SERILLA FELT PATHETICALLY GRATEFUL FOR THE INTERRUPTION OF THE MAID with the coffee and rolls. Roed glared at the interruption, but he also fell silent. Only in the silence did she feel she could truly think her own thoughts.

When Roed was in the room, when he stood so tall and spoke so strongly, she found herself nodding at him. Only later would she be able to recall what he had been saying, and feel ashamed that she had agreed.

He frightened her. When he had revealed that he knew she secretly hoped to seize the Satrap’s power, she had nearly fainted. When he had calmly assumed he could take her to wife, and sidestepped her affront with amusement, she had felt suffocated. Even now, her hands were damp with perspiration and trembling in her lap. Her heart had been shaking her body since her maid had wakened her and told her that Roed was below, demanding to see her immediately. She had flung on her clothing, snapping at the woman when she tried to help her. There had been no time to dress her hair properly. She had brushed it out roughly, twisted it up tightly and pinned it to her head. She felt as untidy as a lax housemaid.

Yet a tiny spark of pride burned inside her. She had stood up to him. If the shadow she had glimpsed at the door’s crack had been Ronica, she had warned her. She had suspected someone was outside the door, just at the moment when he made his outrageous marriage proposal. Somehow, the thought that Ronica might be overhearing his brash offer had given Serilla the composure to rebuff him. It had stirred shame in her, that the Bingtown Trader woman might overhear Roed speaking so to her. The shame had metamorphosed into artificial courage. She had defied Roed by warning Ronica. And he didn’t even know it.

She sat rigidly stiff at Davad’s desk as the servant set out a breakfast of coffee and fresh sweet rolls from the kitchen. Any other morning, the fragrant coffee and the rich aroma of the warm rolls would have been appetizing. With Roed standing there, simmering with impatience, the smell of the food left her queasy. Would he guess what she had done? Worse, would she regret it later? In the days she had known Ronica Vestrit, she had begun to respect her. Even if the Trader woman was a traitor to Jamaillia, Serilla wanted no part of her capture and torture. The memory of her own experiences assaulted her. Just as casually as Roed had spoken of “persuading” Ronica, so had the Satrap turned her over to the Chalcedean captain.

As soon as the serving woman left Roed strode over to the food and began to help himself. “We can’t waste time, Companion. We must be prepared before the Satrap arrives with the Chalcedeans on his leash.”

It was more likely to be the other way, she thought, but was unable to voice the words. Why, oh why, had her moment of courage fled? She could not even think logically when he was in the room. She didn’t believe what he said; she knew she was more politically experienced than he, and more capable of analyzing the situation, but somehow she could not act on that thought. While he was in the room, she felt trapped in his world, his thoughts. His reality.

He was frowning at her. She had not been paying attention. He had said something and she had not responded. What had he said? Her mind scrabbled frantically backward but could find nothing. She could only stare at him in mounting dismay.

“Well, if you don’t want coffee, shall I summon the servant for tea?”

She found her tongue. “No, please don’t trouble yourself. Coffee is fine, really.”

Before she could move, he was pouring for her. She watched as he stirred honey and cream into it, far too much for her taste, but she said nothing. He put a sweet bun on a plate as well and brought them to her. As he set them before her, he asked bluntly, “Companion, are you well? You look pale.”

The muscles stood out in his tanned forearms. The knuckles of his hand rose in hard ridges. She lifted her cup hastily and sipped from it. When she set it down, she tried to speak with a steady voice. Her reply was stiff. “I am fine. Please. Continue.”

“Mingsley’s overtures of peace are a farce, a distraction to keep us busy while they muster their forces. They know of the Satrap’s escape, and probably in more detail than we do. Also, I am certain the Vestrits have been involved in this from the beginning. Consider how that old woman tried to discredit us at the Traders’ Council meeting! It was to shift attention away from her own treachery.”

“Mingsley-” Serilla began.

“Is not to be trusted. Rather, we shall use him. Let us allow him to make overtures of truce. Let us appear even eager to meet him. Then, when we have drawn him out far enough, let us chop him off.” Roed made a sharp gesture with his hand.

Serilla summoned all her courage. “There is a discrepancy. Ronica Vestrit has cautioned me not to trust Mingsley. Surely if she were in league with him…”