“You passed as a sailor or dockworker?” Ser Beornric asked in disbelief.

  “Not in the least,” Ser Deirdre said easily. “But there are those who regard my appearance as pleasing” — which Aefric knew was an understatement — “and rare is the inebriated man who will not talk freely to an attractive woman.”

  “You wore a dress, didn’t you,” Ser Yrsa said, sounding more amazed than questioning.

  Ser Deirdre arched an eyebrow, but shifted to a playful expression as she turned back to Aefric.

  “I could model the gown sometime, should your grace be curious.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Aefric said, chuckling. Damn if this woman couldn’t make him laugh. “But please continue your report.”

  “I live to serve, your grace,” she said, bowing her head. “From the sailors and dockworkers I learned that the Arcturus usually docks at three other ports along this coast during the summertime. Would anyone care to guess which three?”

  “Redport, Wulfport, and Drake’s Landing,” Karbin said, naming the three known stops of the slavers.

  “Those very three,” Ser Deirdre said, approvingly. “And the Arcturus’ sailors were a cantankerous lot, apparently worried about their pay.”

  “Makes sense,” Ser Beornric said, “if they were missing an expected shipment.”

  “Especially if that shipment would include expensive cargo,” Ser Yrsa said. “Which pipe weed is not.”

  Ser Deirdre sighed dramatically. “You simply must hear about the pipe weed now?”

  “Indulge my general, if you would be so kind,” Aefric said.

  “Of course, your grace,” Ser Deirdre said, sounding a touch mollified, at being asked. “According to both the reports in the harbormaster’s office, and the word around Ajenmoor’s taverns, no pipe weed had come through in at least three aetts, and none was expected.”

  “The last shipment,” Kentigern said. “Was it from Goldenfall?”

  “It was,” Ser Deirdre said, smiling brightly enough at Kentigern that he flushed slightly. “Very good, Master Kentigern. In fact, almost all the pipe weed shipped through Ajenmoor comes from Goldenfall.”

  “So what was the Arcturus expecting?” Aefric asked.

  “That, alas, no one seems to know,” Ser Deirdre said, before raising an index finger. “However. I know that they arrived in Ajenmoor the day before your grace fought the crews of the Gull’s Bride and the Swift Wave at the Dragonscar. And I know that the Arcturus’ crew did not evince worry about their funds and their cargo until after word reached Ajenmoor about those fights.”

  “How can you be certain?” Kentigern asked.

  “I can read a calendar,” Ser Deirdre said, shrugging one shoulder. “Though making the connections required me to check dates in the harbormaster’s office against information I learned in the taverns.”

  “So how was this supposed to work?” Aefric asked. “The Gull’s Bride brings the cargo of slaves to the Dragonscar. Trades them for the Swift Wave’s cargo of stolen goods. Then the Gull’s Bride departs, and the Swift Wave rendezvouses with the Arcturus in Ajenmoor to transfer the slaves? No more than a hundred miles from the Dragonscar?”

  Aefric shook his head, trying to make sense of it.

  “You’re forgetting something,” Karbin said softly, which got everyone to turn to him. “The Swift Wave was pressed into this job by Nelazzi. Why would she do that?”

  “They’re smugglers, not slavers,” Ser Beornric said, starting to see where Karbin was going, though Aefric wasn’t sure yet. “And she wanted to make them carry slaves.”

  “Just so,” Karbin said. “Nelazzi is a businesswoman first and foremost. And with so many refugees displaced by the wars, and so many places in need of cheap labor, she’s likely moving more into slavery than she has before.”

  “Which means she needs more ships willing to carry slaves,” Aefric said, understanding now. “So she tried to force accomplished smugglers, the Swift Wave’s crew, to carry a cargo of slaves.”

  “But she wouldn’t trust them to carry the cargo far yet,” Karbin continued. “Nor would she trust them to handle the market. So she planned to have them carry the shipment to a nearby port, where a more established crew of slavers would take over.”

  “But if it worked,” Aefric said, “then she’d’ve gotten them to carry slaves once. Which would mean they’d put up less of a fight against doing so the next time.”

  “And soon,” Karbin finished, “she’d have a new crew of slavers. One that knows all the tricks of smuggling, and is welcomed in more ports than her usual slaver ships.”

  “So where does the shipment of cheap textiles come into it?” Ser Yrsa asked.

  “Doesn’t,” Ser Deirdre said, sounding almost disappointed. “I tracked all the details. Riverborne shipping, out of Lachedran. That was their usual shipment, arriving at its usual time. And sure enough, the ship they were supposed to meet — the Salty Tears — departed port a full aett ahead of schedule, without giving a reason. And Riverborne did indeed have those textiles sitting in a warehouse, eating fees every day.”

  “A full aett ahead of schedule,” Aefric said, thoughtfully.

  “I checked, your grace,” Ser Deirdre said. “The dates don’t line up with the activities in the Dragonscar.”

  “Worth checking,” Aefric said. “Is your report complete?”

  “Not yet, your grace,” she said. “I was in Ajenmoor when Captain Brusi made his escape. To all appearances, it was an outside job. But would your grace care to guess what ship was said to have been spotted in the harbor that night?”

  “The Arcturus?” Aefric guessed.

  “Very good, your grace,” Ser Deirdre said with a smile. “It did not dock, did not register with the harbormaster, and was gone before dawn. And yet, several night workers on the docks claimed to have seen it. They knew it by the figurehead — a sea devil with its spear raised.”

  “That means he’s gone then,” Aefric said.

  “Alas, I believe so,” Ser Deirdre said. “As a final note, so far as I can tell, Morgard Ol’Nara was not personally involved in any illegal activity while in Ajenmoor recently. Even the business with the textiles was clean from his end.”

  “But not necessarily from Brangford Couglas’ end,” Aefric said.

  “No,” Ser Deirdre agreed. “I could not confirm this, but he appears to have been known to the crew of the Arcturus.”

  “Well,” Aefric said with a sigh, “we’ll have to keep an eye on him and his activities then.”

  “And now,” Ser Deirdre said, “my report is complete, your grace.”

  “And an impressive report it is, Ser Deirdre,” Aefric said, which made her preen a little. “I’d like you to write up a copy for my historian, and for the eyes of his majesty.”

  “I would be honored, your grace.”

  “Karbin,” Aefric said. “How do things look around the city? Any more Malimfari problems expected?”

  “I have checked all through Water’s End and environs,” Karbin said. “I believe the knights were all the Malimfari influence in this area.”

  “Less of a surprise,” Aefric said, “given the assassination attempts. But thank you for making sure.” He stood. “All right, my good people. On that note, I’m calling it a night. I will see you all in the morning.”

  As they filed out, Aefric held Kentigern back for a private word.

  “One more thing,” Aefric said to his seneschal. “I want master jewel smith Tayor Sizen to fashion a golden brooch in the shape of a sea dragon, with tiny emeralds for eyes.”

  “Yes, your grace,” Kentigern said with a smile. “Shall I have a sea dragon seal fashioned as well?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Certainly, your grace,” Kentigern said with a nod. “I think she’ll be most pleased with the results.”

  “I hope so,” Aefric said. But with that, he was ready to end his long day. Perhaps read Byrhta’s letter before bed.

  After dismissing Kentigern, Aefric lingered a moment on the balcony. He looked out over the lights of the docks below, as well as those he could see on ships out in the lake.

  Nelazzi. It was all coming back to Nelazzi. Pressing smugglers into service as slavers. But what did it mean that Captain Brusi was her “known confederate?”

  Was his Swift Wave chosen to carry slaves because of his relationship with Nelazzi? Or despite it?

  Gwawl had been aboard the Swift Wave too. And that Mavash, who’d been so ready to talk. So quick to blame his captain…

  Unless Brusi wasn’t the usual captain?

  What if Mavash had been the Swift Wave’s usual captain? What if Brusi and Gwawl had been planted aboard to ensure their cooperation? Perhaps intending to transfer to the Arcturus along with the slaves…

  An interesting notion. Captain Brusi was gone, and beyond the reach of questioning. But Gwawl, he was down in Aefric’s cells. Aefric could go down there and ask.

  Or better, he could wait a scant handful of days until the king’s justiciar came. Let the justiciar ask, then—

  “Your grace?” Pakel’s voice. Had he knocked?

  Aefric turned to see the hefty night servant standing on the balcony, which meant he must have knocked and gone unheard under Aefric’s musing.

  “Yes?” Aefric asked.

  “Her majesty awaits in your public sitting room,” Pakel said.

  Her majesty? Why would … the noble privilege? No. She must be here to ask about something. A sales pitch for marrying Zoleen, perhaps.

  But Pakel was still talking.

  “And Ser Calder yet remains in your morning meeting room.”

  Ser Calder. Aefric had almost forgotten. He sighed heavily.

  “Please,” Aefric said, “escort her majesty to my private sitting room upstairs, see that she is offered food and drink, and tell her I will be with her as soon as pressing business allows. Then, once she’s settled, bring me Ser Calder.”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  Aefric tried to return to his previous line of thought as he gazed out over Lake Deepwater by night, but it was no good. He was too busy worrying about Ser Calder, Ser Deirdre, and his own potential marriage plans.

  It was almost a relief when Pakel announced, “Your grace, Ser Calder is here.”

  Aefric turned, and saw that Ser Calder was flanked by heavily scarred Ser Wardius and tall, striking Ser Arras.

  At Aefric’s questioning glance, both Knights of the Lake glanced at Ser Calder, then nodded at Aefric as though they thought they might be needed.

  Ser Calder looked offended by their presence, but restricted his objections to a sigh.

  “Your grace,” he said with a small bow, “I have calmed myself.”

  “As you see it, Ser Calder, what is the nature of your disagreement with Ser Deirdre?”

  Ser Calder’s eyebrows raised. He scoffed.

  “I should have thought that obvious, your grace. The woman may be a knight, but she has no sense of propriety or decency. And she offers respect to no one but your grace.”

  Aefric considered addressing that. Instead, he let silence stretch, to see what else his castellan might say.

  “The obsequious way she kneels to your grace is disgusting. I struggle to believe that your grace does not censure her for it.”

  True, Aefric wasn’t fond of the kneeling. But he suspected he and Ser Deirdre were engaged in a game of wills, to see which of them would break first. Would he order her to stop? Or would she grow tired of the game?

  “Tonight, though, she went too far,” Ser Calder said, tension singing through all his muscles. “To dare call me usurper. I have served as castellan at Water’s End since before that whelp’s parents were born. I know more about knighthood and honor than she can conceive of.”

  “Why do you think she chose that word?”

  “To bait me, obviously,” Ser Calder said. “To offend me all she could, before hiding behind your grace. Though why your grace tolerates her at all, I cannot fathom. Unless it pleases your grace to have a pretty girl fawn over him so. Though if that is the case, I can suggest a number of—”

  “Ser Calder,” Aefric said sharply.

  “Excuse me, your grace,” Ser Calder said. “If I have overstepped, I apologize.”

  Aefric almost — almost — made a comment about how easily overstepping seemed to come to Ser Calder. But he didn’t want to get distracted from his point.

  “And you truly intend to challenge her to a duel?” Aefric asked.

  “Your grace, I do,” Ser Calder said.

  Aefric looked at the many lines on the knight’s face. The gray of his hair.

  “I assure your grace,” Ser Calder said proudly, “I am still knight enough to put that puppy in her place.”

  “And what does ‘her place’ involve?” Aefric asked. “A duel to first blood? To capitulation? To the death?”

  “I would not deprive my duke of even the least of his knights,” Ser Calder said. “I will be satisfied with first blood and an apology.”

  “And if you lose?”

  Ser Calder straightened as though struck.

  “I am not so young as I was,” Ser Calder said, voice low, “but I am far from feeble, your grace.”

  “Nor do I do accuse you of being feeble, Ser Calder,” Aefric said. “But I have seen Ser Deirdre fight. I’m not certain that I’ve seen her match.”

  “Your grace has never seen me fight.”

  “True,” Aefric said, then sighed. “Nor shall I anytime soon.”

  Ser Calder started objecting. Aefric had to talk over him.

  “I will finish, ser knight.”

  Grinding his teeth in fury, Ser Calder nodded for Aefric to proceed.

  “The king and queen of Armyr are here,” Aefric said. “My lieges. Here at Water’s End. And I will not have their memory of this visit include a duel between my castellan and one of my knights.”

  “But your grace—”

  “Am I understood?”

  Ser Calder bowed. “You are understood, your grace. May I speak?”

  “You may,” Aefric said cautiously. “And I hope you don’t make me regret this decision.”

  “Your grace,” Ser Calder said. “I am not a young man. My wife has passed. My children went off to seek their fortunes long ago. All I have left are my position and my honor. If your grace allows some knight to insult my honor, without allowing me to respond, I…”

  “I never said I would not allow you to respond,” Aefric said. “Only that I would not allow you to duel one of my knights during a royal visit. Once their majesties are gone, I’ll make the arrangements for your duel myself, if I need to.”

  “Your grace believes the whelp,” Ser Calder said, wonder on his face. “All I have done in the service of Water’s End and Deepwater, and your grace trusts to the word of a pretty young knight over my own.”

  “That’s not true, Ser Calder,” Aefric said, though it was closer to the truth than he liked to admit.

  Still. He was at least requiring corroboration before acting on Ser Deirdre’s accusation. Even if Ser Calder didn’t know this.

  “Your grace swears to this? I know I am not the favorite among his vassals.”

  “You spoke of overstepping,” Aefric said. “Something that seems to come too easily to you, Ser Calder. Which is the source of the difficulties between us.”

  “With respect, your grace,” Ser Calder said, “I could as easily say that your grace treats me and my position with … less regard than I have grown accustomed to.”

  “Perhaps,” Aefric said. “But I am not a Soulfist. And the way I rule my duchy will necessarily be different from the way Arinda’s family did.”

  “With respect,” Ser Calder said carefully, “one might observe that your grace is new to his position, and might do well to heed the advice of those who have more experience.”

  “Advice is not at issue,” Aefric said. “I have never failed to seek advice from my advisers, yourself included.”

  “With—”

  “The issue,” Aefric said, “is judgment. You seem to feel that, because you have held your position for a considerable length of time, I should trust your judgment over my own.”

  “My judgment has been tempered with a good deal of experience, your grace.”

  “That may be,” Aefric said. “But his majesty chose me to rule Deepwater in his name. Not you. Which means that, when all is said and done, the responsibility for Deepwater is mine. Therefore the decisions shaping Deepwater must be those I agree with.”

  “Surely your grace could ease into the position—”

  “Enough,” Aefric said. “It is my judgment that will steer Deepwater. You are castellan. With my seneschal, you share responsibility for Water’s End itself. And — to the degree that I allow you and no further — you may stand for me in my absence.”

  “The Soulfists preferred—”

  “I did not ask,” Aefric said. “They handled Deepwater their way. I shall handle it mine. Your task as castellan is to adjust to the difference.”

  Ser Calder frowned in thought.

  “Can you do that, Ser Calder?” Aefric asked.

  “I … don’t know, your grace,” Ser Calder said, with what might have been more honesty than Aefric had heard in his voice … possibly ever. “How old are you, your grace?”

  “This is my twenty-fifth summer,” Aefric said, although he knew that was approximate. Because the start of his life here in Qorunn was … unusual.

  “I have been castellan here for more than twice that many years,” Ser Calder said, shaking his head. “The changes your grace speaks of … they will be difficult adjustments.”

  “I understand,” Aefric said.

  “Forgive me, your grace,” Ser Calder said with surprising gentleness, “but I don’t believe you could. You are far too young to understand.”

  “Fair enough,” Aefric said. “I empathize, then.”

  “Perhaps,” Ser Calder said slowly. “Perhaps. You didn’t offer me retirement, which shows you have some wisdom.” He shook his head. “Retirement would kill me.”

  “That I believe,” Aefric said. “Retirement kills many knights and adventurers.”