Similar versions of the ceremony would be carried out all over Skala.

He was halfway down the ladder when a rider clattered around a corner down the street.

Recognizing Seregil's glossy Aurenfaie mare, Alec jumped down and ran to meet them.

Seregil reined Cynril to a walk and looked Alec over with a disapproving frown as he continued up the street. "Out in your shirtsleeves like a common laborer? What will the neighbors say?"

"I did remark upon it, my lord," Runcer commented blandly as they came up.

"I guess they'll say I'm more likely to do a lick of honest work than my fop of a guardian," Alec said with a laugh, too relieved to see Seregil safely home to care what anyone thought.

Wherever Seregil had been, he'd costumed himself carefully for the role of returning lord. His mud-spattered boots and gauntlets were of the finest chestnut-brown leather, his riding mantle lined with dark fur. Beneath it he wore a velvet surcoat, and tall pheasant feathers bobbed at a jaunty angle from the jeweled cockade of his cap.

"Ah well, we must forgive him his rough ways," Seregil said, throwing an arm around Alec's shoulders as they went inside. "These northern squire's sons are badly raised—too much honest labor in their youth. How's everything here?"

"Come see for yourself."

Inside, the main hall was still swarming with servants.

The carpets were being rolled back in preparation for the night's dancing and fragrant garlands of plaited wheat and winter greenery festooned the walls. Rich aromas had been floating out from the kitchen since dawn. The feast after the ceremony would be cold, but well laid on.

"What about the lightwands?" asked Seregil as he sat to tug off his boots.

"They arrived from the Oreska House yesterday, my lord," Runcer informed him, hovering close at hand. "Nysander i Azusthra and Lady Magyana a Rhioni have confirmed that they will contribute to the evening's entertainment again this year."

"Good. Any word from the Cavishes?"

"They are expected this afternoon, my lord. I prepared the upstairs guest chambers myself."

"We'll leave you to it, then. Come on, Alec, you can give me the news while I freshen up."

"Nysander's invited the Cavishes to sit with him," Alec told him as they went up the stairs to Seregil's room, adding wistfully, "I wish we could."

"I know, but Kylith's group is likely to be more informative. Besides, you need practice playing nobility."

Seregil's bedchamber overlooked the garden at the back of the villa. Unlike the other rooms, it was furnished in Aurenfaie style, with walls whitewashed rather than frescoed, and the furnishings were done in pale woods and simple lines. In contrast, the cushions, carpets, and hangings around the bed were vibrant with pattern and color.

The shutters had been opened and a fire crackled invitingly in the marble fireplace.

"Runcer's right, you know," he went on, tossing his cloak over a clothes chest and going to the fire.

"It's not good for you to be seen out there in your shirtsleeves. When you're playing a role—"

Alec sighed. "You play it to the bone, I know, but—"

"No excuses. It's part of the game." Seregil leveled a gloved forefinger at him. "You know as well as I do that it doesn't matter at the Cockerel or half the time around here, but on a real job something like that could get you killed! When you play Sir Alec, you must be Sir Alec. Either live it from the heart, or stand outside yourself like a puppet master and direct every movement. You've seen me do it often enough."

Alec stared glumly out over the snow-dusted garden.

"Yes, but I doubt I'll ever be as good at it as you."

Seregil let out an impatient snort.

"Horseshit. That's what you said about swordplay, and look how you've come along. Besides, you're a natural actor when the role doesn't go against your stiff-necked, Dalnan yeoman's pride. Relax! Flow with the moment."

Seregil suddenly grabbed him by the arm and whirled him into an eccentric jig around the room. Alec hadn't even heard him approach. But he recovered swiftly and took the lead.

"But Sir Alec is a stiff-necked Dalnan yeoman," he said, laughing as he clomped through the steps of a country dance Beka and Elsbet had taught him.

"Wrong!" Grinning wickedly, Seregil yanked him into a formal pavan. "Sir Alec is stiff-necked Dalnan gentry. Besides, he should be picking up a few of Lord Seregil's airs along the way."

Alec leaned back in mock horror. "Maker's Mercy, anything but that!" Still gripping Seregil's gloved hand his thumb found a ridge beneath the thin leather. Frowning, he felt at it. "What's this? A bandage?"

"It's nothing, just a few scrapes." Seregil stripped off the gloves and showed him thin strips of linen across each palm. "And what about you?" He turned Alec's left palm up and examined the scab there.

"I cut myself going over a wall the other night," Alec told him, letting Seregil's obvious evasion go without argument, knowing it would be futile to press him. "I got chased on the way home afterward, too, but I got away all right."

"Any idea who it was?"

"Footpads, probably. I didn't get much of a look at them."

"How many 'thems' were there?"

"Three, I think. I was too busy rabbiting to take count."

"Let's hear it."

Dropping into a chair by the fire, Alec launched into a well-rehearsed and somewhat embellished account of his escape down Silvermoon Street.

"That was quick thinking, using the palace guard for protection," said Seregil when he'd finished. "And speaking of the Palace, I've got something for you—a little thank you from the Queen and Klia, I think."

He took a small pouch from his coat and tossed it to Alec. Opening it, the boy found a heavy silver cloak brooch fashioned to look like a wreath of leafy branches surrounding a deep blue stone.

"Silver leaves." Alec smiled slightly as he admired it. "The first time I met Klia up in Cirna I was calling myself Aren Silverleaf."

"That's a good stone," Seregil remarked, looking at it over his shoulder. "You could get a fine horse for that, if you ever need to. Just be sure not to let on where it came from, or why. We've got reputations to hide."

Ilia Cavish burst into the hall like a small, happy hurricane just after midday. "Uncle Seregil! Alec! We're here!"

From the musicians' gallery, Seregil watched as she tackled Alec, who'd just come out of the dining room.

"I can stay up for the party this year because I'm six now," she announced, hugging Alec excitedly.

"And I got new shoes and a real gown with a long skirt and two petticoats and—Where's Uncle Seregil?"

"I'm on my way," Seregil called. Going down the steep narrow stairs from the gallery, he strode across the hall and claimed a hug of his own.

"Did you ride in from Watermead all by yourself, madame?"

Illia pulled a long face. "Mother's still being sick from the baby, so she had to ride in a cart with Arna and Eulis. Father and Elsbet and me all had to ride slow. But he let me come ahead when we got to your street. I'm the van soldier!"

"I think you mean vanguard," Alec corrected with a smile.

"That's what I said, silly. Do Elsbet and I get to sleep in the room next to yours, Uncle? The one with the dragon-shaped bed and the ladies painted on the walls?"

"Of course you do, so long as you don't pop out at the guests once you've been put to bed the way you did last year."

"Oh, I'm much too old for that now," she assured him, taking him and Alec by the hand and drawing them toward the door. "Come on, now. Father and Mother must be here by now."

Wheel Street was thick with traffic, but Seregil quickly spotted Micum's coppery head bobbing toward him through the press, followed by his second daughter and a covered cart driven by a pair of servant women. Old Arna spied him and waved.