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an awareness that made the bird uncomfortable, as if she guessed his errand, or hismaster's name. But no matter. She was under the eye of the Sisters, and would never dare to throw a stone.
    The far edge of the Academy grounds touched the wall about Mol Etheg, the sacred mountain. Etheg had long since been engulfed by the city, but the ancient pines covering its slopes were unchanged from the time of the Amber Kings, when Etherhorde was a mere collection of huts on the edge of a boundless wood. Today Etheg was under the direct protection of His Supremacy the Emperor. So dire were the punishments for harming its trees that mothers forbade their children to play with pinecones that fell outside the wall. The falcon loved this forest, devoured its rabbits and snakes, dozed in its sunny branches.
    Not now, though. Up the mountain he flew, beyond exhaustion, announcing his coming with ragged shrieks. Cliffs appeared, and a lone lake, and then on the broken summit rose the huge, wet bulk of Castle Maag. The oldest structure in Etherhorde, Maag was the ancestral home of the ruling family, a darker and more private place than the five-domed seat of Empire in the city below. There the Emperor stunned his subjects with opulence: the crown of rubies, the throne cut from a single pale purple crystal. Here a pair of bejeweled concubines swatted beetles on a terrace, and an ancient gardener raked lilac petals into drifts, and the Queen Mother walked a white boar on a chain about the soggy grounds.
    Above them all, in the Weather Tower, shutters flew open. Sandor Ott, Spymaster of the Imperium, held a gloved hand from the window. He was an old man, and rather short, but his body was lean and strong. Eagerly he watched the bird's approach. Below the glove the skin of his arm was a crisscrossed tangle of scars.
    With a last flurry the bird alighted. The old man cooed to him and stroked his back.
    “Niriviel, my champion! You'll rest, and eat from my own plate tonight! But what news, finest falcon? Tell me at once!”
    Within the tower chamber, a group of younger men huddled, breathless. They were six in all: poised and muscular, with wary eyes and handsome faces. Some wore heavy silk, others the jaquina shirts of snow-white cotton made popular by a visit from the Prince of Talturi. None carried weapons (only Ott had that privilege within the castle walls) but most carried scars. One had been tending the fire when the bird arrived, and stood gaping, the poker forgotten in his hand. Indeed, no one moved a finger as Ott cocked hisear close to that savage beak. The men had spent the night shivering and sullen, not believing any bird would come; they would have laughed at the old warrior if they dared. But here it stood. Would the rest of his tale prove true? Would speech come from a wild thing, here in their very midst?
    No, it would not: Niriviel's voice was only a shrill whistle, the same as any bird of prey. But Sandor Ott listened motionless, so they did as well. The bird gave a longer trill, and then a curious hop on the spymaster's arm, as if attempting a demonstration.
    Ott took a deep breath. Then he walked the bird to its perch, whispering and petting him all the while. Once the falcon was settled he turned to look at them, his face wild with something, and slowly pulled off the glove. The hand that emerged flexed once, then tightened into a fist.
    “Rose is found,” he said.
    Abruptly the room fell so quiet they could hear the bubble of sap from a pine log in the hearth. Furtively, the men sought one another's eyes. Ott noticed the glances and raised his voice nearly to a shout.
    “Do you hear? Nilus Rotheby Rose is found! In Sorrophran, fresh from the Narrow Sea, and he'll be here at the helm of
Chathrand
in four days' time. Open that wine, somebody, and let us drink to good fortune. At long last the game is begun!”
    The men looked at the bottle of wine and did not move. One of them picked up the corkscrew from the table, unfolded