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servants, so he was forced to answer the summons himself.
    “Let me in.” Grefin, standing on the threshold. “I’ve things to say.”
    Balfre smiled. In his veins his blood bubbled, dangerous. “Brother Steward. Come to gloat?”
    “Don’t be a noddle, Balfre,” Grefin said, impatient. “Let me in.”
    If he could change what had happened by beating his brother bloody, he would. But this war could only be won with words. He stepped back. “Fine. Join me, and welcome.”
    “You’re alone?” said Grefin, leading the way into the privy chamber. “Where’s Jancis?”
    “I don’t know.” He made for the sideboard. “My wife has taken to aping yours, and so does as she pleases. What do you want?”
    “I told you. To talk.”
    Picking up a bottle of brandy, he offered his brother a bright smile. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating your good fortune with Mazelina? Surely you’ve told her the happy news.”
    “I wanted to see you first.” Grefin nodded at the brandy. “Might I have some of that, if you’ve not emptied the bottle?”
    “Of course, little brother. As if you need to ask. Isn’t everything mine as good as yours?”
    “Balfre—” Grefin stared, his brows pinched tight, then moved to the fireplace and thrust a fresh log into the lowering flames. “This isn’t my doing. I never asked Aimery to make me Steward.”
    “Then refuse the appointment.”
    “I tried. He won’t let me.”
    “Try harder.”
    Grefin sighed. “I can’t.”
    “Yes, you can. You just don’t want to.”
    Their gazes met, like the clashing of swords. Grefin was the first to look away. “You can’t blame Aimery for being angry. You did defy him, challenging Hughe. And he sees your defiance as a stain on his honour.”
    “What of my stain? What of Hughe and his filthy tongue? Where’s my honour if I don’t dispute such rank and public slander? Or doesn’t that matter?”
    “Of course it matters,” Grefin muttered. “But curse it, Balfre, you know what Herewart is. If he’d not seen you punished he’d stir trouble with the lords, say that Aimery tramples justice to protect his son.”
    “So I’m trampled instead, my rights as Harcia’s heir mangled like a hog’s guts in the mud? Where’s the justice in that?”
    “Balfre, I understand you’re disappointed. But try to see it through Aimery’s eyes. He—”
    “Fuck Aimery’s eyes!” Shaking, he sloshed brandy into a fresh goblet. Drained it dry as those dragon-talons twisted deeper into his guts. “We both know the old bastard won’t keep this secret. Within the week all of Harcia will know I’m disinherited the stewardship, andby month’s end Clemen will know it too. We’ll hear Harald laughing all the way from Eaglerock.”
    “Harald?” Grefin groaned. “Why must everything come back to Harald?”
    He stared. “
Why?
I swear, Grefin, you’re as blind as Aimery. It’s a fucking mercy you’re not the one stepped into Malcolm’s boots.” He refilled the goblet, hand still unsteady. “At least not the whole way.”
    “Not even part way,” said Grefin. “I don’t want to be duke.”
    “Good, for you’d make a poor one!” he retorted. “Don’t you see, Grefin? Sooner or later Harcia will be mine. And if Harald still rules Clemen then? By the Exarch’s balls, how will I keep us safe from that slavering mongrel if Aimery’s already taught him I’m not to be feared! Has the old fool thought of that? Fuck if he has!”
    Another sigh, then Grefin looked again to the brandy. “Do I get a drink, or don’t I?”
    He walked away from the sideboard. “Am I your fucking servant now? Pour it yourself.”
    So Grefin tipped brandy into another goblet and drank, more deeply than was his habit. Balfre, looking over his shoulder, seeing the misery so close to his brother’s plain surface, turned from the chamber’s narrow, shuttered window. Fuck. Despite everything, and no matter how much he resented it, Grefin’s honest pain could still