“That is not for you to decide, Gatherer,” Hayes snapped.

“No, but it is for me to decide how it will be paid for.” Thamos’ voice had taken on the quiet tone that showed his patience was at an end and folk should listen well.

All eyes returned to the count. “If you insist on continuing the cathedral in this fashion, Inquisitor, the Tenders are welcome to shoulder the cost. There will be no more talk of royal funds until you change plans to something more sensible.”

Hayes gave Thamos a cold look, but he dipped a shallow bow. “As you wish, Highness.”

“As for the matter of Arlen Bales,” the count said, “I can assure you, Baron, this will be a topic addressed during your visit to court. You’ll have the opportunity to make your case to Shepherd Pether and the duke in person.”

The zealous look on Gared’s face melted away. “Ent no Speaker, Highness. Plenty others got better words’n me on the topic. Tender Jona …”

“Has been questioned at length on the matter,” Thamos said. “But my brothers remain unconvinced. You have witnessed his rise firsthand. If you truly believe Arlen Bales is the Deliverer, you will speak for him. If you haven’t the courage, it will say even more than your words.”

Gared’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Deliverer told me life ent always fair. If the weight’s on me, I’ll carry it and more besides.”

The meeting went on for some time, each councilor in turn asking the count for funds to pay for one project or another. Leesha rubbed her temple as she tried to follow each councilor’s accounting, and calculate the true numbers they sought to hide. Even when she disagreed with his choices, she didn’t envy Thamos in having to make them. She wished she were at the other end of the table by his side, so she could touch him and whisper advice only he would hear.

She was surprised at how strongly the image resonated with her. The more she thought of it, the more she wanted to be countess.

She took her time gathering her papers when the session ended and the other councilors began to file out. She hoped to steal another moment with Thamos before heading to the hospit, but the Inquisitor moved over to him, stealing the opportunity.

Leesha left the room slowly, passing as close to them as possible, ears open.

“Your mother and brother will hear of this,” the Inquisitor warned.

“I’ll tell them myself,” Thamos snapped back. “And that you’re being a ripping fool.”

“How dare you, boy,” the Inquisitor growled.

Thamos raised a finger. “I’m not beneath your cane anymore, Tender. Try to swing it at me again and I’ll break it over my knee and send you on the next coach back to Angiers.”

Leesha clutched her papers, smiling as she left the room.

Smitt was lingering outside, speaking to his wife, Stefny, and their youngest son, Keet. The Speaker looked at her, bowing. “My apologies if I offended you earlier, mistress.”

“The council chamber is meant for debate,” Leesha said. “I hope you know that the Hollow owes you a great debt for your service as Speaker in these difficult times.”

Smitt nodded, slapping Keet on the shoulder. “Just telling the boy here to see if we can’t lower the price of bread, like you asked. If there’s a way, he’ll find it. Good head for numbers, just like his da.”

Out of his line of sight, Stefny rolled her eyes at Leesha. They both knew the boy was not really Smitt’s son, but the illegitimate son of the Hollow’s late Tender, Michel.

Both Leesha and Bruna had used the knowledge like a lash against Stefny when the woman was out of line, but now, with an illegitimate child of her own growing in her belly, Leesha knew she had been wrong to do so.

“A word,” she said to Stefny, as the two men walked off.

“Ay?” the woman asked. They had never been anything approaching close, but both had faced down corelings for the sake of wounded Hollowers, and there was respect between them now.

“I owe you an apology,” Leesha said. “I’ve threatened you with Keet before, but I want you to know I would never have done it, to Smitt or to the boy.”

“Nor Bruna, whatever the witch might have said,” Stefny agreed. “I may not agree with everything you do, girl, but you keep your Gatherer’s oath. You can keep your apology with it.”

She tilted her head at Smitt and the boy. “Even if you hadn’t, Smitt never would have believed you.” She shook her head. “Funny thing about children. People see in them what they wish to see.”

Rojer smiled to see Amanvah’s coach waiting in the courtyard of Thamos’ keep. Heavily warded and powered with hora, the princess’ coach was as safe as any building in the Hollow.

Pulled by four brilliant white mares with golden traces, the coach was painted to match. The white and gold was typical of austere Krasian artisans, but in the North, where a typical Jongleur’s Wagon looked like the vomit of a rainbow and every two-klat Messenger had his own colors, the stark white was louder than even Thamos’ royal coach.

Inside, it was a Jongleur’s paradise, with multicolored silks and velvet on almost every surface. Rojer called it the motley coach, and he loved it so.

The driver was Coliv, the Krevakh Watcher Jardir had sent to escort Leesha’s entourage back to the Hollow. The man was a cold and efficient killer, and like the other Sharum, had looked at Rojer like a bug they were waiting for the order to squash.

But they had shed blood together at new moon, and that seemed to change everything. There were not friends—the Watcher gave new depths to the word taciturn—but Rojer now received a nod of respect when he saw the warrior, and it made all the difference.

“They inside?” he asked.

The Watcher shook his head. “Sharusahk in the Alagai Graveyard.” His words were even, but Rojer could sense the tension in them. Since the death of Amanvah’s bodyguard Enkido, Coliv had appointed himself to the role, and never let Amanvah out of shouting distance, save at her direct command. Rojer was not convinced the man ever slept or even took a piss.

Maybe he wears a sheep’s bladder under those loose pants. Rojer kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, giving no sign of his amusement. “Let’s go see them.”

He could sense Coliv’s relief. He was cracking the reins before Rojer had even closed the door behind him. He was thrown into the pillows as the coach started with a jerk. He inhaled his wives’ perfume and sighed, missing them already.

Had he been anywhere else, Sikvah at least would have been waiting inside to greet him in her colored silks. But some fine point of Krasian honor kept them from coming within a mile of the count’s keep without a formal invitation—which happened all too infrequently for Amanvah’s satisfaction. They were blood of the Shar’Dama Ka, after all.

He saw them in the bandshell as the coach pulled into the Corelings’ Graveyard, stretching in the gentle—yet strenuous—movements of sharusahk. In the square, nearly a thousand women, men, and children practiced with them.

They slipped into scorpion, a pose even Rojer, a professional acrobat, had trouble with. Rojer saw shaking limbs as many struggled to hold the pose—or their closest approximation of the impossible thing—but their faces were all serene, their breathing even. They would hold as long as they could, and every day, they would get stronger.