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have stabbed her in the back. And if Roban had really thought he was an assassin, he would have had his sword drawn and through the man in an instant, instead of punching and throwing him, and he certainly wouldn’t have blocked Clariel’s own attack.
    She was wondering what this was all about as two score or more of armed soldiery came around the corner, marching in step. Though all wore hauberks of mail or gethre plates, their surcoats varied, showing different guild insignia. There were gold coins for the goldsmiths, stylized ships for the merchant adventurers, bright blue drops for the dyers, upright swords for the weaponsmiths, and other blazons Clariel did not immediately recognize.
    They were led by a tall and imposing man of middle age, who wore a long, very white surcoat over a hauberk of gilded mail, not gethre plates. The surcoat was embroidered with the tower and aqueduct symbol of the city of Belisaere, with a smaller badge above his heart, the coins of the goldsmiths again. It was cinched tightly at the waist by a very shiny belt of gold, supporting a gold scabbard that held a rather impractical-looking but very decorative sword with swan wing quillons and a jewel in the pommel. He looked to be forty or thereabouts, and no doubt had been very handsome when younger, as much of it still remained in his even features and thick, dark hair. But as he drew closer, Clariel noted his eyes were narrow, sharp, and distrustful, the eyes not of a hunter, but of a vicious predator. He reminded her somewhat of a stoat. A sleek and powerful stoat.
    “Guildmaster Kilp,” whispered Valannie in Clariel’s ear. “A middle bow to him usually, guild relative to guildmaster, but as he’s governor of the city as well, a full bow please, milady.”
    Clariel bowed low as the Governor approached. She kept her face impassive, but inside she was trying to figure all this out. The attack on her had been staged, but for what purpose? Clearly something organized by Kilp, because why would he be so close by otherwise?
    “Ah, the young lady Clariel, daughter of my most gifted colleague Jaciel,” said Kilp, returning her bow with a slight inclination of his head. As he straightened up, she saw he had no baptismal Charter mark on his forehead, or if he did, it had been very cleverly hidden with powder and paint. He smiled as he spoke, but though his lips curled, she felt no warmth or kindness in his smile. “I trust you have taken no harm?”
    “No, sir,” said Clariel shortly. She almost said something else, but Roban had edged into her vision and his eyes, at least, were alive with an emotion, one she recognized as apprehension, perhaps even fear. She shut her mouth, and saw Roban’s throat move slightly, a barely noticeable gulp of relief.
    “I am pleased to hear it,” said Kilp. He lifted his head and raised his voice, speaking not to Clariel, but to the few people still around, and no doubt to the others listening behind shutters and doors in the shops and houses nearby. “If you had been injured, or Charter forbid, killed, then we would not rest to bring the assassin to justice. Indeed, should any of my guildmembers suffer such an attack again, we would be forced to close off the location, forbid all business, search all within, and take any further action that might be warranted.”
    He looked at Clariel and smiled again. She smiled back, the smile she used for customers who were trying to sneak bad coins in payment, pass an alloy as pure gold, or otherwise cheat her parents’ business.
    “Perhaps I can escort you home, Lady Clariel?” he asked. “To be certain of your safety.”
    Clariel shook her head. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was certain she didn’t want to spend any more time in Kilp’s company than was absolutely necessary.
    “No thank you, Guildmaster. We have not yet completed our purchases. Valannie, please, let us continue.”
    Valannie looked frightened now, more fearful than Roban had