“What happens to whatever was there?” Ser Yrsa asked.

  “It gets … forcefully shunted aside,” Aefric said.

  “How forcefully?” she asked. “Positioned properly, such a weapon could bring a quick end to a siege. And if soldiers could already be waiting within—”

  “Anything living inside it when it gets collapsed gets crushed,” Aefric said. “And it’s not a weapon.”

  “It is if used properly, your grace,” Ser Yrsa said. “Does your grace possess such a tower?”

  “No,” Aefric said. “But I might just possess a version that is much, much larger.”

  Aefric looked around for emphasis.

  All of his knights started talking at once.

  Aefric stilled them with a raised hand.

  “I know,” he said. “This would be amazing, if true. But … I don’t know for certain yet. Which is why, this afternoon—”

  “Evening, your grace,” Ser Yrsa corrected softly. “We’ve been here quite some time.”

  “Evening then,” Aefric said. “Either way, I need to pay a visit to Relimmorea and her tower.”

  All of Aefric’s knights escorted him to the tower of Relimmorea.

  Honestly, it felt like overkill. After all, he hadn’t seen or heard any fighting in the streets, nor seen any indications that any of the locals intended him harm.

  Still, caution might’ve been the right watchword. Certainly Sers Yrsa and Beornric seemed to think so.

  And Aefric had to admit that he cut a more impressive image, escorted through the cobbled streets by his knights. Sers Yrsa and Beornric by his side. Ser Deirdre following a few steps behind. And the Knights of the Lake in their shining armor, surrounding them all.

  Technically it was evening, but the sun had not yet set over the Risen Sea. The worst of the day’s heat was past, though. And the streets of Kivash were still alive with travel and business.

  But all was quiet on the street of Relimmorea’s tower. It was almost eerie, really. The nearest sounds of traffic were all at least a street away.

  Even the songbirds seemed to avoid the area near Relimmorea’s tower.

  This street was curved, as though it had wanted to go three different directions at various points, but couldn’t make up its mind.

  Rather like the nearby Indecisive River. Aefric wondered if that was intentional.

  Most of the buildings along here were small, and ill-kept. Not as though they were abused, per se. More as though they were getting on in years, and not aging gracefully.

  Shingled roofs missing shingles. Tarred roofs with bald spots. Walls with bare wood showing because they hadn’t seen fresh paint since before the Godswalk Wars. Doors with visible wear in the places where regular visitors tended to knock.

  At one time, all the windows of these one- and two-story homes had framed glass, but many now had only shutters to keep out the wind, as well as prying eyes.

  The people seemed honest enough though. A bit furtive, but that was to be expected around what they doubtless considered an invading noble and his knights.

  No. Aefric had seen more than his share of bad neighborhoods in various towns and cities, and this wasn’t one of them.

  Bad neighborhoods didn’t smell like baking bread and … were those crullers? They smelled lovely, and Aefric’s mouth watered and stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast…

  No time for that now. He focused his attention back on his surroundings.

  In fact, Aefric doubted this neighborhood saw much crime at all. Likely because of that prominent, four-story, white stone tower, which was Aefric’s reason for being here.

  He nodded at the sight of the triangular windows, and the triangular crenellations at the top. He’d remembered those windows and crenellations from the tower he’d stayed in, in Kesh.

  He remembered thinking how those crenellations looked like sharp teeth, the first time he saw them. They looked no more innocuous now.

  Same height, that tower. Same design. In all likelihood, the one before him was one of Raend’s creations. Unfortunately, Aefric needed certainty. And he couldn’t get that. Not from where he stood.

  He wished he’d taken the time to note the feel of the tower of Baroness Helva, magically. But at the time he’d been more worried about the baroness herself. And about that army of taroks just over the ridge…

  Aefric shook his head. That was years ago, now.

  This tower, like the one Aefric knew from before, had a single wide, tall oak door. Rounded at the top, and magically reinforced.

  Ser Beornric looked the question at Aefric, but Aefric shook his head. As a noble, letting someone else knock for him was the way things were done.

  But he wasn’t coming to visit Relimmorea as a duke. He was coming to talk to her, one magic-user to another.

  And that had protocols of its own.

  Aefric raised his free hand, palm towards the door, while his knights spread out around him.

  Aefric created the pattern in his head. The right seven-knock sequence, each with its proper relative position and amount of pressure.

  He snapped his hand into a fist and shunted power through the pattern at the door.

  Seven spots on that oaken door flared dark red, the vertices of a seven-pointed star.

  Seven knocks followed, with alternating amounts of pressure — and thus volume — with the first, third, fifth and seventh knocks being the loudest, and the second, fourth and sixth being progressively quieter.

  He was not kept waiting long.

  The door eased open.

  An imp emerged, and the door closed behind it.

  No two imps looked exactly the same. They varied in size, coloring, smell, wing size and shape, whether or not they had horns, and the like. And yet, each imp was unmistakably an imp.

  This imp was on the small side, perhaps four hands high. Given that, it looked somewhat like a sexless human with dull orange skin, two stubby horns, bat wings, and a nose the size and shape of a potato.

  Some imps carried a whiff of sulfur. This one smelled more like hot iron.

  The imp looked over the crowd.

  “The wizard’s knock isn’t for groups,” the imp said in a startlingly low voice.

  “The knights are here because I’m a duke in an unsettled city,” Aefric said. “But I come to visit Relimmorea not as a duke, but as a fellow magic-user. If welcomed properly, I will enter alone.”

  Aefric heard Sers Yrsa and Beornric shift uncomfortably behind him. He’d told them that this was how it would be. And that — if Relimmorea welcomed him properly — his safety was assured while in her tower.

  But they still didn’t like it.

  The imp looked Aefric over, and he knew he was being examined by senses other than sight.

  “Well, you qualify, there’s no denying it. And it’s easy enough to tell by that” — the imp nodded at the Brightstaff — “exactly who you are. But none of that tells me why you’ve come.”

  “I wish to discuss the Art with Relimmorea.”

  “A conversation that would last until the gods walk Qorunn again, I don’t doubt.” The imp raised a hairless eyebrow. “Unless you have a specific topic?”

  “I was hoping to discuss the most famous works of the vohlcairn known as Raend. And what might just be his unknown masterpiece.”

  The imp bowed.

  “Then you are as puissant as my mistress has heard,” the imp said. “Unfortunately, although she would welcome the man known as Aefric Brightstaff for such a discussion, she cannot be seen to admit Armyr’s Duke of Deepwater into her home. For her to do so would be taken as a political statement.”

  “As a fellow magic-user I am disappointed,” Aefric said. “But as duke, I understand her position. And as neither would I wish to cause trouble for your mistress. As such, I will leave at once, not to return without invitation. Would it aid your mistress if I make a show of being rejected?”

  “You are kind to offer such,” the imp said, “but it would not. She cannot be seen to either help or hinder the Duke of Deepwater.”

  Unspoken words came to Aefric’s mind then. The imp’s words, in the imp’s voice.

  “But in light of your offer, and as a show of goodwill, my mistress bids me to tell you that you are on the right track, and that all the answers you seek can be found within Hrafnvigi.”

  Aefric met the imp’s eyes and nodded to show both his understanding and his gratitude.

  “Then I shall take my leave now,” Aefric said, “and trouble your mistress no further. But I thank you kindly for your words and consideration.”

  “You are most welcome,” the imp said, and flew off straight up into the air.

  As Aefric led his knights back toward Castle Ottarvigi and dinner, they got as far as the second twist of the street before Ser Leppina spoke.

  “Aren’t imps scions of evil, your grace?”

  “They have that reputation,” Aefric said, “but it’s ill-founded. In truth, imps have no temperament of their own. They reflect only that of their master.”

  “And can we trust the temperament of that one?” Ser Yrsa asked.

  “I hope so,” Aefric said. “Either way, we’ll know within the next few days.”

  No simple dinner with Ashling that night at Ottarvigi. Assuming any meal shared with Ashling Fyrenn could be thought of as simple.

  Thirteen hells, even just the one aspect of their conversation from the night before — the influences Aefric had in his life that he’d never chosen himself — had been haunting him all day.

  Nevertheless, he would have welcomed at least the quiet of dining with Ashling, compared to what was waiting for him when he and his knights reached Ottarvigi that evening.

  Dinner with Ashling’s court.

  Odd, that somehow Aefric had thought she would either have no court to speak of here in Kivash, or perhaps a handful of nobles. After all, though Kivash was technically part of her duchy, he kept hearing how unsettled the city was about that point.

  Aefric had expected that most nobles would avoid such a potentially dangerous place.

  Apparently not.

  The great hall at Ottarvigi was full to overflowing with knights and lers, not to mention a broad cross-section of relatives from Ashling’s titled vassals.

  It seemed that every baron and count that owed her fealty had at least a handful of siblings or cousins — or a mix of the two — who wanted to be right here in Kivash.

  “Helping.”

  Which likely meant trying to figure out how their families could most benefit from the current unrest, so that when Kivash settled down again, they would have that much more influence here than their rivals.

  And they all had rivals.

  When he thought about it that way, Aefric realized he should’ve expected this. Kivash was a port city, after all, with direct river access not only deep into Armyr, but into several other kingdoms as well.

  In that sense, Kivash was a more important port than even his own grand port city, Ajenmoor.

  Not that everyone dining in the great hall that night was a noble of some stripe. There were also plenty of representatives from powerful merchant families and trade guilds. Some of them new to Kivash, but many of them locals who didn’t care who collected their taxes, so long as business continued uninterrupted.

  And all of them looked at Aefric the way a manticore looks at a wounded lamb.

  He felt the weight of their gazes as he walked past their dozens of crowded tables, escorted by Cyneswith to his place at Ashling’s side, on the dais. He could hear the way conversations paused as he passed, then got faster and more urgent in his wake.

  His knights couldn’t protect him from this kind of threat. Although they would stay nearby, once the meal ended and the mandatory socializing began, they would only protect him from threats to his body. Not to his peace of mind, nor to his finances.

  But attending this sort of gathering was part of his role now, as duke.

  At least the group at Ashling’s table was small. Only six, compared to the twelve at each of the other tables.

  Ashling and Aefric sat side-by-side in the center of one long side of the table, looking out over the assemblage.

  To Aefric’s right sat Ser Yrsa, the only adviser he was allowed at the table, and selected in case Ashling wished to discuss military concerns here in Kivash.

  To Ashling’s left sat her new castellan, Ecgnoth. He looked to be about Ser Beornric’s age, and held his age just about as well. A touch of gray at the temples of otherwise black hair, and the kind of penetrating gaze that made Aefric think he had to be a Fyrenn. Ashling’s uncle or an older cousin, perhaps.

  Taking the end spot of the table on Aefric’s side, Cyneswith’s mother, Countess Siburh Ol’Cynerstan.

  If Countess Siburh was a preview of Cyneswith’s future, the sight was impressive. Not just in her beauty, which would have stood out in many crowds, but in the confidence of her bearing and the determination Aefric saw in her eyes.

  Perhaps this was a woman who could, indeed, go toe-to-toe with Ashling. In fact, watching them resolve the question of whose lands Kivash was now part of might well be a sight worth seeing.

  Opposite Countess Siburh at Ashling’s end of the table sat Zoleen.

  Zoleen was dressed conservatively that night. Her long, copper hair wound into a complicated arrangement atop her head, leaving her long neck bare but for a simple gold chain, crowned by a single large diamond.

  Her dress was a high-necked gown of maroon chiffon, that nevertheless looked grateful to be worn by her. But then, she improved most outfits by wearing them.

  The same could be said of Ashling, of course, who wore silk tonight. A gown of sky blue slashed with red, and embroidered throughout in patterns of gold and silver thread, with only enough jewelry to accent.

  Aefric and Ser Yrsa hadn’t taken time to change, which might have made some people uncomfortable. But despite the efforts of his valets, Aefric had yet to develop any pressing need to change his outfit for a meal. Especially if doing so would make others wait.

  But Aefric felt confident in his navy blue silk. And as for Ser Yrsa, the woman was so comfortable in her full plate armor that she could likely sleep in it and wake up refreshed.

  Countess Siburh wore brown and gold chiffon. The kind of gown that looked simple at first, but was likely very complex, if one took the time to study it.

  At least, Aefric gathered that impression at a glance. The last thing he wanted to do was spend time gazing at a woman’s dress, here on the dais in front of everyone.

  No doubt his doing so would cause … interesting rumors.

  This meal was served in the Armyrian style, beginning with a light, white palate wine.

  Aefric was served that night exclusively by Cyneswith, which he thought was strange. Usually pages didn’t handle dinner service. Servants did. And it was true that each of the other diners at the table had a specific servant, making sure they wanted for nothing.

  And yet, instead of a servant, Aefric was served by Cyneswith. A message from Ashling to Countess Siburh? Or perhaps to Zoleen? Or was it some kind of statement to the assemblage of nobles and others?

  Knowing Ashling, there was more than one purpose and message involved.

  Cyneswith, for her part, didn’t seem either happy or upset to get assigned to dinner duty. She waited attentively on Aefric, but held a neutral expression, and took no liberties.

  On the other hand, Aefric noticed that Countess Siburh kept glancing at her daughter. And whenever she did so, her mouth firmed in displeasure.

  If that displeasure was real, and not a misinterpretation on Aefric’s part, it didn’t show in her conversation. Throughout the salad course — a mixture of greens and sliced root vegetables said to be a local favorite — she maintained pleasant tones as she asked Aefric blasé questions about his visit to Kivash, how he was finding his new castle, and the like.

  Aefric kept his answers blandly uninformative. A skill that was new to him but, back in Water’s End, Kentigern had assured Aefric he was getting better at it.

  During the soup course — a creamy chowder of local shrimp and mussels — Countess Siburh surprised Aefric by saying, “I understand your grace has asserted ducal ownership of the Threepeaks Mountains, over the claims of his vassals.”

  “The claims of my two counts were improper when they were pressed,” Aefric said. “I only corrected this.”

  “Truly?” Countess Siburh asked, affecting disbelief. “Even though the two counts were allowed to fight a war among themselves over their relative rights to those lands?”

  “That was during the stewardship of Duchess Arinda,” Aefric said, forcing a smile. “And they were allowed to fight that war not because they had equal or valid claims, but because Arinda’s forces were needed elsewhere.”

  “The pirate queen Nelazzi was causing Arinda problems, I believe,” Ashling chimed in. “You know something of the problems she can cause, don’t you, Siburh?”

  “You know well I do, your grace,” Countess Siburh said with a feral smile. “Which is all the more reason why my claims here should be acknowledged.”

  “Oh, let us not change the subject,” Ashling said, smiling with much more evident pleasure than her would-be rival. “We were discussing the Threepeaks.”

  “Very well,” Countess Siburh said. “The point stands that the people of two of your grace’s counties shed blood defending their claims. Did they not object to your grace simply … overruling them?”

  Aefric sighed, and set down his spoon. Pity, because there was just enough spice to that chowder to give it a really tasty zing with each mouthful.

  “Let me ask your excellency a question,” Aefric said. “Does a duke owe his vassals protection?”

  “Of course,” Countess Siburh said, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And obviously your grace knows this fundamental element to our entire structure of government.”

  “I do,” Aefric said, before pressing on. “Now, while a duke is committing substantial resources to dealing with a threat — resources including time, money, and lives — suppose that one or more of his vassals use that threat as a distraction to … for example … lay claim to lands not their own. Is that proper?”