“Parno-” she began.

“Shhh. Someone comes.” From habit, Parno moved away from the door to stand where he wouldn’t be immediately visible when it was opened. He needn’t have bothered. The Tarkin’s Guard weren’t Mercenary Brothers, but they weren’t common idiots either; the one who opened the door checked both walls before he allowed the tall young man behind him to enter.

“I greet you,” the young man said. “I am Far-eFar, Senior Page of the Old Tower. The Tarkin Tek-aKet thanks you for waiting so patiently and sends me to ask that you join him at your earliest convenience.”

Even Dhulyn could tell that this was mere politeness for “now and be quick about it.”

“We’re at his lordship’s disposal,” Parno said, with a bow that Dhulyn was sure gave credit to his childhood tutors. He gave his arm to Dhulyn, and she put her fingertips on it, exactly as she’d seen noble ladies do. The Senior Page smiled and, nodding to the guards who remained at their stations, led the Mercenaries out of the room.

“You have no guards with you?” Parno said, as if he were remarking on the weather.

“No need,” Far-eFar said. “I assure you I know the way.”

Dhulyn exchanged a look with Parno behind Far-eFar’s back. This did not have the smell of a trick. So the Tarkin no longer felt the need to guard them? Was this the work of the Tarkina, or had something else happened? They knew there was no point in questioning Far-eFar; no one could be in the Tarkin’s household for long and not have learned when to speak and when to hold his tongue.

Though this did not mean that the young man stayed silent, Dhulyn observed with a grin. He was a well brought up lad, Far-eFar, and he made a polite inquiry about archery that soon had Parno chatting with him as if they were on their way to the supper table at the young man’s home. Dhulyn listened, half-entertained and half-annoyed. That nobles, whether of Houses, Households, or Holdings, couldn’t go ten breaths without speaking was something she already knew. Nor was Parno acting, aping the manners of the noble class; this was the voice, the manner, even the way of walking that he’d practiced for years before he had come to the Brotherhood. Before she had met him on the field at Arcosa, before they had become Partnered.

Dhulyn pressed her lips together. No point in lying to herself; being so close to the lures of Parno’s old life still worried her. Even if her Vision had been of his past and not his future-something she could not be sure of-that did not mean that all would be well for them now. Parno was so sure there was nothing here to entice him, he did not even have his guard up. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. The sooner they were out of these noble lives and back to their own, the better.

The hallways through which they walked became narrower, dating from more austere times when ladies’ skirts were not so wide as fashion had them now. The walls were dressed stone instead of paneling, the ceilings squared instead of arched, and made of inlaid woods instead of painted plaster. Dhulyn gave a silent whistle. Was it possible she’d recognize the room they were heading for?

Far-eFar stopped in front of a heavy oak door reinforced with bands of metal. There was an old lock, the kind that had a key as big as a man’s hand, but one of the smaller, more difficult to pick modern locks had been added above it. Far-eFar rested his long-fingered hand on the heavy iron handle that lay between the two locks.

“I wait here,” he said, as he opened the door for them.

Dhulyn took a step forward and looked around her with interest. There was the table with its cloth, weights sewn into the corners so that breezes wouldn’t disturb it. The fireplace, ready to be lit. The window with its etched pane.

The Tarkin on the floor with a dog’s head in his lap.

“He wasn’t in a lot of pain, not yet,” the Tarkin of Imrion said without looking up. “But he was old, and soon the pain would have become much worse.” He looked up at Dhulyn. “They brought me a dish of kidneys in jeresh sauce,” he said. “I gave them to Berlan. He took my death.”

Dhulyn crouched down next to the Tarkin. She stroked the still-warm muzzle with the backs of her fingers.

“Do you think he would have preferred it otherwise?”

The Tarkin looked at her, frowning, before his countenance cleared. He almost smiled. “No,” he said, his voice sounding much lighter. “Not at all. Thank you.” He gently placed the old dog’s head on the curly wool of the hearth rug and stood, shrugging the stiffness out of his shoulders as he returned to the chair behind his worktable. He stood for a moment, his eyes on his old dog, before waving at the chairs on the opposite side with an open hand.

Parno had long ago given up any expectation of ever again finding himself sitting down in the same room as his distant kin, the Tarkin of Imrion. In the back of his mind a much younger version of himself was making a very childish gesture at his father. Parno grinned, leaned back in his chair, and propped his right ankle on his left knee.

“And so I take it from this that neither you nor the Lady Mar-eMar, nor even the Scholar of Valdomar had anything to do with the Fall of Tenebro House? As the poet says, ‘True in one thing, true in all things?’ ”

“Take whatever you like,” Dhulyn said, shrugging. “Proving it’s a different breed of horse altogether.”

Parno was never sure why Dhulyn, who’d read far more than he and could speak in as cultured a manner as any Library Scholar, often took great care to sound as barbarous as possible. He’d have thought her nervous with the noble classes-if he’d ever seen her nervous. He’d opened his mouth to speak, thinking in any case to take the pressure of conversation with the Tarkin from her, when an urgent tap sounded on the door. From the look of astonishment on the Tarkin’s face, it was a sound he’d never heard in this place.

“My lord.” Far-eFar, pale as a piece of bleached parchment, entered without waiting for a summons. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Alkoryn Pantherclaw the Charter is here saying there are rioters in the streets, proclaiming your death by poison. The Guard Captain’s sent men out to find out what he can.”

“So quickly.” The Tarkin blinked slowly. “My cousin has nerve, I’ll give him that. I’d have waited until I saw the body.”

“It’s possible they won’t let him wait.”

“Ah, yes, the Jaldeans.” The Tarkin turned to the page. “Does the Charter tell us anything about them?”

Far-eFar glanced behind him and bit his lip.

The Tarkin sighed, and stood. “Don’t keep him standing there, Far. Let’s have them in, by all means.”

Parno and Dhulyn came to their feet as the Tarkin stood, moving silently off to one side as the page pushed the door full open, allowing Alkoryn to enter. Parno, catching a glimpse of Hernyn’s Mercenary badge among the soldiers waiting in the hallway, signaled the boy with a flick of his fingers to come in and indicated the corpse of the dog with a tilt of his head. Hernyn nodded, bending over at once to pick up the body and carry it out into the hall. No use having people step on the poor beast, and it was one less thing to distract the Tarkin.

Hernyn slipped back into the room on the heels of the arriving Guard Captain. The man was flushed, out of breath, and accompanied by only three more soldiers in the dark red surcoat of the Tarkin’s Personal Guard. One of these had an arm dangling limply at her side. Numbed by a blow, Parno thought. No blood.

“How bad does it look out there?” he asked Hernyn.

The young Brother shrugged, trying his best to imitate Parno’s relaxed tone. “Bad, but the looting hasn’t started.”

Dhulyn dragged her eyes away from them and addressed her Senior Brother. “What news?”

The older man shook his head. “Worse than I would have expected, given the time,” he said. As quiet as his voice was, everyone in the room stopped to listen. “There were people inside before we could get the gates shut, and the Dome is full of House soldiers.” Alkoryn caught Dhulyn’s eye. “Not just Tenebro either. It seems Lok-iKol has allies in the other Houses. I saw the colors of both Jarifo and Esmolo. The Carnelian Guard is scattered; half of them think the Tarkin is dead.” His disgust at poorly managed security was evident. “As for the Tarkin’s Personal Guard,” he shrugged.