Nevertheless, since Ronica had moved into Davad’s old bedroom, the woman had not let Serilla have even one day of peace. She was like a humming gnat in her ear. Just when Serilla should be concentrating all her efforts on consolidating her power, Ronica distracted her at every turn. What was she doing about clearing the sunken ships from the harbor? Was there any word of aid from Jamaillia? Had she sent a bird to Chalced, to protest these acts of war? Had she tried to gain the support of the Three Ships folks to patrol the streets at night? Perhaps if the former slaves were offered paying work, they would prefer it to roaming as looting gangs. Why had Serilla not urged the Bingtown Council to convene and take charge of the city again? Every day, Ronica pushed at her with questions like these. In addition, at every opportunity, she reminded Serilla that she was an outsider. When Serilla ignored her other demands, Ronica went back with monotonous tenacity to insisting that Davad was not a traitor, and that Serilla had no right to his property. The woman did not seem to respect her at all, let alone afford her the courtesy due a Satrap’s Companion.

It rankled even more because Serilla was not sure enough of her position to bring her authority to bear on the Trader. Too often she had given in to the woman’s nagging; first, to have Davad buried, and again to surrender some orchard to the traitor’s niece. She would not give in to her again. It only encouraged her.

Roed had reported to her how the woman spent her mornings. Despite the dangers of the street, Ronica Vestrit and her maid ventured out each day, to go on foot from door to door, rallying the Traders to convene. Roed had reported that she was often turned away or treated brusquely by those she called upon, but the woman was insistent. Like rain on a stone, Serilla thought, she wore down the hardest heart. Tonight she would gain her largest triumph. The Council would convene.

If the Traders listened to Ronica tonight and decided that Davad had never been at fault, it would seriously undermine Serilla’s authority. If the Council decided his niece should inherit his estate, Serilla would have to move out of Restart Hall and be forced to ask hospitality of another Trader. She would lose her privacy and her independence. She could not allow that to happen.

Serilla had gently but firmly opposed the Council’s convening, telling them all it was too early, that it was not safe for the Traders to gather in one place where they could be attacked; but they were no longer listening to her.

Time was all Serilla had needed; time to make her alliances stronger, time to know who could be persuaded with flattery and who needed offers of titles and land. Time might bring her another bird with tidings from Jamaillia. One Trader had brought her a bird-message from his trading partner in Jamaillia. Rumors of the Satrap’s death had reached the city, and riots were imminent. Could the Satrap send a missive in his own hand to defuse this dangerous gossip?

She had sent back a bird with a message of reassurance that the rumor was false, and a query as to who had received the message about the Satrap’s death, and from whom. She doubted she would get a reply. What else could she do? If only she had another day, another week. A bit more time, and she was sure she could master the Council. Then, with her superior education and experience of politics and knowledge of diplomacy, she could guide them to peace. She could make them see what compromises they must accept. She could unite all the folk of Bingtown and from that base, treat with the Chalcedeans. That would establish for all her authority in Bingtown. Time was all she needed, and Ronica was stealing it from her.

Ronica Vestrit swept into the room. She carried a ledger under her arm. “Good morning,” she greeted Serilla briskly. As the servant left the room, Ronica glanced after her. “Would not it be far simpler for me to announce myself, rather than have me find the servant to knock at the door and say my name?”

“Simpler, but not proper,” Serilla pointed out coldly.

“You’re in Bingtown now,” Ronica replied evenly. “Here we do not believe in wasting time simply for the purpose of impressing others.” She spoke as if she were instructing a recalcitrant daughter in manners. Without asking leave, she went to the study table and opened the ledger she had brought. “I believe I’ve found something here that may interest you.”

Serilla walked over to stand by the fire. “That I doubt,” she muttered sourly. Ronica had been far too assiduous in tracking down evidence. Her constant ploys to mislead Serilla were vexatious, and making her own deception wear thin.

“Do you weary so quickly of playing Satrap?” Ronica asked her coldly. “Or is this, perhaps, the way you believe a ruler is to behave?”