From his filthy saddlebags Cazaril drew his packet of documents, wrapped in oilcloth around silk, and checked them for dirt and bloodstains. Nothing untoward had leaked in. He discarded the grubby oilcloth and tucked the offerings under his arm. The castle warder guided Cazaril through a courtyard where workmen labored by torchlight to lay down the last paving stones, and into an adjoining building. They passed through a series of rooms to a spacious tiled chamber softened with rugs and wall hangings. Man-high iron candelabras holding five lights each, intricately wrought, shed a warming glow. Iselle sat in a large carved chair by the far wall, attended by Betriz and the provincar, also all in court mourning.

They looked up as he entered, the women eagerly, the middle-aged dy Baocia's expression tempered with caution. Iselle's uncle bore only a slight resemblance to his younger sister Ista, being solid rather than frail, though he was not overtall either, and he shared Ista's dun hair color, gone grizzled. Dy Baocia was attended in turn by a stout man Cazaril took for his secretary, and an elderly fellow in the five-colored robes of the archdivine of Taryoon. Cazaril eyed him hopefully for any flicker of god light, but he was only a plain devout.

The dark cloud still hung thickly about Iselle in Cazaril's second sight, though, roiling in a sluggish and sullen fashion. But not for much longer, by the Lady's grace.

"Welcome home, Castillar," said Iselle. The warmth of her voice was like a caress on his brow, her use of his title a covert warning.

Cazaril signed himself. "Five gods, Royesse, all is well."

"You have the treaties?" dy Baocia asked, his gaze fixing on the packets under Cazaril's arm. He held out an anxious hand. "There has been much concern over them in our councils."

Cazaril smiled slightly and walked past him to kneel at Iselle's feet, managing with careful effort not to grunt with pain, or pitch over in unseemly clumsiness. He brushed his lips across the backs of the hands she held out to him, and pressed the packet of documents in them, and them alone, as they turned palm up. "All is as you commanded."

Her eyes were bright with appreciation. "I thank you, Cazaril." She glanced up at her uncle's secretary. "Fetch a chair for my ambassador, please. He has ridden long and hard, with little rest." She began folding back the silk.

The secretary brought up a chair with a wool-stuffed cushion. Cazaril smiled rather fixedly in thanks and considered the problem of getting up again gracefully. Rather to his embarrassment, Betriz knelt to his side, and after a second more, the archdivine to his other, and both contrived to hoist him up. Betriz's dark eyes searched him, lingering briefly and fearfully on his tumor-distended midsection, but she could do no more here than smile in encouragement.

Iselle was reading the marriage contract, though she spared a moment as Cazaril seated himself to cast a small smile in his direction. Cazaril watched and waited. As she finished each page she handed the rectangle of calligraphed and ink-stamped parchment up to her hovering uncle, who had them fairly snatched in turn by the archdivine. The secretary was last in line, but no less intent in his perusal. He collected the pages reverently back into order as they came to him.

Dy Baocia clutched his hands together and watched as the archdivine's eyes sped down the last page. He held the parchment out silently to the stout secretary.

"Well?" said the provincar.

"She hasn't sold Chalion." The archdivine signed himself and opened both hands palm out in thanks to the gods. "She's bought Ibra! My congratulations, Royesse, to your ambassador—and to you."

"To us all," said dy Baocia. All three men were looking vastly more cheerful.

Cazaril cleared his throat. "Indeed, but I trust you will not say as much to Royse Bergon. The treaties are potentially advantageous to both sides, after all." He glanced at dy Baocia's secretary. "Though perhaps it would allay people's fears to have the articles copied out in a large fair hand and posted on the wall beside your palace doors, for everyone to read."

Dy Baocia frowned uncertainly, but the archdivine nodded, and said, "A very wise suggestion, Castillar."

"It would please me very much," said Iselle in a soft voice. "I pray you, Uncle, have it seen to."

A breathless page burst into the chamber, to skid to a stop before dy Baocia and blurt, "Your lady says Royse Bergon's party ‘proaches at the gate, and you are to ‘tend on her at once to welcome him."

"I'm on my way." The provincar took a breath and smiled at his niece. "And so we bring your lover to you. Remember now, you must demand all the kisses of submission, brow, hands, and feet. Chalion must be seen to rule Ibra. Guard the pride and honor of your House. We must not let him put himself above you, or he will quickly become overweening. You must start as you mean to go on."

Iselle's eyes narrowed. Around her, the shadow darkened, seeming to tighten its grip.

Cazaril sat up, and shot her a look of alarm and a tiny headshake. "Royse Bergon has pride also, no less honorable than your own, Royesse. And he will stand before his own lords here, too."

She hesitated; then her lips firmed. "I shall start as I mean to go on." Her voice was suddenly not soft at all, but steel-edged. She gestured at the contract. "The substance of our equality is there, Uncle. My pride demands no greater show. We shall exchange the kisses of welcome, each to each, upon our hands alone." The darkness uncurled a little; Cazaril felt an odd shiver, as though some predatory shadow had passed over his head and flown on, thwarted.

"An admirable discretion," Cazaril endorsed this in relief.

The page, dancing from foot to foot, held open the door for the provincar, who swept out in haste.

"Lord Cazaril, how was your journey?" Betriz taxed him in this interlude. "You look so... tired."

"A weary lot of riding, but it all went well enough." He shifted in his seat and smiled up at her.

Her dark brows arched. "I think we must have Ferda and Foix in, to tell us more. Surely it was not so plain and dull as that."

"Well, we had a little trouble with brigands in the mountains. Dy Jironal's doing, I'm fairly sure. Bergon acquitted himself very well. The Fox... went easier than I expected, for a reason I didn't." He leaned forward, and lowered his voice to them both. "You remember my benchmate on the galleys I told of, Danni, the boy of good family?"

Betriz nodded, and Iselle said, "I am not likely to forget."

"I didn't guess how good a family. Danni was an alias Bergon gave, to keep himself secret from his captors. It seems his kidnapping was a ploy of Ibra's late Heir. Bergon recognized me when I stood before the Ibran court—he had changed and grown almost out of reckoning."

Iselle's lips parted in astonishment. After a moment she breathed, "Surely the goddess gave you to me."

"Yes," he admitted reluctantly. "I've come to that conclusion myself."

Her eyes turned toward the double doors on the opposite side of the chamber. Her hands twisted in her lap in a sudden flush of nerves. "How shall I recognize him? Is he—is he well-favored?"

"I don't know how ladies judge such things—"

The doors swung wide. A great mob of persons surged through: pages, hangers-on, dy Baocia and his wife, Bergon and dy Sould and dy Tagille, and Palli bringing up the rear. The Ibrans had been treated to baths as well, and wore the best clothes they'd managed to pack in their meager bags, supplemented, Cazaril was fairly sure, with some judicious emergency borrowings. Bergon's eyes flicked in a smiling panic from Betriz to Iselle, and settled on Iselle. Iselle gazed from face to face among the three strange Ibrans in a momentary terror.