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send out a stand-down on the alert, will you?
    Falk managed to keep his answering smile tight-lipped, instead of splitting his beard with a foolish grin.
    â€œAs you wish,” he said.
    Since I can’t hope to order the bitch killed without losing my own head , he was thinking.
    Having Falk’s head off was the kindest thing that His Imperial Majesty was likely to do to him if he found out what his new security chief had done to his adored daughter while she was in his custody, and the Creators’ ban on torture be damned.
    He must tread carefully—more so now than ever, precisely because of his powerful position. Most particularly he had to guard against a tendency to take Felipe for a rambling, ineffectual fool. Which error had led the Electors to choose to place his broad buttocks on the Fangèd Throne, under the misapprehension he’d be safe and do nothing to upset the Empire. Or the death grip his family, Torre Delgao, had held on the Empire’s rule since its inception.
    In fact the Emperor was highly intelligent—and highly ambitious to exercise the power latent in the throne in the face of centuries of calculated inaction. His activism had sparked a rebellion among the nobles of Alemania, among them Falk himself. And his nature, impulsive yet easily led—and not eager to reconsider an action, once taken—had also set Falk on the path to his present status, once he’d presented himself at court to repent theatrically of his error and throw himself on Felipe’s mercy. Felipe did love his grand gestures.
    He also loved his daughters, even though he tended to forget they existed when distracted by matters of state or his love for hunting, say. Falk’s excess, drunk with triumph as well as wine—and the sly words of his manservant—could yet cost him and his mother everything they’d worked for over the years.
    Still, Falk was well-pleased with the situation. Albeit not smug. And that hada Bergdahl will prevent smugness from ever gaining a foothold in me .
    *   *   *
    Rob jumped. Karyl sat up crisply.
    A man stood in the doorway. He had a heroic paunch, with chest and shoulders to match or more. Coarse dark-blond hair was swept back from sun-reddened features of the sort called leonine, after the bestiaries of fabulous animals of First Home that were a favorite of every child. His green-trimmed brown tunic, tan hose, and brown suede boots were plain but clearly of expensive make. A belt supported a scabbarded broadsword. From the wear visible on the hilt it was no prop.
    The town guards at the door stood deferentially away. Clearly, Rob noted, here stood a man of Consequence. Although his sheer presence would command attention regardless of his standing.
    â€œMerchant Évrard,” Violette said. “I thought I sensed an unsavory smell.”
    â€œInsult us as you wish,” Évrard said with a smile. “So long as you continue to pay us in the Count’s good silver, we’ll continue to feed you. Now, if it pleases the Council, allow me to rephrase: will you hear, not me, but my son, who fell sorely wounded protecting us all?”
    For a moment Melchor, Longeau, and Violette looked ready to refuse. A feral growl rose from the crowd. Gaétan was popular to begin with. Whatever they felt about Karyl, the mob was eager to seize upon his unquestioned heroism despite the Blueflowers debacle. Perhaps the more so because of it.
    Not leaving time for the hostile Councilors to object, youthful members of the merchant’s extended family carried in a litter. On it lay Gaétan, still deathly pallid except for a fever-flush on his cheeks. As his kinsfolk bore him to the front of the hall, the onlookers packed into the central hustled aside, not scrupling to knock one another onto those seated on the benches.
    Who muttered curses but made no effort to thrust them back toward the pallet and its being carried forward. So deeply