“Very nice, Caradai.”

Hyver curtsied, not quite out of character, and Gasquine went on easily. “As for the chorus–it needs work, you know that, but I think you can see how it goes. Masters, I thank you for your efforts. We’ll rest a quarter hour, and move on to the next act.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eslingen saw Siredy sketch a bow, and hastily copied him. A clock struck, somewhere in the upper levels, a quarter‑hour chime, and the closest of the landames looked up toward it, her long horse‑face relaxing into a grin.

“Thank Seidos, my feet are dying.”

In those shoes, I’m not surprised, Eslingen thought. The embroidered mules had a high foresole as well as a heel, gave her a few much‑needed inches.

“My ladies,” Siredy said hastily. “A moment, please–”

They looked inclined to ignore him, and Eslingen tapped the half‑pike lightly on the stage, pleased when the chorus turned almost as one to stare.

“We’ll begin the fight work when we return,” Siredy said. “For those of you who were chosen.”

“We’ll need the stage, Verre,” Gasquine said, not turning from her low‑voiced conversation with Hyver, and Siredy sighed.

“Is it still fine out?” Eslingen asked, and a sweet‑faced boy who looked barely old enough to qualify for the lottery gave him a blinding smile.

“It’s very nice, Lieutenant, sunny and warm and the wind’s died down.”

“Then why don’t we take it to the courtyard?” Eslingen said, and Siredy nodded.

“At the quarter hour, my ladies. In the courtyard, if you please.”

There was a ripple of agreement, and the line broke apart, the majority vanishing into the backstage, a few, the stragglers among them, climbing down into the pit to find seats on the benches. The scenerymen who had been playing dice in the last row looked up curiously–more silks and satins than ever graced the pit on any other occasion–and the horse‑faced girl winked at one of them, her shoes already discarded so that she could rub her stockinged toes.

“Maybe she’ll think better of them,” he said under his breath, and at his side Siredy gave a grunt of amusement.

“A seilling says she’ll wear them through the masque itself.”

Eslingen grinned. “No, I don’t bet against a sure thing.” He worked his shoulders, hearing muscles crack. “How do you think we’re doing?”

“Not badly, actually,” Siredy answered.

“If you say so.” Eslingen frowned, startled by his own ill temper, and not appeased by Siredy’s answering laugh.

“No, really, this is good. They just need time.”

And he was right, Eslingen knew, forcing himself to remember the days he’d spent training soldiers. It always took time, he just had to remember that he was starting with raw recruits, not the half‑trained men who’d been his more recent students. “So what do we do next?”

Siredy made a face. “We probably should have started this sooner, it’s the hardest thing they’ll have to learn. But we had the stage this morning.”

“So what is it that we should have started sooner?” Eslingen asked, with waning patience.

“The small duels.” Siredy shook himself, visibly collecting the rags of what was normally a cheerful disposition. “Oh, it shouldn’t be too bad, they know the rudiments–”

“Enough to know what they don’t know?” Eslingen asked, and Siredy managed a smile.

“I think so. We have four pairs, so we’ll match them up for height and looks, and see what they can do.”

“Do you know which ones they are?”

“I haven’t matched the titles to the faces yet,” Siredy said. “Or at least not above half of them. The pretty boy, the one who’s making eyes at you–”

Eslingen rolled his own eyes at that, and Siredy went on placidly.

“Besselin, his name is, the vavaseur de Besselin. And the sallow landseur with the flowers.”

Eslingen nodded. He didn’t know that man’s name either, but the posy tucked into his lapel had been meant to draw every eye. Even Aubine had been impressed, it seemed; he remembered seeing the older man draw the landseur aside for a quiet conversation.

“Then the girl with the shoes, all the gods help us,” Siredy said, “she’s the daughter of the castellan of Jarielle, and the rest–” He shrugged. “All I have is the names.”

“Four women and four men?” Eslingen asked, and Siredy nodded.

“For balance. I thought we’d place them two and two, a pair of each to each side, the tallest toward the center.”

The clock struck before Eslingen could answer, and Gasquine swept onto the stage, followed by the actors who were in the next scene. Most of the chorus settled themselves more comfortably on their benches, ready to enjoy someone else’s labor; the group who had been chosen for the duels separated themselves out, some with backward glances, and made their way out into the narrow courtyard behind the stagehouse.

It wasn’t an ideal spot for fencing, Eslingen thought as he made sure each of the duelists had plastrons and well‑bated blades, was too long and narrow, but at least they would be able to make a start. Already he could see Siredy sizing up the group, the wig pushed even farther back, showing a line of red hair at his forehead, arranging them by height and coloring. It looked as though the group had been well chosen; it would be easy to make four pairs that would look like an even match, and the sweet‑faced boy, de Besselin, cleared his throat.

“Lieutenant? May I have a word with you?”

He sounded at once shy and eager, usually a bad combination, and Eslingen braced himself. “Of course.”

“You know about Maseigne de Txi and the landame de Vannevaux, don’t you?”

“Should I?”

The boy blinked. “It might be relevant?”

“Well?”

“Txi and the Silvans of Damirai–that’s de Vannevaux’s family– they’ve been at odds for years. Generations.”

“Which is de Vannevaux?” Eslingen asked, but suspected he already knew.

“Her.” De Besselin tipped his head sideways, indicating a woman in blue, apparently deep in conversation with the landseur of the flowers. She was, of course, the same age and height as Txi, and her fair complexion would contrast perfectly with Txi’s dark and lively face.

“Excuse me,” Eslingen said, and crossed the yard in three strides to tap Siredy on the shoulder. “Verre…”

“I’ve heard,” Siredy answered grimly. “What else am I to do with them? There’s no other way to divide them up.”

“Maybe they don’t believe in the feud,” Eslingen said, without much hope, and Siredy shook his head.

“Not a chance of that.”

“Areton’s–” Eslingen swallowed the rest of the curse. “All right. Let’s pretend we think they can behave like–”

“Ladies?” Siredy asked sweetly, and Eslingen held up his hand, acknowledging the hit.

“Like–well, something other than what they are. This is the midwinter masque, the queen expects it. We expect it.”

Siredy’s look was frankly disbelieving, but Eslingen drew himself up to his full height, stilled his face to hauteur copied from a captain he’d once known, a man who could make you thank him for letting you loan him a silver pillar. It had worked before; it might work this time.

“Let’s begin,” he said, pitching his voice to carry, and the group of nobles turned to face him.

Siredy took a breath. “Right. The first order of business is to pair off.” He held up his hand as de Besselin took a step toward the landseur with the flowers. “A moment, please. You’re to be paired by height, to make a better show.”

De Vannevaux was quicker than the others, glancing along the line. “No, Master Siredy, not if it means being paired with her.” She flung out her hand in a gesture copied from one of the minor actors, pointing at Txi with a disdainful flourish.

“Oh,” Txi said, much too sweetly, “I don’t mind at all.”

Right, let them get together with swords in their hands, Eslingen thought. Seidos, why did I ever agree to this? Folly stars, indeed. “What’s this?” He lifted an eyebrow, fixed them both with a stare that he hoped would abash.