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lances?” he’d warned. “You don’t linger. And you don’t complain. Ever.”
    When Juster asked who led them, the man spoke of “black-cladgaunt men with doomed eyes”, which the nobleman put down to scaremongering exaggeration rather than accurate description. Clearly, no one could predict the nature of his reception at the palace.
    Few people were in the streets at that time of night. No one approached them, not when Juster thrust his cloak back to reveal his hand on the hilt of his sword. Together with the lanky torchbearer, who carried a cudgel as well as the burning brand, and the two burly dock lumpers, they were more than enough to discourage any cut-throat, but still she did not feel safe. The king had wanted her dead once and, as Fox was a sorcerer, it was possible he’d see through her witchery. Saker said even the Pontifect had been unable to use her witchery against the Prime.
    Barklee’s brother-in-law was an advocate, a lawyer, not a nobleman or a courtier privy to the comings and goings of the notables, but he had heard the Prime now lived mainly in Vavala as that was the seat of the Pontifect. She prayed his information was correct.
    At the gates, the guards admitted Lord Juster through the small portal, and closed it after him before she or the hired men with the box could enter. She waited, alert, to one side, until a minute or two later two soldiers came out with Juster. He paid off all three hired men and asked the guards to carry the box inside. Sorrel sidled in behind them.
    Within the archway of the gate tower, a pair of hanging candle lanterns battled to dispel the gloom. The balding watch commander, lips pursed, regarded Juster and the box unhappily.
    “My lord,” he said, “I’m sure His Majesty would be glad to see you come morn, but it’s nigh near ten of the clock, and with his blighted sight, he retires early nowadays.”
    “His orders were for me to report the moment I returned,” Juster said calmly. “Best that you leave the decision to His Majesty, or to his chamberlain.” He smiled pleasantly. “You know me well, I think. Peebolt, is it not?”
    “Yes, my lord. Tomat Peebolt. My uncle was a gamekeeper on your estate.”
    “I remember. Well, I’m sure you know I present no threat to His Majesty. If he has no wish to see me tonight, then I will ask for abed and present myself to the king tomorrow.”
    The commander capitulated, and ordered two of the younger guards to accompany Lord Juster to the chamberlain’s room in the king’s solar, adding, “They can carry your gift.”
    They set off, the guards in the lead. Sorrel touched Juster’s arm to tell him she was still with him. He nodded in acknowledgement, but didn’t glance her way. She dropped a step or two behind, careful to keep her pace steady and perfectly blended to the background.
    The solar was on the second floor, up two broad sweeping flights of stairs. She had only been into the inner chambers once – a night she preferred to forget – but she was familiar with the entrance room, which served as a reception chamber where people waited to be admitted to the king. It led into a much more impressive audience room with a line of tall windows down one side, dressed with velvet curtains.
    At the entrance to the solar, there were two guards on duty, and here Juster halted, while one of these guardsmen checked to see if the king would see him. She chose to flatten herself against the wall because the uneven linenfold moulding of the wooden panels helped to disguise her outline.
    Shortly afterwards, Conrid Masterton came bustling out of the solar. She knew him well enough by sight. When she’d been Lady Mathilda’s handmaiden, he’d been the palace’s resident prelate. She was appalled to see that now, although still clad in clerical robes, he was also wearing the elaborate chain of the king’s chamberlain. The elderly, pragmatic man who had held that post previously had been replaced by a cleric who owed