Janson nodded, writing. “His Grace will be relieved to hear that. But on the matter of the fighting wards…”

“They—” Leesha began.

“They will be shared with all who want them, free of cost,” the Painted Man cut her off, drawing looks of shock from everyone.

“The corelings are the enemies of all humanity, minister,” the Painted Man said. “In this, the Krasians and I agree. I will deny no man the wards to combat them.”

“If they even work,” Thamos muttered.

The Painted Man turned to face Thamos fully, and even a prince could not long weather his glare. Thamos dropped his eyes, and the Painted Man nodded.

“Wonda,” he said without turning to the young woman, who started at the sound of her name, “give me an arrow from your quiver.” Wonda took an arrow and placed it in the waiting hand he threw over his shoulder. The Painted Man laid the missile flat across his hands and presented it to the prince, but he did not bow, standing as an equal.

“Test them, Your Highness,” he said. “Stand atop the wall tonight and have a marksman fire this at the largest demon you can find. Decide for yourself if they work.”

Thamos drew back slightly, and then straightened quickly, as if trying not to appear intimidated. He nodded and took the arrow. “I will.”

The first minister pushed back from his seat, and Pawl darted forward to blot the wet pages and shuffle them back into the leather paper case. He collected the writing implements and wiped down the table as Janson got to his feet and went over to Prince Thamos.

“I believe that should be all for now,” Janson said. “His Grace will receive you in his keep tomorrow, an hour past dawn. I will send a coach here for you in the morning, to avoid any…unpleasantness, should you,” his eyes flicked to the Painted Man, “be seen on the street.”

The Painted Man bowed. “That will do well, minister, thank you,” he said. Leesha curtsied, and Rojer bowed.

“Minister,” Leesha said, moving close to the man and dropping her voice. “I have heard that His Grace…has yet to produce an heir.”

Prince Thamos bristled visibly, but Janson held up a hand to forestall him. “It is no secret that the ivy throne is heirless, Miss Paper,” he told Leesha calmly.

“Fertility was a specialty of Mistress Bruna’s,” Leesha said, “and it is one of mine, as well. I would be honored to offer my expertise, if it were desired.”

“My brother is quite capable of producing an heir without your help,” Thamos growled.

“Of course, Highness,” Leesha said, dipping a curtsy, “but I thought perhaps the duchess might bear examination, in case the difficulty is hers.”

Janson frowned. “Thank you for your generous offer, but Her Highness has Herb Gatherers of her own, and I would strongly advise you not to broach this topic before His Grace. I will mention it along the proper channels.”

It was a vague response, but Leesha nodded and said no more, curtsying again. Janson nodded, and he and Thamos headed for the door. Just before he left, the minister turned to Rojer.

“I trust that you will be visiting the Jongleurs’ Guild to clarify your status and settle your outstanding debts before leaving town again?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Rojer said glumly.

“I am certain tales of your recent adventures will be of great value to the guild, and likely pay your debt in full, but I hope you will show discretion regarding certain,” he glanced at the Painted Man, “subjective interpretations of events, however tempting it may be to use the more…sensational interpretations.”

“Of course, minister,” Rojer said, bowing deeply.

Janson nodded. “Good day, then,” he said, and he and the prince left the hospit.

Leesha turned to Rojer. “Brothel incident?”

“A copse of wood demons couldn’t get me to tell you about it,” Rojer said, “so you might as well quit asking.”

Leesha watched from Jizell’s kitchen window as a coach pulled up the next morning, its wide doors emblazoned with Rhinebeck’s seal—a wooden crown hovering over a throne overgrown with ivy. The coach was accompanied by Prince Thamos in full armor astride a great charger, and a squad of his elite guardsmen, the Wooden Soldiers, following on foot.

“They brought an army,” Rojer said, coming up beside her and peeking out. “I can’t tell if we ’re being protected or imprisoned.”

“Why should the day feel any different from the night?” the Painted Man asked.

“Maybe it’s normal for those the duke has invited to audience,” Leesha said.

Rojer shook his head. “I rode in that coach plenty of times when Arrick was herald. Never needed a squad of Wooden Soldiers at our backs for a ride across town.”

“They must’ve tested the arrow last night,” Leesha said, “which means they know that what we ’re offering them is real.”

The Painted Man shrugged. “What will be, will be. Either they’re here as escorts, or Rhinebeck will have a squad of crippled soldiers.” Leesha’s mouth fell open, but the Painted Man walked out into Jizell’s courtyard before she could respond. The others followed him.

The coach’s footman placed a stair beside the coach and held the door. Thamos watched them from astride his charger, nodding to the Painted Man slightly as they climbed into the coach. They were quickly clattering along the boardwalk toward Rhinebeck’s palace.

The duke’s keep was the only structure in the city made entirely of stone, a tremendous show of wealth. As with Duke Euchor of Miln, Rhinebeck’s keep was a self-sufficient mini-fortress within the larger fort of the city proper. There was open ground on all sides of the thirty-foot-high outer walls, which were carved with great wards, the grooves filled with bright lacquer. They were impressively permanent, though they had likely never been tested by anything more than a lone wind demon. If the walls of Fort Angiers were breached and demons entered the city in numbers, Rhinebeck could shut the gates and await the dawn in safety, even if the entire city were in flames around his keep.

Inside the walls, they passed the duke’s private gardens and herds, along with dozens of buildings for his personal servants and craftsmen, before reaching the palace. Its sheer walls climbed several stories, with lookout spires reaching even higher, past the keep’s wardnet.

The palace wards were works of art as well as function, and Leesha could sense the strength of the symbols, her eyes dancing along the invisible lines of power they created.

“Please follow me,” Prince Thamos said to the Painted Man when the carriage pulled to a stop at the palace entrance. Leesha frowned as they followed the prince into the palace, wondering if she was to be ignored in favor of the Painted Man throughout the interview. He had said repeatedly that he took no responsibility for the Hollow, any more than Marick did the Rizonan refugees. Could she trust him to speak the town’s needs before his own?

The vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall soared overhead, but the great room was empty of petitioners. The prince led them away from the main throne room, down halls thick with carpet and covered in tapestries and oil paintings. They came to a waiting room with velvet couches and a warm fire, set in a marble mantel. “Please wait here on the duke’s pleasure,” Thamos told the Painted Man. “The attendants will see to your refreshment.”

“Thank you,” the Painted Man said as a valet arrived with a tray of drinks and small sandwiches. Two Wooden Soldiers stood rigid outside the door, spears at the ready.

Time went by, and Rojer, bored, began to juggle their empty teacups. “How long do you think Rhinebeck will have us wait?” he asked, his feet beating a pattern on the floor as he moved to keep his crippled hand in position to throw and catch.

“Long enough to establish that he’s holding the reins,” the Painted Man said. “Dukes make everyone wait. The more important the guests, the longer they’re left to count rug threads. It’s a tiresome game, but if it makes Rhinebeck feel secure, there’s no harm letting him play it.”