“Just hold still,” she told Flick, her sharp voice gentle for once. “I try not to kill anyone who’s already sick if I can help it.”

Alleypup tugged on Briar’s sleeve and pointed to the crystal lamp. “How’d you do that? Make it light up?” His eyes were hungry as they rested on the light.

“My mate Tris done it,” said Briar, watching Rosethorn in case she needed anything. “She put lightning in a crystal ball.”

“Briar, I need my glass,” Rosethorn ordered. “And I want quiet, understood?”

“Yes, Lady,” replied Alleypup.

Briar grinned—Rosethorn was always convincing—and took a velvet pouch from the workbag. Carefully he slid out its contents: a round lens four inches across, its edges bound in a metal band, fixed to a metal handle. He passed it to his teacher.

Rosethorn examined Flick, talking softly to her the entire time. At last the dedicate sat back, frowning. “When did you get sick, and how did this illness develop?”

Flick answered weakly. At last Rosethorn stood, holding the lens out for Briar to take. As he did, he saw that drops of sweat had formed like pearls on Rosethorn’s pale skin. For all that she acted calm, she was upset, as upset as she’d ever been when facing pirates or forest fires.

For a moment she was silent. Finally she straightened her shoulders and back. “This will take arranging, I think. Briar, I need you to link me to Niko—I assume he’s at the duke’s with the girls. Getting Flick to Urda’s House will be tricky.”

When Flick opened her mouth to protest, Rosethorn glared at her, fisted hands on hips. “Something for you?” she asked ominously.

Flick shook her head and sank back on her rags. Briar grinned: he’d known Flick was smart.

“Has anyone else been here since you first got sick?” asked Rosethorn.

“Just me, and I been out and about,” said Alleypup. “Nickin’ food and the like.”

“We’ll need to make a list of everyone you saw, then,” Rosethorn murmured, thinking aloud. “Briar? Have the girls link us with Niko, please.”

Briar closed his eyes as Rosethorn wrapped her hands around his. Unlike talking to Rosethorn at Urda’s House, speaking to any of the girls was easy. He only had to look for them in his own mind.

2

Vedris IV, ruling Duke of Emelan, put down his empty teacup and smiled at his favorite great-niece. Lady Sandrilene fa Toren smiled back, glad that her visit had pleased him. The duke had passed a long, hard winter trying to repair the damage of last summer’s earthquake, pirate attacks in the south, and a three-year drought in the north. Spring, with its promise of trade and new crops, was nearly come at last, and he could afford to relax with Sandry and her friends.

He didn’t look worn down in the least, Sandry noticed. His brown eyes bore dark circles from too little sleep and the lines in his fleshy face were deeper, but his chin and jaw were still hard, his arched nose still proud. He dressed simply, but that was normal: her uncle was no fashion peacock. Vedris IV had no need to impress others with costly jewels and clothes. Instead he wore power and majesty like a cloak.

Sandry had changed from her riding clothes as soon as their group had reached Duke’s Citadel. Now she was elegant, but only because she knew her uncle liked to see her dressed suitably for her rank now and then. Her gray, sleeveless overgown was beautifully woven and trimmed with black silk braid; her white silk undergown had silver embroidery on the flowing sleeves. Her brown hair, sun-streaked most of the year, was neatly combed, braided, and pinned under a gray silk veil. The quiet elegance of her appearance was countered by her vivid blue eyes and by the firm set of her round chin.

“More tea, Uncle?” she asked, reaching for the pot. “Niko? Tris?”

The steel-haired man on the balcony that opened onto the study shook his head, as did the chubby redhead seated atop the ladder that touched the highest of the room’s bookshelves. The duke sighed and put down his cup. “I should see what Niko wants,” he remarked, his elegant voice just loud enough to reach Sandry’s ears. “I know it’s trouble just from looking at him, and I had hoped for just one week with no bad news.”

Sandry looked again at Niklaren Goldeye, the mage who had brought her, Briar, Tris, and their absent housemate, Daja, together. He was gazing at the city below. Niko’s heavy black eyebrows were knit together over a craggy nose; the tight set of his lined face showed he was deeply worried. He had been like that for days. After over a year’s friendship with him, Sandry knew the signs: he had read the future and seen dangerous events.

“I wish you could have gone without bad news, too, Uncle,” she admitted.

The duke got to his feet. “Let’s see from what direction this gale blows,” he remarked, and went out onto the balcony.

Sandry looked up at Trisana Chandler. The redhead had found a book to interest her. Rather than climb down the ladder, she perched on it, her bespectacled nose close to the volume’s open pages.

Someone—the duke or Niko—closed the balcony door. Sandry put down her teacup and went over to the ladder. “Tris,” she whispered. “Tris!”

Her friend closed the book, using her finger as a bookmark, and peered at her, gray eyes vexed behind her spectacles. “There’s no sense in asking me what’s wrong. He didn’t say, and I can’t even guess. I can’t see the future,” Niko’s student pointed out, her voice tart but quiet. “I was reading.”