“And these persons?”

“Of the Brotherhood, my Mother. My guides and guards. To be paid upon my safe delivery.”

“Of course, of course.” The Tenebroso searched the table at her side, sifting through numerous small ornaments, two books, several curling sheets of parchment, setting to one side two heavy bracelets, before finding a small pouch of embroidered suede. Dhulyn and Parno both recognized this dumb show, meant to underscore the Tenebroso’s distance from such crass matters. Of course the woman knew exactly where the purse was. It would have been brought to her while they were being led around the long way. The Steward of Keys moved forward to take it from the Tenebroso’s hand, before presenting it to Parno. He kept his eyes down, and his face lowered as he stepped forward a pace to take it.

Dhulyn’s eyes flicked from Parno to the old lady seated at the table, and back again. There was something in the old woman’s face-something in the way the old eyes narrowed as she looked up at Parno, and in the way she so carefully did not look again. For an instant, it actually had seemed that the Tenebroso was going to forget herself enough to speak directly to a Mercenary Brother. But no, perhaps she was wrong, Dhulyn frowned, perhaps it was only Mar, after all, who drew the old lady’s attention.

Money in hand, Parno stepped back, but when they made no further move to depart, the Kir raised the eyebrow over the missing eye. Probably meant to strike terror into their hearts, Dhulyn thought, amused. Finally, she looked at Mar.

“Are we discharged, Lady?” she asked.

“What? Yes, yes, of course,” Mar cleared her throat, pink cheeked. “I thank you for your service,” she said, as Parno had taught her, “Mercenaries, you are discharged.”

Semlin-Nor, Steward of Keys, waited for the Kir to leave before returning to the Tenebroso. She found the old woman exactly where she’d left her-no surprise, since the Tenebroso was no longer able to walk. Her vanity was such, however, that she made everyone else leave the room before she had her women in to carry her.

“What did you think of the Mercenary Brothers?” Kor-iRok asked. Semlin was surprised enough to leave tidying the table, to turn and look at her House. Questions about the country cousin she might have expected, but about Mercenaries?

“The red-haired woman is very striking,” she said.

“Yes, that’s so. But it’s the golden-haired man I’m asking about. He has a mole near his right ear, the Mercenary badge does not quite cover it. Did you see it?”

“No, my House, I have to say I didn’t.”

“Nor did anyone else, my Keys. Nor did anyone else.” The old woman smiled, mouth closed, lips pressed tight. “But I saw.” The House turned to look directly at Semlin, her head shaking ever so slightly. “I knew a young man with a mole in that precise place, Semlin. A man of my House. Of my blood. A promising young man. A wronged young man. I have plans to redress those wrongs.”

Semlin knelt, laid her hand with the greatest gentleness on the old woman’s arm. “But, my Lady, he is a Mercenary now. He is no longer of this House.”

“He is Tenebro.” Kor-iRok’s colorless voice left no room for disagreement. “He is my blood. I will bring him back to us.” The old woman looked at her with the remains of what had once been a dazzling smile. “And you will help me.”

“Of course, my House.”

“Send for him tomorrow, when the Kir has gone to the Dome. Send for the Mercenary Brother Parno Lionsmane.”

They had only gone a short way down a new corridor when sounds from behind made them stop. A young man approached them with a broad smile on his face. He was more plainly dressed than either the Tenebroso or her heir, but his face, and his fair brown coloring, marked him clearly as one of the family.

“I greet you. I am Dal-eDal. My cousin, the Lady Mar-eMar, begs you to stay and take the midday meal with her, while she adjusts to her new House,” he said, his smile never changing and never touching his eyes.

Dhulyn glanced at Parno. “Tell the Lady we thank her,” she said. “But we cannot stay weaponless.”

The man inclined his head. “Of course. Now that you are guests, you can, of course, retain your swords. If you will follow me? Thank you,” he said to the page escorting them, “I will take charge of our guests for now.”

This was the cousin who lived in the House, Dhulyn thought, eyeing the golden-haired man with interest as he led them away. The form of his name-repeated Dal-eDal and not the reversal, Dal-eLad-marked him as having Household status, and not in line to inherit, as was Lok-iKol.

As they followed Dal-eDal down the passage, Parno locked eyes with Dhulyn. The corners of his mouth moved. Dhulyn shrugged. Of course the man was taking them by yet a different route. Anyone providing security would make maximum use of the tools at hand-and the mazelike design of this building, however archaic, was a first-class tool at hand. Karlyn-Tan had not impressed her as the kind of Steward of Walls who would overlook any aids to his security arrangements.

The passageway narrowed until they were walking in single file, Parno’s shoulders brushing the wall coverings to each side. When the passage widened again, Dal-eDal lengthened his stride slightly, his hand reaching out to the handle of a door at the end of the passage. He was three paces ahead of Dhulyn when she heard a soft snick and lunged forward, heartbeats too late. A thick, weighted net fell from the ceiling and clung to her, muffling her arms and dragging down her head. Dhulyn was aware that somewhere the scholarly part of her mind was registering shock-surprise that anyone, even in the middle of their own House, would attack Mercenaries unprovoked. But even as that thought arose, she was taking a steadying breath and bending even further, slipping the fingers of her left hand into the space between her right calf and her boot. Without hurry, without panic, she took out her moon razor, a small rounded coin of metal, flattened and sharpened along one curve, and slashed at the net in front of her. The strands parted immediately and she stepped through the cut opening and moved to one side, her left arm arched above her head, her right poised with the moon razor. She felt Parno’s back against hers in the narrow passageway and knew that his arms were raised like hers, and his hands full of blades.

Another net fell and Parno cut through it. A third net fell before they could step from the cords of the second. A fourth while they were cutting the third. Dhulyn heard footsteps and braced herself, but the blow came not at her head or shoulders, but at her legs. She felt a hard arm around her thighs and, already off-balance, she went down in a tangle of cords and weights. She twisted and slashed. A high-pitched scream and the warm gush of blood across her hand and arm. She heard a wet crunch and Parno’s voice softly cursing.

She was raising herself to her feet, pressing upward on the weight of net that tried to crush her to the floor, when the ceiling fell on them.