"If you'll excuse me, then. I need to make the rounds and make sure everything's secured before the storm comes down."

"Of course. Again, thank you for your hospitality. If I can be of any assistance to you, let me know."

Bernard grunted and rose, his expression preoccupied. Fidelias watched the man carefully, but could read little of him through his body language. Tense, to be sure, but wouldn't any Steadholder be, when facing a threat to his holders? He carried his leg stiffly, still, as he moved out of the hall and into the courtyard, and just before he left, the big man glanced over his shoulder, toward a staircase in the far corner of the hall.

Fidelias watched him and waited until the Steadholder had left the hall to glance at the staircase himself. Interesting.

A moment later, a pretty young girl brought a steaming mug out to Fidelias's seat by the fire, presenting it to him with a slight curtsey. "Sir."

He smiled at her and accepted the mug. "Thank you, young lady. But please, call me Del."

She smiled at him, a winsome expression. "My name is Beritte, sir-Del."

"A lovely name for a lovely girl." He sipped at the drink, a tea he vaguely recognized. "Mmmm, wonderful. I suppose you've had an interesting few days here, with the storm and all that's happened."

She nodded, folding her hands in front of her and inhaling just enough to let her bodice round out her young breasts. "Between all the excitement yesterday and then last night, it's been one thing after another. Though I suppose it isn't anything compared to the life of a gem merchant, sir."

His eyebrows lifted, and he said, letting a small smile touch his mouth,

"I don't remember mentioning that to you, Beritte. I thought I was alone with the Steadholder."

Her cheeks colored bright scarlet. "Oh, sir-I'm sorry. I've a little wind-crafting you see and…"

"And you listened in?" he suggested.

"We so seldom have visitors to Bernardholt, sir," the girl said. She looked up, her eyes direct. "I'm ever so interested in new, exciting people."

Who are wealthy gem merchants, Fidelias thought wryly. "Completely understandable. Though honestly, from the things I've heard…" He leaned closer to her, looking left and right. "Was the Steadholder really hurt yesterday?"

The girl knelt down beside the chair, leaning toward him just enough to let him see the curve of her bosom should he look down. "Yes, and it was terrible. He was so pale that when Fade-Fade's our idiot, sir, the poor man- first dragged him in here, I thought the Steadholder was dead. And then Kord and his sons went mad, and the Steadholders all set to fighting one another with their furies." Her eyes gleamed. "I've never seen anything like it. Perhaps later, after dinner, you'd like to hear more about it."

Fidelias nodded, meeting her eyes. "That sounds very exciting, Beritte. And the boy? Was he hurt as well?"

The girl blinked at him for a moment, expression confused, and then asked, blankly, "Tavi, sir? Is that who you mean?"

"I'd only heard there was a boy hurt as well."

"Oh… I suppose you mean Tavi, then, but he's no one. And even though he's the Steadholder's nephew, we don't really like to talk about him very much, sir. He and simple Fade."

"The boy's an idiot as well?"

"Oh, he's clever enough, I suppose-just as Fade is handy enough with a smith's hammer. But he's never going to be much more than Fade is." She leaned closer to him, so that her breasts pressed against his arm, and whispered importantly, "He's furyless, sir."

"Entirely?" Fidelias tilted his head, holding his cup where he could be sure his voice would strike the drink within it squarely. "I've never heard of such a thing. Do you think I could meet him?"

Beritte shrugged. "If you really want to. He went up to his room, when the Steadholder brought him and that slave home. I suppose he'll be down for dinner."

Fidelias nodded toward the stairs the Steadholder had glanced at. "Upstairs there? Do you know if the slave is up there as well?"

Beritte frowned at him. "I suppose. They'll be down for dinner, I expect. I'm cooking tonight, and I'm a very good cook, sir. I'd love to hear what you think of-"

A new voice interrupted the girl, confident and smooth. "Beritte, that will be quite enough from you. You've chores in the kitchen. Attend to them."

The girl flushed an angry and embarrassed pink, rose to give Fidelias a swift curtsey, and then fled the hall, back toward the kitchens.

Fidelias lifted his eyes to see a tall, girlish figure wearing a dressing gown. Long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders, down to her waist. Her face was youthful, with a pleasingly full mouth. She carried herself with quiet confidence, and he noted the threads of silver in her hair. This would be the watercrafter, then.

At once, Fidelias drew in his emotions, carefully controlling them, veiling them from her perceptions, even as he rose to bow to her. "Lady Steadholder?"

She regarded him with a cool expression, her own features every bit as masked as he knew his own were. "I am the Steadholder's sister, Isana. Welcome to Bernardholt, sir."

"A pleasure. I hope I did not steal away the girl for too long."

"As do I," Isana said. "She has a tendency to talk when she should listen."

"There are many like her across the Realm," he murmured.

"May I inquire as to your business in Bernardholt, sir?"

The question was innocuous enough, but Fidelias sensed the trap in it. He kept tight rein on his feelings and said, blithely, "We seek shelter from the coming storm, lady, and are passing through on our way to Garrison."

"I see." She glanced after the girl and said, "I hope you have no plans to make away with any of our young people, sir."

Fidelias let out a low laugh. "Naturally not, lady."

Her eyes moved back to his and remained there, steady, for several long beats. He regarded her in reply with a blank, pleasant smile.

"But where are my manners?" the woman said. "A moment, sir." She crossed to the fire and took from a shelf near it a pan, some clean cloths. She filled the pan from the pipe that passed through the rear of the fireplace, the water steaming, and moved back to him. She knelt in front of him, setting the pan aside, and began unlacing his boots.

Fidelias frowned. Though the gesture would have been common

enough in a city, it was rarely observed in the steadholts, particularly those this far from civilization. "Really, lady, this isn't necessary."

She looked up at him, and he thought he caught a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. "Oh, but it is. I insist, sir. It is to our very great honor that we treat our guests with courtesy and hospitality."

"You're already doing enough," he said.

She tugged his boot off and tossed it to one side. The other soon joined it. "Nonsense. My brother would be horrified if I did not treat you with all the honor you deserve."

Fidelias settled back with his tea, frowning, but unable to voice any particular protest against the ritual. As she washed his feet, people began to trickle into the hall by threes and fours and fives; families, mostly, he noted. The steadholt was a prosperous one. Though the seats around the fire were given a respectful space, the rest of the large hall was soon filled with motion and sound and quietly festive talk-the mark of a folk who knew that they were safe, while outside the thunder rolled, the wind was rising, and the storm chimes were clanging away in steady rhythm.

Isana finished and said, "I'll just have these brushed clean, sir, and send them right back to you." She rose, taking his boots in hand. "I'm afraid we can offer only clean blankets and a place beside the fire this night. We'll have our dinner together and then turn in for the night."

Fidelias glanced at the stairs and then back to the watercrafter. Simple enough, then. Once everyone was sleeping, even the suspicious watercrafter, it would be an easy enough matter to slit three throats in the darkness and slip away before morning light. "Everyone together at dinner." He smiled at her and said, "That sounds per-"