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Halcyon an unappreciative leg.
    As Bullard tumbled to the floor, he said, with no sign of rancour. “Until the Brothers Borskyr see gold on your finger, you won’t be seeing theirX s on your paper.”
    “A lot can happen between here and the altar—the viscerals of life in the big city,” Becil said. “No ring. no sign.”
    “How about I have a look at that sword—”
    “No!” shouted Piergeiron and Madieron in chorus.
    Becil slapped his brother’s hand away, whereupon the unflappable Bullard flapped. “Hands off, Im-Becil.”
    “Im-Becil,” murmured Madieron, and he chuckled to himself. “I get it. Im-Becil” “Shut up, Dullard!”
    “Im-Becil and Dullard,” Madieron repeated, chortling. As the blond giant laughed and the Boarskyr Brothers engaged in a spirited slap-fight, Piergeiron thought once again about building a five-mile loop around Boarskyr Bridge and letting the town wither to nothing in the shadow of the great caravan way. Still, Grandfather Boarskyr had built in the best spot for fifty miles up or down the river. Circumventing it would be more costly, more time consuming, and more galling than even these negotiations.
    The Open Lord’s musings were interrupted by Bullard, who was seated and therefore had won the fight. “After all. Laird Pallidson, we didn’t become Boarskyrs by being idiots.”
    Piergeiron couldn’t help himself. “You became idiots by being Boarskyrs.”
    Red-cheeked, Becil struggled up from the floor. He regarded his brother darkly. “Pinky flicker.”
    “How about I have a look at that sword?”
    “Dullard, ha ha,” Madieron said, struggling to squelch his giggles. “Ha ha.”
     
    *****
    When Eidola emerged from her latest session beneath the sharp-nailed fingers of hairdressers and face powderers. Captain Rulathon was waiting. He merged more deeply with the shadows of the hallway. His always-intent face was especially grave.
    The watchcaptain was not blind to Eidola’s beauty. Her gown was exquisite, her makeup flawless. The fortress of hair, flowers, lace, and pins atop her head was a construct worthy of any siege engineer. The gem that hung from a silver chain round her slender throat glowed and sparkled in the candlelight
    Yes, she is beautiful, Rulathon thought, but artificially so. She is cold calculation instead of warm wildflowers. Every face she stares into is a mirror. When she seems to gaze lovingly into Piergeiron’s eyes, she admires only her own reflection.
    Beside and behind Eidola came a flock of chattering manicurists and hairdressers—the attendants who had worked the magic over her. They were each garbed in the ceremonial satins and laces that marked them as the retinue of the bride, though the ivory shade of their dresses showed that they lacked her white virtue. The Women pranced and laughed excitedly as they moved along.
    In a shimmering rush, they were past. Rirfathon waited a breath before he started out from the recess. A frisson of intuition ran up his spine, and he drew back. A last attendant came scuttling up behind. She called out for the others to wait and ran on toward their oblivious backs.
    As she flapped past, the watchcaptain thought for a moment he glimpsed, beneath the ruffle of skirts, a trailing tentacle.
    A tentacle, he thought. One would think a hairdresser would know enough to tuck away so telltale a thing.
    He stepped from the crevice, and pursued them through the darkness of the corridor.
    Just before the wedding ceremony began, Noph cornered Jheldan”Stormrunner” Boaldegg, First Mariner of the Master Mariners’ Guild. The sea dog stood in the narthex of the palace chapel, and like the other guests, waited to be seated for the ceremony.
    Noph casually approached the man. “An honest to goodness sea captain,” he said admiringly.
    The old seaman stared out from behind a fleecy white mask of beard and eyebrows. Around a battered pipe, he drawled, “Aye.”
    “This is the closest I’ve ever been to real