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valiantly in the cause of Hydlen. You will shed copious tears in telling his dear father, and award some title to his infant son. And the next would-be Cennon might think twice before—”
    “Did they teach you such deviltry somewhere, or did it spring from the depths of the earth?”
    “I do appreciate the compliment, ser.”
    Berfir shakes his head again, and walks across the muddy ground, swinging himself into the saddle of the big stallion.
    Gerlis smiles, a toothy grin that reveals large white teeth and reddish gums. His eyes flicker across the odd-shaped carts and the crimson banner with the gold dagger that signifies Cennon’s force, the banner that will soon pass to Cennon’s heir.
    Then his eyes return to the ducal banner, and he nods slowly.

V
    With the sound of horses, I set down the chisel and stepped out into the yard. The sky was clear blue-green, and a chill breeze blew out of the north.
    The open-topped carriage, drawn by matched chestnuts, stopped precisely opposite the door. On the driver’s seat sat a driver and a guard with both a blade and a cocked crossbow. Both wore gray leathers and gray shirts, but the driver wore brown boots and the guard wore black.
    The single occupant opened the half door herself and vaulted onto the packed clay of the yard.
    “Master Lerris?” She might have reached to my shoulder. Her eyes were a gray even stonier than her hair, and, under the green silk shirt, the brushed gray leather trousers and vest, she seemed whipcord-thin. Her high boots—gray leather—did match her outfit. For all the trappings of wealth, I did not recognize her. The faintest hint of roses flowed from around her.
    “The same.” I bowed. “How might I help you?”
    “By inviting me into your shop.”
    I bowed again and gestured toward the open door. “My pleasure.”
    “From what I’ve heard of your lady, your pleasure is bound to be only visual.” Her laugh was easy and practiced as she stepped into the workroom.
    “Nice design.” She pointed at the first of Hensil’s chairs. “How far along is that?”
    “It’s not quite rough-finished.”
    She studied the tools, the partly completed desk in the corner, and the spoked shafts I had been working on. “Do you have any finished work I might see?”
    “An inlaid table in the house,” I offered.
    “Then let us go view this masterpiece.”
    I led the way, conscious that the guard with the crossbow followed us both with his eyes as we walked back out and into the house. The crossbow wasn’t exactly trained on me, but I knew it would have taken but an instant.
    I could have had a door between the kitchen and the shop, but that idea hadn’t felt right, and I really wanted some separation. Besides, it kept the sawdust from drifting into the house.
    When she saw the table, she looked—just looked. Finally, she nodded. “You are as good as they say. Why is this here?”
    “The man who commissioned it fell out of a tree just before it was finished. He broke his neck and died. My consort insisted I keep it.”
    “Wise woman. You should keep listening to her.”
    “I try.”
    She looked up from the table. “I would like to commission a desk.”
    I had to spread my hands. “I need to know more. What style? A table desk, or a pedestal desk? Do you want drawers?” I paused. “I can show you some sketches of general types of desks.”
    “I know what I want.”
    I waited.
    “Something like your table, except even less elaborate. The lines should be almost straight, very clean. Only an inlaid border on a top with beveled edges, but with drawers in the pedestals on both sides—and false backs to the top drawers on each side.”
    “No special carvings or designs?”
    “Would you suggest any?”
    “I could put just a single initial—inlaid—somewhere not terribly obvious.”
    “Why would you go to the trouble of inlaying an initial and not making it obvious?” Her smile was amused, as if she knew the answer.
    “To show,