But there was nothing funny about a meeting of the high council, Lain told himself. The person who presented the case for rigorous brakka conservation would need to do it with eloquence and force, marshalling complex arguments and backing them up with an unassailable command of the statistics involved. His stance would be generally unpopular, and would attract special hostility from the ambitious Prince Chakkell and the savage Leddravohr.

If Glo proved unable to master the brief in time for the meeting it was possible he would call on a deputy to speak on his behalf, and the thought of having to challenge Chakkell or Leddravohr — even verbally — produced in Lain a cold panic which threatened to affect his bladder. The wine in his glass was now reflecting a pattern of trembling concentric circles.

Lain set the glass down and began breathing deeply and steadily, waiting for the shaking of his hands to cease.

Toller Maraquine awoke with the knowledge, which was both disturbing and comforting, that he was not alone in bed.

He could feel the body heat of the woman who was lying at his left side, one of her arms resting on his stomach, one of her legs drawn up across his thighs. The sensations were all the more pleasant for being unfamiliar. He lay quite still, staring at the ceiling, as he tried to recall the exact circumstances which had brought female company to his austere apartment in the Square House.

He had celebrated his return to the capital with a round of the busy taverns in the Samlue district. The tour had begun early on the previous day and had been intended to last only until the end of littlenight, but the ale and wine had been persuasive and the acquaintances he met had eventually begun to seem like cherished friends. He had continued drinking right through aftday and well into the night, revelling in his escape from the smell of the pikon pans, and at a late stage had begun to notice the same woman close to him in the throng time after time, much more often than could be accounted for by chance.

She had been tawny-haired and tall, full-breasted, broad of shoulder and hip — the sort of woman Toller had dreamed about during his exile in Haffanger. She had also been brazenly chewing a sprig of maidenfriend. He had a clear memory of her face, which was round and open and uncomplicated, with wine-heightened colouring on the cheeks. Her smile had been very white and marred only by a tiny triangular chip missing from one front incisor. Toller had found her easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, and in the end it had seemed the most natural thing in the world for them to spend the night together.…

“I’m hungry,” she said abruptly, raising herself into a sitting position beside him. “I want some breakfast.”

Toller ran an appreciative eye over her splendidly naked torso and smiled. “Supposing I want something else first?”

She looked disappointed, but only for an instant, then returned his smile as she moved to bring her breasts into contact with his chest. “If you’re not careful I’ll ride you to death.”

“Please try it,” Toller said, his smile developing into a gratified chuckle. He drew her down to him. A pleasurable warmth suffused his mind and body as they kissed, but within a moment he became aware of something being wrong, of a niggling sense of unease. He opened his eyes and immediately identified one source of his worry — the brightness of his bedchamber indicated that it was well past dawn. This was the morning of day two-hundred, and he had promised his brother that he would be up at first light to help move some charts and a display easel to the Great Palace. It was a menial task which anybody could have done, but Lain had seemed anxious for him to undertake it, possibly so that he would not be left alone in the house with Gesalla while the lengthy council meeting was in progress.

Gesalla!

Toller almost groaned aloud as he remembered that he had not even seen Gesalla on the previous day. He had arrived from Haffanger early in the morning and after a brief interview with his brother — during which Lain had been preoccupied with his charts — had gone straight out on the drinking spree. Gesalla, as Lain’s solewife, was mistress of the household and as such would have expected Toller to pay his respects at the formal evening meal. Another woman might have overlooked his behavioural lapse, but the fastidious and unbending Gesalla was bound to have been furious. On the flight back to Ro-Atabri Toller had vowed that, to avoid causing any tensions in his brother’s house, he would studiously keep on the right side of Gesalla — and he had led off by affronting her on the very first day. The flickering of a moist tongue against his own suddenly reminded Toller that his transgressions against domestic protocol had been greater than Gesalla knew.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said, twisting free of the embrace, “but you have to go home now.”

The woman’s jaw sagged. “What?”

“Come on — hurry it up.” Toller stood up, swept her clothes into a wispy bundle and pushed them into her arms. He opened a wardrobe and began selecting fresh clothes for himself,

“But what about my breakfast?”

“There’s no time — I have to get you out of here.”

“That’s just great,” she said bitterly, beginning to sort through the binders and scraps of near-transparent fabric which were her sole attire.

“I told you I was sorry,” Toller said as he struggled into breeches which seemed determined to resist entry.

“A lot of good that.…” She paused in the act of gathering her breasts into a flimsy sling and scrutinised the room from ceiling to floor. “Are you sure you live here?”

Toller was amused in spite of his agitation. “Do you think I would just pick a house at random and sneak in to use a bed?”

“I thought it was a bit strange last night…getting a coach all the way out here… keeping so quiet…This is Greenmount, isn’t it?” Her frankly suspicious stare travelled his heavily muscled arms and shoulders. He guessed the direction in which her thoughts were going, but there was no hint of censure in her expression and he took no offence.

“It’s a nice morning for a walk,” he said, raising her to an upright position and hastening her — clothing still partially unfastened — towards the room’s single exit. He opened the door at the precise instant needed to bring him into confrontation with Gesalla Maraquine, who had been passing by in the corridor. Gesalla was pale and ill-looking, thinner than when he had last seen her, but her grey-eyed gaze had lost none of its force — and it was obvious she was angry.

“Good foreday,” she said, icily correct. “I was told you had returned.”

“I apologise for last night,” Toller said. “I… I got detained.”

“Obviously.” Gesalla glanced at his companion with open distaste. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to introduce your… friend?”

Toller swore inwardly as it came to him that there was no longer the slightest hope of salvaging anything from the situation. Even allowing for the fact that he had been adrift on a vinous sea when he met his bed partner, how could he have overlooked such a basic propriety as asking her name? Gesalla was the last person in the world to whom he couid have explained the mood of the previous evening, and that being the case there was no point in trying to placate her. I’m sorry about this, dear brother, he thought. I didn’t plan it this way.…

“The frosty female is my sister-in-law, Gesalla Maraquine,” he said, putting an arm around his companion’s shoulders as he kissed her on the forehead. “She would like to know your name, and — considering the sport we had during the night — so would I.”

“Fera,” the woman said, making final adjustments to her garments. “Fera Rivoo.”