“I would tell you something, Mercenary,” Dal-eDal said, with a noticeable pause before the last word.

“And what might that be? If I recall correctly, the last thing you told me was a lie.”

“This is not. You might wish to know that your Household fell almost two years ago. The Lady Pen-uPen is Householder now.”

Parno managed to stop himself from lowering his sword, but his heart rate did speed up. His father was gone, then. But his sister had been allowed to inherit. He shook his head. “Who do you think you’re speaking to?”

“My cousin, Par-iPar Tenebro. I didn’t remember you at first, but the only time I was here in Gotterang with my father, you were here as well, and you helped me with my pony. My father liked you.”

“The man you speak of was Cast Out,” Parno said, gratified that his voice was steady. “I am Parno Lionsmane the Chanter, I fight with my Brother, Dhulyn Wolfshead.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, man. You’re closer to the main line than I. If Lok-iKol dies, you would be Tenebroso.”

“And Tarkin, too, I suppose?”

Dal shook his head. “With Lok gone, no need for Tek-aKet to die. And the man has children to inherit, besides.” Dal sheathed his own sword and took a half step forward. For a moment Parno saw, not the tormented, torn man Dal had become, but the laughing child he’d once put on a pony. “Think about all you give up!”

This time Parno did lower his sword. Dal wasn’t going to hurt him. Not here anyway, maybe not ever, if he thought there was a chance that Parno would step back into the life he’d left. The life I was Cast Out of. He shrugged one shoulder. When he’d talked of this to Dhulyn-was it only hours ago?-he had no way of knowing such a temptation would come his way. His sister would keep the Household; he’d be taking nothing from her. He thought of his mother, still alive. He could place House Tenebro and all its power behind Tek-aKet and defeat the Jaldeans. His thoughts faltered as he remembered the green shadow that looked from men’s eyes. What power would they need to defeat that?

He thought then of his Schooling, of the feeling in his stomach on the morning of a battle; of the smell of spring as he rode his horse down from the mountains; of the way the air of a foreign country filled his lungs. Of the look on Dhulyn’s face when she turned over the right vera tile. Of her husky voice singing while he played the pipes. Of the smile she smiled only for him. He thought of the years on the road together since Arcosa. In Battle or in Death.

“You have no idea what I’d be giving up,” he said finally.

Hernyn rattled the door latch to the Tarkina’s suite with no results.

“Locked and barred,” he said. Dhulyn rolled her eyes. “And there is no light that I can see.”

“I doubt she’d bar the doors if the rooms were empty.” Dhulyn took her Brother firmly by the sleeve and pulled him to one side. She gave the door three sharp blows with the side of her fist and called out. “Tarkina! It’s Dhulyn Wolfshead. Let us in.”

There was a thump, and a small bang on the far side of the door as the bar was removed and laid to one side. The door cracked open and a woman’s hand beckoned them in. Dhulyn wasted no time entering, and she and Hernyn made short work of rebarring the door. It was good stout work, she saw with satisfaction, the insets for the bar not merely attached to, but part of the structure of the walls. They were as safe as could be-short of treachery or starvation.

Dhulyn almost didn’t recognize the woman who’d let them in. Gone were the Tarkina’s veils, and her palace gown with its fluttering sleeves. In its place Zelianora wore the loose trousers, long-sleeved blouse, tight vest, and short boots of her own desert people. An older woman, similarly dressed, stood at the doorway across the drawing room with a curved knife in her hand. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because Zelianora Tarkina took one look at her and smiled.

“Denobea saw strange soldiers in the courtyard,” she said, “and what with the noises…”

“Strange soldiers?” Dhulyn said to the older woman.

The nurse Denobea cleared her throat and gestured to the arrow niche that served this drawing room for a window. “They wear Tenebro color.” Her accent was the same as the Tarkina’s, but her words more hesitant.

“For them to be in that courtyard, someone had to let them in,” the Tarkina said, sinking into a nearby chair. “One of my husband’s people.”

“Not necessarily.” Hernyn spoke from the doorway to the suite of rooms. “The Tenebros were Tarkins not so long ago. They might know a way in that doesn’t rely on treachery.”

Dhulyn snorted, then rolled her eyes as everyone turned to her. Youngsters. “Say what you like, my Brother, but treachery’s the simpler answer and you know it.”

“I was trying to spare the Tarkina suspicions of her own household,” Hernyn said shyly.

“Please don’t.” The Tarkina stood up. “I may not be a Mercenary, young man, but I prefer not to be told that the wolf at the door is only a pet dog. We must go at once to my husband.”

“It’s under his orders that we’re here, Tarkina.” Dhulyn eyed the other woman’s clothing. “You’re Berdanan, aren’t you, Lady? As you’ve been Tarkina of Imrion for several years, I must ask, do you still keep your travel packs ready?”

“I was Berdanan long before I became Tarkina of Imrion, Dhulyn Wolfshead; our packs are in the bedroom.”

“Get them, then, and we will go.”

The Tarkina spoke softly to the nurse in her own tongue and Denobea ran into the other room, coming out so quickly with two well-balanced travel packs that Dhulyn assumed they must have been taken out of their storage place already. Following her, eyes big in faces too serious for their ages, were a slim girl of perhaps nine, leading a toddler still chubby with baby fat.

“I will carry my son,” Zelianora Tarkina said, picking up a wide shawl of heavy linen and wrapping it around her upper body with practiced ease, tying it to form a sling across her chest. She held out her arms and the small boy let go of his sister’s hand and ran to her. “With the pack on my back, my weight will be even.”

For an instant Dhulyn flashed to the memory of warm wrappings supporting her own legs and back, and the smell of leather and spicy sweat that was her father. She blinked and breathed deeply.

“The little one looks to be asleep, already,” Dhulyn said, a question clearly in her voice.

“I gave Zak valerian, a safe dose,” the Tarkina said. “It seemed the best way to keep him quiet.”

“And what about this lady?” Dhulyn looked down at the nine-year-old girl who looked back at her with the Tarkin’s firm jaw and blue eyes, but her mother’s steadfast gaze.

“This is our daughter, Bet-oTeb,” the Tarkina answered.

“The Tarkin-to-be.” Dhulyn bowed to the child.

“Exactly,” the child said in a soft, clear voice that only wavered the slightest bit.

“Are you armed, Lady?” Dhulyn said, doing her best not to smile.

For answer, the child drew a knife long enough to be sword-sized for her out of a stiff sheath at her waist.

“And do you know how to use it, Tarkin-to-be?”

“I’ve trained with the Personal Guard since I was six,” the child said.

“Then, if it please you, Lady, you shall walk by your mother, and help to keep your sibling alive.”

The child nodded. “It pleases me.”

Dhulyn bowed again.

Hernyn coughed from his post by the barred door. “Someone comes.”

“I’m getting tired of this.” Dhulyn drew her sword and motioned the Tarkina back toward the inner rooms.

“Dhulyn, my heart.” The voice was unmistakable, even through the door.

“Parno,” Hernyn said, sheathing his sword and helping Dhulyn with the bar on the door. Parno for certain, she thought, but something had happened. His voice sounded thick, as if he were about to start a cold.