“But you’re really not listening, are you?” Istariel said.

Ariel realized that her sister had been speaking for some time. It had all been meaningless, but Ariel had forgotten to pretend to be paying attention. “Sorry,” she said.

Istariel waved it away, and Ariel realized that Istariel was almost relieved that Ariel was back to acting the way she expected—Ariel, the distracted, oblivious genius, big brain and bigger Talent and nothing else. It allowed Istariel to feel superior. “I got you thinking, didn’t I?” Istariel asked.

Ariel nodded.

“About what?”

She shook her head, but Istariel cocked an eyebrow at her. It was an I’m-the-Speaker look. Ariel grimaced.

“I was thinking about how bad I am at small talk, and wondering why,” Ariel said.

Istariel grinned—they might have been teenagers again. “And formulating a course of study on it?”

She frowned deeply. “I decided I’m the wrong person for the task.”

Istariel laughed out loud. It was irritating. Istariel was a snorter. “What were you saying?” Ariel asked. She tried to look interested. Istariel, though pompous and a snorter, was the Speaker.

“Oh, Ariel, you don’t care, and you’re not very good at pretending you do.”

“No, I don’t. But you do, so I can listen politely.”

Istariel shook her head as though she couldn’t believe Ariel, but she settled down and—mercifully—stopped snorting. “Forget it. The war I was talking about? Some of the younger sisters want to form a new order.”

“Another bunch who want to disavow the Alitaeran Accord and become war magae?” What a waste. They spent their time trying to change the rules rather than ignoring them and making them moot.

“Nothing so simple. These ladies propose to call themselves the Chattel.”

“Oh my.”

Tyros were not allowed to marry, but many Sisters eventually decided to. Of those, most went back to wherever they had come from or where their husbands lived. Some stayed on at the Chantry, but few rose to high levels. Often, that was simply a matter of choice: the women decided that with children, husbands, and homes, they’d rather be with their families full time.

Sometimes, though, ambitious Sisters wanted it all. They wanted to be married to the Chantry and to a man. Those never rose as high as they believed they deserved, because after a certain level, the other Sisters wanted leaders for whom the Chantry was their whole family. The women who sacrificed family for the Seraph saw it as their right to be promoted beyond those who worked half-jobs, no matter how brilliantly. The attitude even extended to married Sisters who didn’t have children, because Sisters assumed that they would eventually throw away everything worthwhile to tend a man and his brats, like any peasant woman. The Sisters quietly called them chattel, voluntary housekeepers and broodmares to men, and they said the chattel wasted the Chantry’s time and money and—worst—their own talents.

Usually, the comments went unchallenged because the vast majority of the Sisters at the Chantry were single. Either they were instructors or they were students. It was considered rude to call a married Sister a chattel to her face, but it happened.

If the married Sisters formed an order—and Ariel couldn’t see how they could be denied—they would have tremendous power. Their numbers included more than half of all the Sisters. If they became a bloc, things would change radically.

“It’s a ploy, of course,” the Speaker said. “Most of the …married Sisters aren’t militant enough to rally behind such a name. It’s just a shot over the bow to let us know they’re serious.”

“What do they want?” Ariel asked.

Istariel’s eye twitched, and she rubbed it. “Many things, but one of the primary demands is that we start a new school of magic here. A school that breaks with our traditions.”

“How much of a break?”

“A men’s school, Ariel.”

That was more than a break from tradition. It was a seismic upheaval.

“We believe some of them have married magi already.”

“What do you want me to do?” Ariel asked immediately.

“About this?” Istariel said. “Nothing. Heavens no. Forgive me, sister, but you’re the last person to help with this. It requires a lighter touch. I have something else for you. The leader of the married sisters is Eris Buel. I can’t oppose her directly. I need someone ambitious, respected, and young to carry our standard.”

Which of course excluded Ariel. “You describe perhaps a third of our sisters, or would, if you added unscrupulous.”

Istariel’s eyes went hot and then cold. Ariel knew she had overstepped the bounds, but Istariel wouldn’t do anything about it. She needed her. Besides, Ariel had said it not so much because it was true as for the quarter of a second when Istariel would either look guilty or not.

She had.

“Ari, not even you may speak that way to me.”

“What do you want?” Ariel asked.

“I want you to bring Jessie al’Gwaydin back to the Chantry.”

Ariel thought about it. Jessie al’Gwaydin would be an ideal rock to crush Eris Buel against. She was everything the Chantry loved: well-spoken, good-looking, intelligent, nobly born, and willing to pay her dues to climb to the top. She wasn’t terribly Talented, but she might be a good leader one day, if she had some sense knocked into her.

“She’s studying the Dark Hunter in Torras Bend,” Istariel said. “I know it’s dangerous, but I gave her sufficient warning that I’m sure she won’t do anything precipitous.” Istariel chuckled. “In fact, I threatened to send you after her if she wasn’t good. I’m sure it will please her enormously to see you.”

“And if she’s dead?” Ariel asked.

Istariel’s grin faded. “Find me someone the Chattel can’t ignore. Someone who will do what needs to be done.”

There was a terrible latitude in that ambiguity. But latitude could be used both ways, and the fact was, Ariel would rather be included. Oh, sister, you play with a terrible fire. Why would you use me for this? “Done,” Ariel said.

Istariel signaled that she was dismissed, and Ariel walked to the door. “Oh,” Istariel said, as if it had slipped her mind, “whomever you bring, make sure she’s married.”

Kylar was outside the shop closing up when he sensed he was being watched. He curved his fingers unconsciously to check the knives strapped to his forearms, but there were no knives there. He closed the big shutters over the counter where they displayed their wares and fitted the lock on it, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

It wasn’t being weaponless that made him feel vulnerable. A wetboy was a weapon. He felt vulnerable because of his oath. No killing, no violence. What did that leave him with?

Whoever it was, they were standing in the shadows of the alley beside the shop. Kylar had no doubt they were waiting for him to walk to the front door, which was only steps away from the alley. With his Talent, he could get into the door and lock it—and give away his abilities. Or he could run away—and leave Uly unprotected.

Seriously. Before there had been a woman in his life, things had been so simple.

Kylar walked toward the door. The man was disheveled and wearing rags, with the bloodshot eyes and missing teeth of a riot weed addict. The knives the Ladeshian held seemed serviceable enough, though. He leapt out of the alley. Kylar expected the man to demand money, but he didn’t.

Instead, he attacked instantly, screaming insanity. It sounded like he was saying, “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” Kylar simply moved and the addict went sprawling. Kylar leaned against the wall, puzzled. The man picked himself up and charged. Kylar waited. Waited. Then he moved abruptly. The addict smashed into the wall.

After kicking away the bleeding man’s daggers, Kylar rolled him over with a foot.