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would he?” Darry asked. “The throne is his birthright and he has spent his whole life preparing to claim it. But if he could bring about peace with Lyoness and secure the Lowlands once and for all? It would grease his path to the throne with scented oils and petals of roses. He sees some great victory in this scheme that will do just that.”
    “And so what information do they have?”
    Darry laughed. “As if I would know? I’m the backwards indiscretion, remember? My father would no more share such knowledge with me than he would dance with me on Solstice Eve.”
    Bentley heard the taint of unhappiness once again and knew that she had drunk more wine than usual. She would never have made such a comment so casually were she not a tad in her cups, not even to him.
    “Bharjah offered up his daughter like a prized piece of meat and Malcolm snapped at her like a hungry dog. My father has agreed to let them come and to see how this all plays out. That’s all I know for certain and, to be honest, all I care to know. If thirty years from now Arravan has a king of Lyonese blood, this will be the best gamble that Bharjah ever made. No doubt I shall be long dead by then. Killed in a bar fight most likely.”
    Bentley’s heart stuttered. “No doubt,” he whispered. “Shall we have a big funeral?”
    Darry smiled at the assumption they would go together. “I’ve just bought a bodhran, so perhaps we might have music as well.”
    “You should’ve broken a fiddle then.”
    “I hear that she’s very beautiful,” Darry said after a time, remembering her brief glimpse of the princess and how her sari had caught the sun.
    “The Nightshade Lark?”
    “Named so for her dark hair and famous voice,” Darry said, wondering what Bharjah’s daughter would be like. There was little mystery about her many brothers. They were said to be as their father—hard, cruel men. Of the Princess Jessa-Sirrah, however, very little was known.
    “Perhaps she looks like her father.”
    “Don’t jest, Bentley. She’s being offered up like a sacrifice. She deserves our respect and best manners.”
    Bentley smiled.
    After a while the barkeep approached, setting another bottle of Ravonese gold on their table, then taking up the empty one.
    “We did not order such,” Bentley said. “And though it’s a rather delicious, fruity vintage, I think you have most of our coin already.”
    “Compliments of the Lady Marin Corvinus,” the man said, and walked away.
    “Corvinus. I believe I might know that one,” Bentley said.
    “Someone likes you, my pretty.”
    Bentley searched the room until his eyes fell upon the courtesan. Dressed in lace stockings and an ivory-colored corset with ties of green ribbons, she lounged in a cushioned chair as if it were a throne. Her face was beautiful, heart-shaped and delicate, and she eyed them with a secretive smile.
    “Sweet Gamar’s mustache. Sit up, Darry.” Bentley filled his goblet again and stared across the room, searching for an invitation from the courtesan as he took a slow drink.
    Darry’s arms were on the table and her left hand played at the cuff of her right sleeve. “Is she pretty?”
    “Decidedly so.”
    “I’ve a few golds in my pockets yet,” she said as he refilled her cup.
    The courtesan’s head tipped back slightly and her lips parted as Darry took a drink, her gaze filled with more heat than the fire that blazed within the hearth. “Sweet Jezara,” Bentley said. “Best save that gold for yourself.”
    Darry’s brow came down in confusion.
    Bentley laughed at her frown and reclined against the bench. “The wine was not for me. Look for yourself, by the hearth.”
    Darry set her wine down and let her eyes wander, taking in the woman’s lovely curls, the red within the buoyant strands flaring in the firelight. She followed them down along the smooth neck and then farther still, admiring her gorgeous curves and the cut of the corset. Her legs were long and smooth, and