Tris frowned and closed her eyes until that puff of air had blown past her. She had requested an upper room of the house to get glimpses of the city, maybe even of activity on the Syth, not of Briar doing the things that Briar normally did these days.

“And that goes double for him smuggling a girl into his room last night,” she told Chime, who sat on the balcony rail beside Tris, grooming a rear paw with her tongue. “Do you know what the housekeeper told me? She said her girls are careful about baby-making, and none of them are fool enough to fall in love with a mage. I hope she’s still so evenminded about it by the time we leave!”

Chime looked up at Tris, making an anxious clink. Tris sighed. “Oh, I know he plays fair and doesn’t promise anything he doesn’t mean. Rosethorn would have made sure of that. I just wish it was more to him than, just, just play. It ought to mean more, don’t you think?”

When Chime did not answer, Tris looked at her and smiled reluctantly. “You haven’t the least idea of what I mean, have you? And silly me, for asking you such questions!” She picked up Chime and turned to stare into the wind from the Syth again. The empress and her court were out riding on a beach to the northwest—the wind carried her images of Berenene’s unforgettable, laughing face and those of her courtiers: Quenaill the mage, the angry huntsman of a day ago, a buxom young woman with glossy brown ringlets, a blond man with eyes like turquoises, and other men and women in their twenties and early thirties, attractive and vivacious. They rode well, managing their horses in hard sand and soft, laughing silently and chattering. Any shreds of talk came too far behind the images for Tris to bother with.

They’re as pretty as a flower bed, she thought, running her fingers over Chime’s wings. I don’t belong with people like that. I don’t belong in a house like this. How can I do any good for His Grace here? I’m just a merchant’s daughter in clothes my rich friend made for me. I doubt it will come to lightning and cyclones with this crowd—more like powder puffs at fifty paces. What possible danger can they offer that I could protect her from?

She turned abruptly and took Chime inside.

Sometime after midnight Briar roused to the sound of horses arriving in the courtyard behind the stable. Curious, and hungry, he pulled breeches on over his nightshirt and went to the kitchen. Sure enough the cook Wenoura was there, a robe over her own nightdress, setting a teapot to boil. She was on good terms with Briar already: He always made an effort to get to know the cook. Without hesitation she ordered him to put out glasses and saucers, since he knew where they were, and take down three plates from a cupboard. Briar obeyed as she bustled around the huge kitchen, producing a slab of cheese, a pot of preserves, a loaf of dark bread, and a ham.

As Wenoura sliced the ham, a footman opened a rear door, letting in a disheveled man. Briar moved back into the shadows for a quiet look as the footman helped the new arrival to remove his gloves and mud-splashed hat. He had already removed his boots and outer coat in the mud room. Fellow must have ridden here in a hurry, to get mud on his hat, Briar realized.

“They’re to see the empress in the morning, Saghad,” the first footman said.

“That’s to be expected,” replied the new man in a quiet, precise voice. “Though you’d think she’d be allowed a week or so to rest before the court nonsense begins.”

The cook, now slicing bread, looked at Briar in the shadows, then shrugged. She wasn’t about to say there was a stranger present.

The newcomer worked kinks out of his neck. He wore a blue indoor coat and tan pants, crushed from time in the saddle. Broad-shouldered and wiry, he was about three inches taller than Briar. Like Tris, he wore brass-rimmed spectacles, and his eyes were bright blue behind them. His heavy gold hair was cropped just below his ears. It framed a fairskinned face mildly scarred from some childhood pox, with a long, straight mouth and a long, straight nose. He had Sandry’s eyes and determined chin. “Wenoura, you’re a lifesaver,” he told the cook as she set food on the long kitchen table. “I didn’t stop for supper.”

“I’ll heat a soup if you like, Saghad Ambros,” she replied, glancing again at Briar.

Briar took the hint. “Saghad Ambros, hello,” he said, stepping out into the light to greet Sandry’s cousin. “I’m Briar Moss. I think Clehame Sandrilene told you she would bring friends.” As the older man struggled to rise, Briar grinned. “Please don’t stand. I’m not the kind of person people get up for. And I’d never put myself between a man and his supper.”

Ambros looked quizzically at Briar. “I hear you’ve caused people to stand quite precipitously, Viynain Moss,” Ambros said dryly. “But I appreciate the permission. My legs still feel as if I’m in the saddle.”

“You’ve heard of me?” Briar asked, settling on the bench across the table from Ambros. “I’m sure it was most of it lies. I’m a reformed character these days.”

Ambros chewed and swallowed his mouthful before he said, “My cousin only wrote me that you are a very fine plant mage and her foster-brother,” he replied quietly. “Are you a reformed plant mage or a reformed foster-brother?”

Briar was about to straighten him out when he glimpsed the wry glint in Ambros’s eyes. Well, well—a Bag with a sense of humor, he thought, using his old street slang term for a rich person. “Reformed from everything,” he said, as straight-faced as Ambros.