Thorn soon led them off into a maze of twisting streets, most of which deserved the name only because they were paved with rough stone blocks the size of a man’s two fists. Buildings as big as those on the main street, some housing shops on the ground floor, loomed over them, almost shutting out the sky. Many of those ways were too narrow for horse carts-in some Mat would not have had to extend his arms fully to touch the walls on either side-and more than once he had to press Tuon against the front of a building to let a heavy-loaded hand-barrow rumble past over the uneven paving stones, the barrow-man calling apologies for the inconvenience without slowing. Porters trudged through that cramped warren, too, men walking bent nearly parallel to the ground, each with a bale or crate on his back held level by a padded leather roll strapped to his hips. Just the sight of them made Mat’s own back ache. They reminded him how much he hated work.

He was on the point of asking Thorn how far they had to go- Maderin was not that big a town-when they reached The White Ring, on one of those winding streets where his arms could more than compass the width of the pavement, a brick building of three floors across from a cutler’s shop. The painted sign hanging over the inn’s red door, a frilly white circle of lace, made the knots return to his shoulders. Ring, it might be called, but that was a woman’s garter if ever he had seen one. It might not be a hell, but inns with signs like that usually were rowdy enough in their own right. He eased the knives up his coatsleeves, and those in his boot tops, as well, felt the blades under his coat, shrugged just to get the feel of the one hanging behind his neck. Though if it went that far… Tuon nodded approvingly. The bloody woman was dying to see him get into a knife fight! Selucia had the sense to frown.

“Ah, yes,” Thom said. “A wise precaution.” And he checked his own knives, tightening those knots in Mat’s shoulders a little more. Thom carried almost as many blades as he did, up his sleeves, beneath his coat.

Selucia writhed her fingers at Tuon, and suddenly they were in a silent argument, fingers flashing. Of course, it could not be that- Tuon bloody well owned Selucia the same as owning a dog and you did not argue with your dog-but an argument it seemed, both women with their jaws set stubbornly. Finally, Selucia folded her hands and bowed her head in acquiescence. A reluctant submission.

“It will be well.” Tuon told her in a jollying tone. “You will see. It will be well.”

Mat wished he was sure of that. Taking a deep breath, he extended his wrist for her hand again and followed Thom.

The spacious, wood-paneled common room of The White Ring held better than two dozen men and women, nearly half obvious out-landers, at square tables beneath a thick-beamed ceiling. All neatly dressed in finely woven wool with little by way of ornamentation, most were talking quietly over their wine in pairs, cloaks draped over their low-backed chairs, though three men and a woman with long beaded braids were tossing bright red dice from a winecup at one table. Pleasant smells drifted from the kitchen, including meat roasting. Goat, most likely. Beside the wide stone fireplace, where a parsimonious fire burned and a polished brass barrel-clock sat on the mantel, a saucy-eyed young woman who rivaled Selucia-and with her blouse unlaced nearly to her waist to prove it-swayed her hips and sang, accompanied by a hammered dulcimer and a flute, a song about a woman juggling all of her lovers. She sang in a suitably bawdy voice. None of the patrons appeared to be listening.

“As I walked out one fine spring day, I met young Jac who was pitching hay, his hair so fair, and his eyes were. too.

Well. I gave him a kiss; oh, what could I do?

We snuggled and we tickled while the sun rose high. and I won’t say how often he made me sigh.”

Lowering her hood, Tuon stopped just inside the door and frowned around the room. “Are you certain this is a hell. Master Merrilin?” she asked. In a low voice, thank the Light. Some places, a question of that sort could get you thrown out and roughly, silk coat or no. In others, the prices just doubled.

“I assure you, you won’t find a bigger collection of thieves and rascals anywhere in Maderin at this hour,” Thorn murmured, stroking his mustaches.

“Nowjac gels an hour when the sky is clear, and Willi gets an hour when my father’s not near. It’s the hayloft with Mori I. for he shows no fear, and Keilin comes at midday: he’s oh so bold! Lord Brelan gets an evening when the night is cold. Master Andril gets a morning, but he’s very old. Oh. what, oh. what is a poor girl to do? My loves are so many and the hours so few.”

Tuon looked doubtful, but with Selucia at her shoulder, she walked over to stand in front of the singer, who faltered a moment at Tuon’s intense scrutiny before catching the song up again. She sang over the top of Tuon’s head, plainly attempting to ignore her. It seemed that with every other verse, the woman in the song added a new lover to her list. The male musician, playing the dulcimer, smiled at Selucia and got a frosty stare back. The two women got other looks as well, the one so small and with very short black hair, the other rivaling the singer and with her head wrapped in a scarf, but no more than glances. The patrons were intent on their own business.

“It isn’t a hell.” Mat said softly, “but what is it? Why would so many people be here in the middle of the day?” It was mornings and evenings when common rooms filled up like this.

“The locals are selling olive oil, lacquerware or lace,” Thom replied just as quietly, “and the outlanders are buying. It seems local custom is to begin with a few hours of drink and conversation. And if you have no head for it,” he added dryly, “you sober up to find you’ve made much less of a bargain than you thought in your wine.”

“Light, Thorn, she’ll never believe this place is a hell. I thought you were taking us somewhere merchants’ guards drink, or apprentices. At least she might believe that.”

“Trust me. Mat. I think you’ll find she has lived a very sheltered life in some ways.”

Sheltered? When her own brothers and sisters tried to kill her? “You wouldn’t care to wager a crown on it. would you?”

Thorn chuckled. “Always glad to take your coin.”

Tuon and Selucia came gliding back, faces expressionless. “I expected rougher garb on the patrons,” Tuon said quietly, “and perhaps a fight or two, but the song is too salacious for a respectable inn. Though she is much too covered to sing it properly, in my opinion. What is that for?” she added in tones of suspicion as Mat handed Thorn a coin.

“Oh,” Thorn said, slipping the crown into his coat pocket. “I thought you might be disappointed that only the more successful blackguards were present-they aren’t always so colorful as the poorer sort-but Mat said you’d never notice.”

She leveled a look at Mat, who opened his mouth indignantly. And closed it again. What was there to say? He was already in the pickling kettle. No need to stoke the fire.

As the innkeeper approached, a round woman with suspiciously black hair beneath a white lace cap and stuffed into a gray dress embroidered in red and green across her more than ample bosom, Thorn slipped away with a bow and a murmured. “By your leave, my Lord, my Lady.” Murmured, but loud enough for Mistress Heilin to hear.

The innkeeper had a flinty smile, yet she exercised it for a lord and lady, curtsying so deeply that she grunted straightening back up, and she seemed only a little disappointed that Mat wanted wine and perhaps food, not rooms. Her best wine. Even so. when he paid, he let her see that he had gold in his purse as well as silver. A silk coat was all very well, but gold wearing rags got better service than copper wearing silk.