely trying to make you see the world from someone else’s perspective. A good king can see through his enemy’s eyes as well as his own.”

The boy gave a short, sharp laugh. “You still think I’m going to be king?”

“I don’t know,” Grinsa said. “But the same qualities that make a good king, can make a good man.”

Tavis seemed to consider this as they walked on, wandering slowly among the stalls and peddlers’ carts of the city marketplace. There was little for them to learn in the city streets, though they could certainly ask some of the sellers about the assassin. But it was far too early in the day for them to go to taverns and inns, where their chances of learning something useful were far greater.

Grinsa couldn’t say what it was about the woman that caught his attention. While there were more Eandi in the marketplace than Qirsi, there were enough white-hairs about to keep one from standing out. From a distance, her clothes appeared ordinary-a simple brown cloak, hooded like his own, and clasped at the neck with a plain silver chain. It was only when she drew nearer that he saw the hem of her robe and realized she was a minister in the court of an Aneiran noble. She was pretty in a plain way, with a thin face, bright yellow eyes, and fine white hair that she wore loose so that it hung past her shoulders to the middle of her back. But she wasn’t beautiful, like Cresenne or even Keziah, his sister.

Perhaps it was the expression on her face that made him notice her, the deep sadness in her eyes, as if she had just lost a parent. Grinsa found himself wondering if she had been minister to the king and still mourned his death.

She was walking directly toward Grinsa and Tavis, gazing about the marketplace, but seeming to see nothing at all. Not knowing why he did it, Grinsa remained in her path so that when she drew near she had to step to the side to avoid him.

“Good morrow, Minister,” he said, bowing to her.

She hesitated a moment, looking at him with surprise. “Good morrow,” she said, her voice low. Glancing at him a second time, she continued past, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Grinsa stood in the middle of the lane and watched her walk away. A few seconds later she seemed to turn her head again, as if sensing his gaze. After a time, he lost sight of her amid the carts and the city folk.

“Do you know her?” Tavis asked.

The gleaner shook his head. “No. I’ve never seen her before.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. There’s something…” He shook his head again, unable to find the words. He wanted to follow her, and he had learned long ago to trust his instincts on such things.

“Come with me,” he said, starting after her.

At first he couldn’t find her again, and he felt his frustration mounting. Just as he was ready to give up, however, Tavis pointed to a lone figure entering a small tavern.