“She doesn’t have to know it’s part of my patrimony.”

Jeirran insisted. “I’ll tell her I did some trading last year, before we were wed. I’ll find a way of earning the gold back before Solstice, and Eirys need never know it was missing.”

“On your own head be it,” snapped Keisyl. “If anyone asks, I’m saying I knew nothing about it.”

Jeirran nodded, his eyes still fixed on the door, humiliation souring his stomach and shortening his breath. He sought vainly for any hope of salvaging something from the wreckage of his hopes. Hot fury welled up within him, at all these lowlanders, with their incomprehensible guilds and secret rules, conspiring together to keep every trade for themselves. It was all the same, this deceit, the way Degran and his like cheated the Mountain Men. When had any up-lander last seen a just share in the profits, a fair reward for the dangerous work of wresting metal from barren reaches or furs from the forested heights? It was all of a piece with the way lowlanders were setting their filthy villages ever higher, seizing the best grazing for their mud-caked cattle and greedy sheep, claiming the right to buy and sell the very land itself, haggling over blotted parchment they said could outweigh rights of blood and lineage. Jeirran’s burning eye lit on the heedless clerk, on the three men sitting in smug judgment as they robbed their victims of coin and dignity.

The main door swung open but it was only some immodest red-headed female in close-cut breeches peering in past the clerk. Scowling at her, Jeirran returned to his angry thoughts.

How could he have known that there was no chance of honest dealing here? He had come in all good faith. Degran and those others, they must have known this would happen. They’d all be laughing up their sleeves at him, wouldn’t they? Jeirran set his jaw, beard bristling wrathfully. These smug lowlanders, with their tricks and deceits; he’d find a way of making them pay, every last one of them.

“It’s not them,” I told Usara regretfully. “Just some pair fresh off their mules who gave the wrong Watchman a funny look.”

“So where next? Oh, your pardon, madam.” The wizard stepped aside as a painted lass sauntered past, scarlet skirt hitched high on one hip to show off snowy petticoats, an inadequate shawl draped over barely covered shoulders. With the sun setting over the fairground, the other sort of flower-sellers were out looking for trade.

I looked after the whore. “If ’Gren’s found himself a blossom ripe for plucking, we’ve not much chance of finding them tonight. They’ve probably not even arrived yet. We’d have found them at the smithing stalls being sarcastic about the quality of the metalwork. I’d have put money on it.”

Usara looked at me quizzically. “Tormalin coin or one of these local pennies?”

“All right,” I amended, “maybe just an ale-trader’s token.”

The clash of cymbals and a thrum of strings announced a small band making up with enthusiasm for their lack of numbers and skill. Their leader put his battered pipe to his mouth and blew a squeaky flourish. “Good folk of Selerima and honored guests at our feast, I invite you to view a masquerade of rare talent and no little beauty! The Martlet Players will be giving their rendition of The Gulf Traders at the Fleet Hound, commencing at the second chime of evening.” He turned to his motley musicians and they struck up a ragged fanfare before launching into one of those tunes that everyone knows a different set of words to. With the piper leading, they set off down to the next junction to make their bold declaration again.

I looked at Usara. “Fancy an evening at the masquerades?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied cautiously. “There are masquerades and masquerades.”

I laughed. “The Fleet Hound is a respectable house, right up on the market square. When did you last hear of a brothel with a name like that? If you want girls wearing nothing but a few silk flowers and a winning smile, you’d better try down by the waterfront.”

“I’ll resist the temptation,” said the wizard dryly, “unless you think we might find these elusive brothers somewhere around there.”

I shook my head. “If ’Gren’s in a brothel, he won’t be wasting his time looking at the posies, he’ll be busy hunting the honey. But Sorgrad certainly likes a good play. It’s worth taking a look around the masquerades.” And since those of us who live the traveling life, masqueraders, confidence men, and gamblers, nearly always pitch up at the same big festivals, I reckoned I could put a decently minted silver penny on my chances of getting word of Sorgrad at very least. With luck, I could leave a few messages with people who actually knew him.

“So whereabouts is the Fleet Hound?” Usara was looking vainly for the Conclave Tower.

“This way.” I led him down a side street that took us to the marketplace. With bawdy amusements down at the fairground getting ever more raucous as the night deepened, the worthies of the city were holding more sedate celebrations up here. The centerpiece was a blazing fire roasting an ox, courtesy of the Butchers’ Guild if the flensing knives on the pennants all around were any indication. A priest was invoking Ostrin’s blessing on the gathering and everyone was listening attentively, the older people even joining in the liturgy. The priest looked delighted, as well he might; this was the most attention anyone was going to pay to him between now and Solstice. Braziers made bright dots in the gathering darkness as the chill of the evening belied the sunshine of the passing day. Chestnuts were roasting to warm the hands and the belly, a reminder of how early the season still was.

“Hot wine, my lady?” A girl with flushed cheeks and bright eyes proffered a tray of steaming horn goblets. “Compliments of the Vintners’ Guild.”

“Thank you.” I passed a cup to Usara and sipped at my own, finding the spices and warmth good enough to mask the inadequacy of the vintage. “Over there,” I pointed to the far side of the busy square. “That’s the Fleet Hound.”

Usara drank thirstily, grimaced and looked distastefully into his wine before pouring the dregs onto the cobbles. “Where else do you suppose masquerades will be playing? Does this city have a purpose-built playhouse?”

“No,” I said scornfully. “The Looking Glass in Vanam is the only one of those this side of the White River. Selerimans make do with inn courtyards, like everywhere else.”

We made our way over, pausing at my insistence to accept coarse bread rolled around meat and crackling hacked from a plump porker halved from snout to curly tail and spitted either side of a searing fire. A queue was already forming outside the Fleet Hound; a few doors down, beneath the sign of the Swan in the Moon, two masqueraders in bright costumes were taking silver pennies from those keen to get in early enough to secure a good view.

“Livak!” One of the pair pushed up his mask and hailed me in delighted tones.

I laughed with equal pleasure. “Niello, how good to see you!” I grabbed Usara’s sleeve to drag him after me. “I’d have come sooner if I’d known you were here, but I thought you were fixed in Col for good. What happened to Lord Elkith’s Players? Wasn’t he buying the lease of an inn for you?”

Niello shrugged the exaggerated shoulders of his gaudy doublet. “The usual, my dear, a masquerader, a lady, a misunderstanding.”

“His wife,” I guessed.

“His sister,” grinned Niello wolfishly, running a hand over immaculate chestnut locks.

There was doubtless more to it: rows over money, takings spent on ale instead of paying the reckoning, costumes ruined or distrained for debt. None of that was my problem. “So, who are you playing with now?”

Niello swept a low bow with consummate grace. “We are the Brazen Bell Troupe.” His companion gave his hand bell a vigorous shake by way of illustration, which turned heads all around the square. “I joined them when they came to Col for the Winter Solstice.”