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central tower, the Saeborc, or Sea Tower—more important to Durasnir than Leofaborc, Tower of Concord, from whose towers those high in the council and the Hilda watched. The wind-flagged figures along Saeborc’s upper and lower parapets were more distinct now: he recognized some of the wives of Oneli commanders and captains. His gaze slid past the occasional colors, and a handful in the unrelieved white of honorable mourning. Far more were dressed in the black of dishonorable death, either real or the symbolic death of being formally cast out.
    Standing a little apart from the others, squarely centered on the highest wall, wearing black from head to foot, was Durasnir’s wife, Brun.
    So the sham begins, he thought.
    This thought was shared, though he did not know it, by several of the women on the Saeborc wall, including Brun.
    At the other end of the wall, a captain’s wife with a glass pressed to her eye said in an undervoice to her companion, “I’ve got the flagship in view now. There’s Stalna Hyarl Durasnir, with his glass turned up here. I think he saw us.” She uttered a laugh, the wind snapping away the vapor from her breath. “I think he saw her . By the root, he’s gone back into the cabin.”
    Both captains’ wives turned their faces into the wind, now keen and cold, and surveyed Vra Stalna Durasnir, who stood alone, plainly wanting no company. “Brun Hatchet-Face was the first to wear black.” The first one huffed a laugh; her breath froze and whipped away instantly in the keening wind. “He’ll get an icy welcome tonight, you can be sure.”
    “At their age?” retorted her companion, with the superior confidence of a young wife. “That bed’s been cold since the last Breseng.”
    “Halvir, their boy, is just turned five,” a third said, from just behind. “And he wasn’t a Birth Spell.”
    The two whirled around, then deferred as a tall, stout older woman took their place. The newcomer, whose cloak and long, tasseled hood were a stark black that emphasized her age-white hair, was wife to Captain Seigmad, Left Flank Battlegroup Captain, veteran of sixty years of service.
    “You and your icy beds,” Vra Seigmad pronounced, disgusted with their ignorance and presumption. She snorted as she raised her glass toward the ships surging in on the rising tide.
    “There’s Petrel, ” the first woman exclaimed, peering past Vra Seigmad’s shoulder.
    From farther down the wall the waiting women gazed into the strengthening wind and named out loud the great warships as their smooth, arched prows resolved out of the fleeing night. The impressive formation—the horn of triumph—passed the Dragon’s Claw that marked the outermost reach of the harbor, and the fleet tacked in exhilarating precision, the Battlegroup flagships in a row behind Cormorant, the others grouping behind in station. As the wind rose, sails loosened, brailed up and furled, magnificent in synchrony.
    When the flagships vanished beyond the outward jut of the guard wall in order to dock along the Oneli jetty, the women withdrew inside, shutting inset doors tight against the sleet that began to tear horizontally across the gray-green waves. There were no windows anywhere facing west; the only doors giving onto the western walls were tucked inside bastions.
    “Vra Seigmad must be berserk. Everyone’s gone berserk! The Oneli in triumph when we all know they lost Halia?”
    “Hatchet-Face in black makes sense,” the young wife whispered, with a quick glance over her shoulder. “Friya Haudan herself witnessed Vra Durasnir throwing her scroll-case into the sea after word came about the loss of Halia.”
    “Ho!”
    “Shh.”
    A quick look from side to side caused the young wife to look around as well. She’d forgotten the rumors about the dags’ listening magic. Her own House dag was boring, she could not imagine him casting spells to spy on people or daring the gates of Norsunder in order to gain mysterious spells like was said