“What is that place?” she asked.

Bayaz narrowed his eyes at her. “The House of the Maker.”

“What is inside?”

“None of your business.”

Ferro almost spat with annoyance. “You lived there. You served Kanedias. You helped the Maker with his works. You told us all this, out on the plains. So tell me, what is inside?”

“You have a sharp memory, Ferro, but you forget one thing. We did not find the Seed. I do not need you. I do not need, in particular, to answer your endless questions any longer. Imagine my dismay.” He sucked primly at his tea again, raising his brows and peering out at the lazy pinks in the park.

Ferro forced a smile onto her own face. Or as close as she could get to a smile. She bared her teeth, at least. She remembered well enough what the bitter old woman Cawneil had said, and how much it had annoyed him. She would do the same. “The Maker. You tried to steal his secrets. You tried to steal his daughter. Tolomei was her name. Her father threw her from the roof. In return for her betrayal, in opening his gates to you. Am I wrong?”

Bayaz angrily flicked the last drops from his cup over the balcony. Ferro watched them glitter in the bright sun, tumbling downwards. “Yes, Ferro, the Maker threw his daughter from the roof. It would seem that we are both unlucky in love, eh? Bad luck for us. Worse luck for our lovers. Who would have dreamed we have so much in common?” Ferro wondered about shoving the pink bastard off the balcony after his tea. But he still owed her, and she meant to collect. So she only scowled, and ducked back through the doorway.

There was a new arrival in the room. A man with curly hair and a wide smile. He had a tall staff in his hand, a case of weathered leather over one shoulder. There was something strange about his eyes— one light, one dark. There was something about his watchful gaze that made Ferro suspicious. Even more than usual.

“Ah, the famous Ferro Maljinn. Forgive my curiosity, but it is not every day that one encounters a person of your… remarkable ancestry.”

Ferro did not like that he knew her name, or her ancestry, or anything about her. “Who are you?”

“Where are my manners? I am Yoru Sulfur, of the order of Magi,” and he offered his hand. She did not take it but he only smiled. “Not one of the original twelve, of course, not I. Merely an afterthought. A late addition. I was once apprentice to great Bayaz.”

Ferro snorted. That hardly qualified him for trust in her estimation. “What happened?”

“I graduated.”

Bayaz tossed his cup down rattling on a table by the window. “Yoru,” he said, and the newcomer humbly bowed his head. “My thanks for your work thus far. Precise and to the point, as always.”

Sulfur’s smile grew broader. “A small cog in a large machine, Master Bayaz, but I try to be a sturdy one.”

“You have yet to let me down. I do not forget that. How is your next little game progressing?”

“Ready to begin, at your command.”

“Let us begin now. There is nothing to be gained by delay.”

“I shall make the preparations. I have also brought this, as you asked.” He swung the bag down from his shoulder and gingerly reached inside. He slowly drew out a book. Large and black, its heavy covers hacked, and scarred, and charred by fire. “Glustrod’s book,” he murmured softly, as though afraid to say the words.

Bayaz frowned. “Keep it, for now. There was an unexpected complication.”

“A complication?” Sulfur slid the book back into its case with some relief.

“What we sought… was not there.”

“Then—”

“As regards our other plans, nothing is changed.”

“Of course.” Sulfur bowed his head again. “Lord Isher will already be on his way.”

“Very well.” Bayaz glanced over at Ferro, as though he had only just remembered that she was there. “For the time being, perhaps you would be good enough to give us the room? I have a visitor that I must attend to.”

She was happy to leave, but she took her time moving, if only because Bayaz wanted her gone quickly. She unfolded her arms, stood on the spot and stretched. She strolled to the door by a roundabout route, letting her feet scuff against the boards and fill the room with their ugly scraping. She stopped on the way to gaze at a picture, to poke at a chair, to flick at a shiny pot, none of which interested her at all. All the while Quai watched, and Bayaz frowned, and Sulfur grinned his knowing little grin. She stopped in the doorway.

“Now?”

“Yes, now,” snapped Bayaz.

She looked round the room one more time. “Fucking Magi,” she snorted, and slid through the door.

She almost walked into a tall old pink in the room beyond. He wore a heavy robe, even in the heat, and had a sparkling chain around his shoulders. A big man loomed behind him, grim and watchful. A guard. Ferro did not like the old pink’s look. He stared down his nose at her, chin tilted up, as though she were a dog.

As though she were a slave.

“Ssssss.” She hissed in his face as she shouldered past him. He gave an outraged snort and his guard gave Ferro a hard look. She ignored it. Hard looks mean nothing. If he wanted her knee in his face he could try and touch her. But he did not. The two of them went in through the door.

“Ah, Lord Isher!” she heard Bayaz saying, just before it shut. “I am delighted that you could visit us at short notice.”

“I came at once. My grandfather always said that—”

“Your grandfather was a wise man, and a good friend. I would like to discuss with you, if I may, the situation in the Open Council. Will you take tea…?”

Honesty

Jezal lay on his back, his hands behind his head, the sheets around his waist. He watched Ardee looking out of the window, her elbows on the sill, her chin on her hands. He watched Ardee, and he thanked the fates that some long-forgotten designer of military apparel had seen fit to provide the officers of the King’s Own with a high-waisted jacket. He thanked them with a deep and earnest gratitude, because his jacket was all she was wearing.

It was amazing how things had changed between them, since that bitter, bewildering reunion. For a week they had not spent a night apart, and for a week the smile had barely left his face. Occasionally the memory would wallow up, of course, unbidden and horribly surprising, like a bloated corpse bobbing to the surface of the pond while one enjoys a picnic on the shore, of Ardee biting and hitting him, crying and screaming in his face. But when it did so he would fix his grin, and see her smile at him, and soon enough he would be able to shove those unpleasant thoughts back down again, at least for now. Then he would congratulate himself on being a big enough man to do it, and on giving her the benefit of the doubt.

“Ardee,” he wheedled at her.

“Mmm?”

“Come back to bed.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you.” Strange, how the more he said it, the easier it became.

She gave a bored sigh. “So you keep saying.”

“It’s true.”

She turned round, hands on the sill behind, her body a dark outline against the bright window. “And what does that mean, exactly? That you’ve been fucking me for a week and you haven’t had enough yet?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.”

“Well,” and she pushed herself away from the window and padded across the boards. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in finding out, is there? No more harm, anyway.” She stopped at the foot of the bed. “Just promise me one thing.”

Jezal swallowed, worried at what she might ask him, worried at what he might say in reply. “Anything,” he murmured, forcing himself to smile.

“Don’t let me down.”

His smile grew easier. That was not so hard to say yes to. He was a changed man, after all. “Of course, I promise.”

“Good.” She crept up on to the bed, on her hands and knees, eyes fixed on his face while he wriggled his toes in anticipation under the sheet. She knelt up, one leg on either side of him, and jerked the jacket smooth across her chest. “Well then, Captain, do I pass muster?”