"You mustn't ask me that," she sobbed, clinging to him. "Never, never, never! Rhaish is my life. If only I could make him well."

Amali could not see the despair that filled Nyal's eyes at her words, but Alec could. Ashamed of his eavesdropping, he waited until the pair had gone, then set off for home.

Seregil and the others had left for the Iia'sidra by the time Alec arrived. He checked at their room, in case Seregil had left any last-minute instructions, but found nothing. On his way down to the kitchen for breakfast, however, he found himself pausing outside Torsin's door, his heart beating just a little too fast. It seemed to be his day for opportunities; the door was ajar again.

The envoy's strange behavior the previous night was too much to ignore, given Seregil's concerns about the man's loyalties. And this—the open door was just too tempting to pass unexplored.

With a last guilty glance around and a quick prayer to Illior, he slipped inside and closed the door.

Torsin's room was a large one, with an alcove at the far side. A desk stood beneath a window there, dispatch box, writing materials, and a few sealed parchments arranged neatly on its polished top. The room was furnished with the usual accoutrements: gauze-hung bed, a washstand, clothes chests, all made in the simple Aurenfaie style— pale woods and clean, sweeping lines accented with darker inlay.

Feeling guiltier by the moment, he worked quickly, examining the desk and its contents, the clothes chests, and the walls behind the hangings, but found nothing of note. Everything was meticulous, orderly.

Picking up a daybook from a stand by the bed, he found a terse but detailed record of each day's developments written in Torsin's precise script. The first entry was dated three months earlier. As he moved to put it back it fell open to more recent entries, one dating a week or so before Klia's arrival in Gedre. The handwriting was still recognizable, but the letters were not as clearly formed, and words occasionally strayed from the careful lines or were marred by blots and smudges.

That's his illness doing that. Alec paged back through the book, trying to gauge how long Torsin had been failing, but was interrupted by the sound of brisk footsteps from the corridor.

Aurenfaie beds were low-slung affairs, yet he managed to wedge himself out of sight under it without too much trouble. It wasn't until he was hidden that he realized he was still clutching the book.

The latch lifted and he held his breath, watching from beneath the edge of the coverlet as the door swung open and a pair of boot-clad feet—a woman's, by the size—strode across the room to the desk. It was Mercalle; he recognized her limp. He heard the small squeak of the dispatch box's lid and the unmistakable rustle of parchments.

Turning his head, he looked out under the other side of the bed and could see the bottom of a dispatch pouch hanging against her thigh.

Seems I'm the only spy here, after all, he thought, letting out a pent-up breath when she'd gone out. She'd simply come to collect the day's dispatches.

He remained where he was a moment, and opened the daybook again. The first sign of weakness in Torsin's handwriting appeared several weeks before Klia's arrival. Pondering this, he turned to the latest entry, a summary of the previous day's debate.

U.S. remains subtle, letting the L. raise opposition —

Alec allowed himself a wry smirk. What had he expected? "Met with the Viresse. Plotted against the princess"?

His current position afforded him a different perspective on the room. From here, he could see the careful polish on the row of shoes lined up next to a clothes chest, and the crisply folded pleats in the hem of a robe hanging on the wall.

One glance into a person's private rooms will tell you more about him than an hour's conversation, Seregil had once told him. Alec had found the statement amusing at the time, considering the source; any space Seregil inhabited was soon in complete disarray. Torsin's room, on the other hand, shouted order. Everything was in its place, with nothing extraneous in evidence.

As he slid out from under the bed he noticed a flash of red in the ashes on the hearth, just beneath the metal bars of the grate. If he'd been standing, he'd have missed it.

Crawling over, he saw it was the half-charred remains of a small silk tassel, dark red with a few blue threads mixed in. He doubted Torsin owned a garment with such embellishments, but they were common enough on Aurenfaie clothing, edging cloaks and tunics.

And sen'gai.

He gingerly plucked it out, heart racing again. It was the right size and colors to have come from the edge of a Viresse head cloth. Someone had meant to destroy it, but it had fallen through the grate before the fire had completely consumed it.

No chance of it being missed, then, he reasoned, tucking it into the wallet at his belt.

He spent the rest of the morning loitering about the edges of Khatme tupa in hopes of striking up a profitable conversation.

Skilled as he usually was at such ploys, he had no luck here. Unwelcoming stares and whispers of "garshil" warned him off whenever he ventured too deeply into the area.

Perhaps I used up all my luck this morning, he thought, frustrated.

The few outlying streets he did manage to explore had none of the usual gathering spots. Unfriendly tattooed faces peered at him from windows and balconies, then disappeared from view. No one, it seemed, had time to drink or game here. Or perhaps, insular as they were, their taverns were located deeper in the tupa, far from prying impure eyes.

As midday approached he gave up and started for home. It took only a few turnings, however, to realize that he had once again gotten himself lost.

"Illior's Fingers!" he muttered, scowling as he scanned the anonymous walls and doorways.

"Blaspheming won't get you free, half-breed. You must use the Lightbearer's true name here."

A Khatme woman stepped into view a few yards away, her tattooed face impassive beneath her bulging red-and-black sen'gai. She wore none of the usual heavy jewelry Alec associated with the clan, but her tunic was stitched with rows of silver, pomegranate-shaped beads.

"I meant no disrespect," Alec replied. "And you can spare yourself the effort of magic; I get lost on my own without any help."

"I've been watching you all morning, half-breed. What is it you want here?"

"I was just curious."

"You're lying, half-breed."

Do the Khatme read thoughts after all, or do I just look as guilty as I feel? Putting on the bravest face he could, he replied. "My apologies, Khatme. It's a practice we Tir have when what we are doing is none of another person's business."

"There's an etiquette to duplicity, then? How interesting."

Alec thought he saw a hint of a smile shift the black tracery covering one cheek. "You say you've been watching me, yet I haven't seen you," he countered. "Were you spying on me?"

"Were you spying on Lord Torsin when he came here at our khirnari's request last night, half-breed?"

There was no use dissembling. "That doesn't concern you. And my name is Alec i Amasa, not half-breed."

"I know. Retrace your steps." Before he could respond, she was gone, disappearing like smoke on the air.

"Retrace my steps?" Alec grumbled. "What else have I been doing?"

This time, however, it worked and he found himself back in familiar territory, near the Iia'sidra chamber. Having nothing better to do, he went in and settled in an inconspicuous corner, watching faces. He watched Torsin's most closely of all.

He managed to catch Seregil's attention when the council adjourned for the midday meal. Motioning him outside, Alec walked him quickly into an empty side street.