“That is true,” he replied thoughtfully. “Children and servants are near invisible. Much of our information before the riots came from Amber's net of slaves.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. He put both his arms around her and held her. It wasn't romantic. Nothing was romantic anymore. Only tired. “Amber? The bead-maker?” she asked. “What had she to do with the slaves?”

“She talked to them. A lot. I gather that she marked her face and masqueraded as a slave at the water well, and the washing fountains and places where slaves gathered to do their work. At first, she gathered knowledge just from their gossip, but eventually she enlisted some of the slaves themselves to help her. She opened that net to the Tenira family. Crag and his father made good use of it.”

“What kind of knowledge?” she asked dully. She didn't know why she cared. It all came down to one thing. War. People killing each other and destroying things.

“The latest gossip from Jamaillia. Which nobles are allied with each other, which ones have substantial interests in Chalced. It was all information that we needed, to make our case in Jamaillia. We are not a rebel province, not really. What we do is in the interest of the Satrapy. There is a group of Jamaillian nobles who would overthrow the Satrap and seize his power for themselves. They encouraged him to come to Bingtown, in the hopes of exactly what happened. Riots. Attempts on the Satrap's life.” Almost reluctantly, he admitted, “Trader Restart was not a traitor. His pushiness when the Chalcedean fleet arrived actually put the traitors' plans awry, for the Satrap ended up at his home instead of in their power. But for his intervention, the assault on Bingtown would have begun much sooner.”

“Why is any of that important?” she asked dully.

“It's a complicated situation. Essentially, it is Jamaillia's civil war, not ours. They've just decided to hold it in our territories. Some of the Jamaillian nobles are willing to give Bingtown over to Chalced, in return for favorable trading treaties, a chunk of what the Satrap has always claimed for himself and more power for themselves in Jamaillia. They've gone to great lengths to establish their families and claims in Bingtown. Now they've made it look like the Bingtown Traders have rebelled against the Satrapy. But it's all a mask for their own plots to overthrow an incompetent Satrap and steal the throne's power for themselves. Do you understand?”

“No. And I don't care. Reyn, I just want my father back. I want to go home. I want it all to be like it was before.”

He dropped his head forward so that his forehead rested on her shoulder. “Someday,” he said in a muffled voice, “you will want something I can give you. At least, so I pray to Sa.”

For a time, they just sat together in silence. A scratch came at the door. Reyn jumped, but he couldn't very well dump her out of his arms. The door opened and the Rain Wild woman framed in it looked completely scandalized. Her mouth actually hung open. She took a gasp of air, then blurted, “I came to assist Malta Vestrit. The healer advised she should get up and do some walking.”

“I'll see to it myself,” Reyn announced calmly, as if he had a perfect right to be alone with her in her chamber holding her in his arms. Malta looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. She could not control the blush that heated her cheeks.

“I ... that is . . .”

“You may tell the healer I've seen to it,” he instructed her firmly. As the woman darted away, leaving the door ajar, he added in an undertone, “And my mother. And my brother. And anyone else you meet on the way to tattle on me.” He shook his head and the fabric of his veil whispered against her hair. “I shall hear about this. For hours.” His arms tightened briefly around her, then released her. “Come. At least don't make me a liar as well as a sneak. Get up and walk with me.” He lifted her off his lap. She stood, and handed him her coverlet. She wore a house-robe, a modest enough garment, but not one in which a young lady should be seen by those outside her household. She lifted a hand to her hair. As she pushed it back from her forehead, her fingers grazed the scar there. She winced.

“Does it still hurt?” Reyn asked immediately.

“Not much. It still surprises me that it is there. I must look a fright. I haven't combed my hair today. . . . Reyn, they won't give me a looking-glass. Is it bad?”

He tilted his head to look at her. “You would say yes. I say no. It is livid now, and swollen, but time will fade it.” He shook his veiled face. “But it will never fade from my memory that I put it there. . . .”