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For two hours she strung her body through them all, and back again, fighting imaginary duels in her mind: against one, against many, against overwhelming odds; rehearsing that final dance that all Mantis warriors hoped for.
    She completed her pass, blade glittering in the air, and found the rapier’s point falling into line with the chest of a Dragonfly man now standing in the doorway. He looked to be another of the seneschal’s stamp, wearing clothes of the same green, gold and blue colours, but more practically made and harder-wearing. His hair was a little longer than the fashion in Suon Ren, and bound back, and she guessed he was older than the seneschal as well.
    ‘I hope I do not interrupt,’ he said mildly. ‘I am sent from the castle.’
    The surprise of actually being spoken to dried her throat, and it was a moment before she could speak. ‘The ambassador is not here . . .’ Abruptly a thought came to her, a certainty: ‘The prince is returned.’
    ‘As you say,’ the Dragonfly confirmed. ‘Seneschal Coren has reported a petition that disturbs him, a Lowlander demanding an audience.’
    ‘You are sent for me?’
    ‘I am sent here to find out what it is you want with the prince,’ he corrected her. There was a straightness in his bearing that was almost reminiscent of Tisamon, a pride rooted in ancient places. She wondered if the man was a Dragonfly Weaponsmaster come to kill her, if her answers did not suit.
    Her rapier found its home in her scabbard, and she let out a long breath. ‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked him, finding the locals’ elaborate politeness too standoffish.
    ‘When Stenwold Maker came here, he spoke of war. Are you sent on the same mission?’
    She sensed that this was the question that could see her turned away, although she could not quite grasp the significance the man was putting into his words. ‘I have come to talk to the prince about Salma – about Prince Salme Dien.’ She stumbled over the formal Commonweal name, because he had always just been ‘Salma’ to her. ‘Did you know him? The prince became his guardian after Salma’s father died.’ Uncertainty was evident in her voice, and the Dragonfly shook his head slightly.
    ‘He was kin-obligate to the prince.’ It was another polite correction. The Commonweal tradition that saw children find surrogate homes with those of other castes and trades was something alien to the Lowlands. ‘It is true that Prince-Minor Salme Dien had the honour of being chosen by Prince Felipe as such. It is a rare thing indeed for a prince to so bless the children of another noble family. We all remember him fondly. To my prince, he was as a son.’ Something was softening in the man, his cold manner melting away, and she felt a connection with him, tenuous but present – the first time she had found any echo of humanity in this reserved people since Salma had died.
    Tynisa realized how she was clenching her fists, nails digging painfully into her palms, as if in readiness for her next words. ‘You know that he is dead?’
    There was no surprise. ‘Your Master Stenwold Maker brought a letter from Salme Dien: a farewell to the prince. Clearly Dien knew that he would die, or guessed at it. You were his friend, I see. His death has marked you.’
    More than his friend , Tynisa thought, but she just nodded. Somewhere in Gramo’s house that irresistible smile of his winked and wounded, the echo of the man she had known and loved. ‘I just thought . . . he did so much for the Lowlands. Perhaps in the end nobody did more to stop the Wasps. I just thought that someone should come and speak of him to Prince Felipe, and about what he did. I don’t know . . .’ Her voice began to crack and she scowled, reaching for her Weaponsmaster’s core of self-control, and finding it slippery in her hands. ‘I don’t know if there has been a messenger, or if Stenwold sent a letter, or . . .’ She finished lamely. ‘And that’s why I’ve