He grinned. "Ah, well, I know where to find you!"

Lucius watched him go, cool and speculative. "Prince Barbarus has more tact than I reckoned," he observed.

"Yes," I said. "He does."

Inside, it was dim and pleasant, sheltered from the sweltering heat outside. I bought a jug of watered wine and we sat at a wooden table.

Lucius drank a cup straight off, then refilled it and met my gaze like a man girding himself for battle.

"I expect you're wondering why I looked wraith-ridden up there," he said.

"I thought you could use a drink," I said. "The rest is your choice."

"I'm afraid of ghosts." He smiled with bitter self-loathing. "I always have been. Terrified. Lemures, larvae. The angry dead. I swear, betimes I can feel their presence, even though there's naught to be seen. Stupid, isn't it?"

I shook my head and took a drink. "No."

Lucius' eyes narrowed. "I don't want your pity, D'Angeline."

"It's not pity," I said. "You're clever, Lucius. Even Eamonn says so, and he's a lot smarter than you credit him. If you're afraid, there's a reason."

He looked away. "My great-grandfather."

"Was he a cruel man?" I asked softly.

"By all repute." Lucius shrugged. "I never knew him. But he was a condottiere, one of the great ones."

"A mercenary warlord," I said.

He nodded, tracing a pattern in the condensation on the winejug with one fingertip. "We're an old Tiberian family. Hard times, you know. Gallus Tadius had a genius for warfare. He began as a sword-for-hire and ended up with his own company." Without looking at me, he smiled his twisted smile. "The Red Scourge, he called it, owing to the amount of blood they spilled. Half the city-states of Caerdicca Unitas hired him at one time or another."

I frowned. "I thought you were the heir to the Prince of Lucca."

Lucius' head jerked up. "Who told you that?"

"Eamonn," I said. "He said there was… some difficulty with your family."

"Let me guess," he said. "Buggery?" I didn't answer. "Ah, Prince Barbarus! The things that fascinate you." He ran a hand through his satyr's curls. "Yes and no, Montrève. There is difficulty, though it owes naught to buggery. And my great-grandfather, Gallus Tadius, did become the Prince of Lucca. But he was not well-loved."

I listened to the family history of Lucius Tadius da Lucca, whose great-grandfather's company, the Red Scourge, had seized the city of Lucca when its prince reneged on a contract. He married the prince's daughter and ruled with an iron fist until he died of an apoplectic fit. A generation later, his son was overthrown and the ruling Correggio family restored. The Tadeii remained, living in their shadow, vying for power with their considerable wealth.

"But"—Lucius raised one finger—"Gaetano Correggio has no heir, only a daughter."

"No heir?" I shook myself, remembering I was not in Terre d'Ange. "Ah. She's eligible to wed, then. And her husband becomes the heir to Lucca."

"You're quick, Montrève." Lucius pointed at me. "I'll grant you that." His voice softened. "She's a nice girl," he said. "Helena. That's her name. Helena, Helena Correggio da Lucca. She has a sweet nature."

I thought about Dorelei mab Breidaia. "And you're afraid to hurt her."

He looked quizzically at me. "Why would I do that?" he asked. "We've been friends since we were children. No, if I pressed for her hand, she'd accept, and there's a good chance her father would consent to it. The Tadeii have grown settled and respectable since old Gallus' day, and uniting our families would strengthen the city. But the truth of the matter is, she loves another, with all that deep, abiding passion you D'Angelines are so fond of."

"So it's gallantry, then," I said.

"Of a sort," he said wryly. "My father fails to appreciate it, and Helena herself is not exactly grateful."

I blinked in confusion. "Why?"

Lucius drained his cup. "Because the object of her desire is a charming, handsome scion of a very impoverished family, and there's not a chance under the sun that her father would ever consent to the union. And Helena's other foremost suitor is… distasteful to her." He set down his cup. "Why am I telling you this?"

"I'm interested," I said. "And you're haunted."

He shuddered. "Back to that, are we? Yes, Montrève. I am haunted. I am haunted by the ambitions of my father, who yearns to see a portion of his grandfather's legacy restored. One would think it would suffice that my sister wedded a Tiberian senator; and yet it does not. I am haunted by Helena's fears and my own cowardice. And I am haunted by my thrice-cursed great-grandfather."

"Gallus Tadius," I said.

"Yes." He eyed me. "His waxen death-mask sits in our lararium, scowling and fearsome. So it has since I was born. He feels cheated and angry. His spirit lingers. I know it. I have always known it. I feel his presence on my skin. As far as I have fled, it is not far enough. I am wraith-ridden and plagued by the dead." He spread his arms. "So, mock me!"

"Not I," I said. "I didn't care for the place much more than you did. But Lucius, if you care for the girl, why not marry her?"

"Would you?" he asked bluntly. I opened my mouth, then closed it. "Ah, hells! What could you know of it, Montrève? You're D'Angeline. Your folk would let the girl wed a goat if that was her desire, wouldn't they?"

"It's not that simple," I said. "There's pressure in the Great Houses to make a good marriage, and it's not always a love-match." I grinned. "But we'd let her take the goat as a lover."

Lucius looked fascinated and appalled. "Truly?"

"No." I laughed at his expression. "Blessed Elua's precept has its limits."

"What if she truly loved the goat?" He smiled a little, then shook his head. "You're right, I know. I'm being stubborn. There's no reason for it, except it galls me. I can't abide the thought of being forced into doing my father's will. And too," he added, "I don't relish the idea of being made a cuckold. You D'Angelines may think nothing of it, but in Caerdicca Unitas it brings shame on a man. Any man."

"Do you think she would?" I asked.

He raised his brows, "I would! And women are weak when it comes to desire. They have no defense against it."

I refilled our cups. "You don't know a good deal about women, do you?"

"No," he said without apology. "But I know Helena, and I've seen the way she and Bartolomeo look at one another. She's a dear child, but she's too soft-hearted to be trusted. So what am I to do? Banish him?" He sipped his wine. "Old Gallus Tadius would have solved the problem by giving Helena a good beating and keeping her locked away. And betimes I hear his voice in my head, telling me I'm a craven coward for being unwilling to do the same. And that's nothing to his comments on the topic of buggery." Lucius gazed at nothing. "He roars," he said absently. "He's always roaring. Sometimes I think it will drive me mad." He shuddered. "I hate the dead."

"Have you spoken to a priest?" I asked.

"Oh, yes." His smile twisted. "My father performs the rites of exorcism every year during the Lemuralia, but I suspect Gallus Tadius' ghost is too stubborn to be driven away by a few black beans and banging cook-pots." He glanced at my puzzled face and shrugged. "It's an old ritual. The last time I spoke to a priest, he told me to obey my father and be done with it."

We sat in silence for a moment.

"Well!" Lucius said brightly. "Now I expect you must think I'm thoroughly mad."

"No," I said. "I don't. Haunted, but not mad."

"That's why I study with Master Piero," he said. "It helps. The more he prods me to think, the easier it is to keep the ghosts at bay. If I can keep my mind busy, I'm usually fine. Today was bad, though. You have no idea," he mused, "what it's like to live in fear."

"Oh, I might surprise you," I murmured. Lucius shot me a quick look, and I remembered that he was no fool. "Listen," I said, changing the topic. "How bad is this distasteful suitor of Helena's? Because that's the essence of the matter, isn't it? Which is worse? To wed her and take the risk of being made a cuckold? Or to condemn her to a life she abhors?"

"I hadn't thought of it thusly." He frowned. "He's a boor; a rather powerful boor. But their marriage would forge an alliance between Lucca and Valpetra. The problem is that it's more likely to benefit Valpetra." Lucius sighed. "Oh, enough! Would that I were an impoverished D'Angeline gentleman scholar, with nothing more to worry about than whether or not I could afford a second jug of wine." He lifted his cup to me. "You have no idea, Montrève, how fortunate you are."

"You're right about that," I agreed.

We talked of other matters, then. Before long, Eamonn and Gilot arrived, reporting on a successful mission. Gilot had ceded to my wishes, albeit reluctantly, and we would be lodged in a nearby insula like any other impoverished scholars. Eamonn had recommended a livery stable to board the horses, which would be cheaper than the stable at the inn.

Lucius Tadius excused himself shortly after their arrival.

"My thanks," he said to me. "I'll see you anon."

I nodded. "Tomorrow."

"So what was all that about ghosts?" Eamonn asked after Lucius had departed.

"It's a long story," I said. "I'll tell you later. Eamonn, I meant to ask the other day. Did you ever discover where Anafiel Delaunay learned the arts of covertcy?"

"Dagda Mor!" He smacked his forehead. "No, I forgot." He looked so remorseful I laughed. "And after all her ladyship did for me, too."

"Never mind," I said fondly. "She'll forgive you."

We shared a second jug of wine, one that I could easily afford, though I felt a measure of guilt at deceiving Lucius. Still, I was glad I'd talked with him. He'd been open and honest with me, and it was the first time since I was ten years old that I'd had a chance to extend a hand in friendship without being burdened by my complicated heritage. It felt good.

Afterward, with Eamonn's help, Gilot and I moved our baggage from the inn to the insula. The worst of the day's heat had passed and the streets were crowded with pedestrians. Eamonn led, forging a path, a heavy satchel on one shoulder. A good many people hailed him by name. I envied him his easy familiarity. He had been in the city long enough to make friends, to acquire a nickname that appeared more affectionate than not. Whereas I seemed to have managed to befriend the one soul in Tiberium perhaps more troubled than me.

Halfway down the block, I sniffed the air. "Are we near a temple?"

"Didn't I tell you?" Gilot, toting a pair of saddlebags, grinned at me. "The insula is behind an incense-maker's shop."

And so it was, filling the air with a wealth of aroma; frankincense and spikenard, cinnamon and sandalwood. I peered into the shop while Gilot fiddled with the gate on the passageway beside it. The incense-maker was there, grinding away with mortar and pestle. It reminded me of the first time I had seen Alais, grinding oak-galls for ink in the study of Thelesis de Mornay, and I felt a pang of longing for home.

We navigated the narrow passage, bumping against the walls of fired clay bricks. It opened onto a courtyard containing a well which everyone in the insula shared. The apartments rose in sturdy tiers above it, three stories high. A handful of women were waiting in line at the well, chatting amiably. A few of them waved, eyeing us with interest. Children ran about unheeded, and there was drying laundry strung on every balcony.

"Here we are." Gilot opened a wooden door without a lock.

The room behind the incense-maker's shop was just that; a room. It held a pair of straw pallets, a chamberpot, an empty brazier, a bath-stand, and a rickety table with two chairs.

"Where do we… ?" I nodded at the chamberpot.

"There's a sluice in the courtyard. It's connected to the sewers." Setting down the bags he carried, Gilot folded his arms. "My job, is it, your highness?"

"Don't call me that," I said automatically. "And no, I'll help."

"You can pay a woman to empty the chamberpot for you," Eamonn offered in a helpful tone. "And tidy, and launder your clothes, too. That's what I do."

Gilot merely looked at me. "This is what you wanted, Imri."

I drew a deep breath, redolent of incense. It seemed to seep through the very walls. Blue twilight was settling over the courtyard beyond the open door. It came early here in the students' quarter with its tall buildings, blocking out the rays of the setting sun. I could hear women's voices, the high-pitched calls of children. Here in Tiberium, I was anonymous. No one wanted me dead. No one was gauging me for signs of treason. No one wanted me to wed a stranger and father a kingdom's heir. I could live like a pauper behind a door with no lock.

I was just another impoverished gentleman scholar, one who could lend a sympathetic ear to a haunted friend.

It wouldn't last. Nothing good ever did without changing.

But while it did, I would revel in it.

"Yes." I smiled at Gilot. "It's perfect."