Reluctantly leaving his mount with a small boy who didn’t look old enough to reach Shurik’s saddle, much less know how to remove it from the beast, he stepped into the inn. Inside, the house held a bit more promise than it had from the road. A fire crackled in the hearth and the common room smelled of roasting meat and baked bread. An old Eandi woman emerged from the kitchen at the sound of the door, and eyed him wanly. Shurik pretended not to notice, wiping the snow from his riding cloak and shaking it from the satchel he carried. Sensing that she was about to tell him that they didn’t rent rooms to Qirsi, he pulled out a pouch of coins and poured its contents into his hand, as if counting the gold and silver pieces.

Then he looked up, smiling. “I had hoped to stay the night,” he said. “Do you have any rooms free?”

The woman licked her lips, her rheumy eyes straying briefly to the coins he held. “I suppose. It’ll cost you nine qinde.”

It was a lot, far more than he would have paid at a Qirsi inn in one of the cities. But he could hear the wind howling outside, and he had no desire to look elsewhere.

“That includes a meal tonight, and breakfast in the morning?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“And feed and water for my mount?”

“I guess.”

Shurik smiled. “Done.” I intend to eat a lot, woman, and I hope my horse grows fat on your grain.

She took his coins, counting them twice to be sure he hadn’t cheated her. Then she led him up the creaking stairway to a cramped room with two small straw beds and a pitcher and washbasin, both of them empty.

“I’ll bring water shortly,” she said. “When you hear the bell ringing below, that means supper is ready. I only serve it once, so don’t keep me waiting.”

“Of course.”

She nodded once, looking around the room before leaving him, as if to make certain she hadn’t forgotten anything.

Shurik sat on one of the beds, which was only slightly more comfortable than the floor would have been. It was a good thing the Weaver had paid him so well over the years. Had he been forced to pay so much for such a room on only a minister’s wage, he would have already been on his horse again, braving the storm and searching for another inn.

To be fair, the room seemed clean, and smelled only of fresh straw. No doubt he could have done far worse this night.

Shurik didn’t have to wait long for the bell announcing the evening meal. Descending the stairs, he found the woman waiting for him at the table, already in her seat. To his great surprise, his was the only other place set. She watched him sit, a sour look on her face, then muttered a quick prayer and began to eat the roasted fowl and steamed roots she had prepared.

The food was pleasant enough, though bland, and there was water but no wine on the table. But again, Shurik had to remind himself how much worse this day could have ended.

Most disturbing to him was the silence. The woman ate and drank, refusing to look at him, much less speak. Perhaps he shouldn’t have minded-how interesting a conversation could such a woman have offered? But he had been without Yaella for nearly half a turn, and aside from a passing word to the guards and stableboys that morning and this woman and the boy upon his arrival at the inn, had not spoken to anyone all day.

“You live here alone?” he asked, when the silence became too much to bear.

She regarded him a moment before nodding.

“What about the boy who tended my mount?”

“Grandson. He lives with my daughter and her husband in the house out back.”

“You’ve no husband?”

“Did once,” she said, still chewing. “He’s dead now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shouldn’t be. If he was here, you’d still be looking for a place to sleep.” She cackled, her mouth wide so that he could see her yellow, broken teeth. “Used to grow flax. I made our clothes myself and sold the rest at market in Mertesse. But then he died, and I couldn’t work the land myself. So I opened the inn. Do a good business, too. There aren’t many places between here and Solkara. If that’s where you’re going, you’ll have a hard time finding food this good before you’re inside the walls.”

Though he was loath to admit it, Shurik had little doubt that she was right. Once more, he wondered if he had been foolish to think he could make this journey during the snows. He was about to ask her if she could give him the names of any other inns as comfortable as hers between here and the royal city. Before he could, however, there was a hard knock at the door.

The woman clicked her tongue once, then stood, hobbled to the door, and pulled it open.

A man stood there, gripping the doorframe as if it was all he could do to stay on his feet. Snow clung to his cloak and ice hung from his eyebrows and half-grown beard. His cheeks and brow were as red as the Eandi moon. It almost seemed that the frigid wind had burned his skin as might a planting sun. He was plainly dressed, except for the sash that hung across his chest, which was red, black, and gold. The colors of Solkara. The man was a messenger.

“Get the door,” the woman said to Shurik as she helped the messenger to an empty chair. “I’ll get you some food and make up a spare bed,” she told the man. “We haven’t much room, but we’ll be all right.”

The Solkaran shook his head. “I can’t stay,” he said, his voice ragged. “Just some food. Then I’ll be on my way.” He looked from the woman to Shurik. “How far is it to Mertesse?”

“Three leagues,” Shurik said.

The woman frowned. “It’s closer to two.”

“You’ve a message?” Shurik asked, unable to mask his concern.

“For Lady Mertesse,” the man said, “the duke’s mother.”

“Has something happened?”

The man just stared at him, saying nothing.

“I’m one of the duke’s underministers.” Under the circumstances it seemed a small lie, and a necessary one. “I’ve just come from Mertesse this morning.”

“You wear no robes.”

“I’ve been riding all day. You think a minister wears his robes on horseback in this weather?”

Still the Solkaran didn’t look convinced.

“Rowan journeyed to Solkara with his first minister, Yaella)a Banvel, and a company of thirty men.” His voice shook as he spoke Yaella’s name, but he pressed on, hoping neither of them would notice. “He rode a large bay with white on its nose and rump. Now, tell me what’s happened.”

The man looked at him a moment longer. “After the funeral, the queen and the king’s brothers met with the Council of Dukes. Grigor, the eldest, poisoned the wine.”

“Demons and fire!” Shurik breathed, suddenly feeling unsteady on his feet.

He heard the innkeeper utter another prayer.

“How long ago?” he asked, his voice flat.

“Two nights,” the messenger said.

Two nights. Solkaran messengers usually rode faster than that. Perhaps the snow had slowed him, and no doubt there had been much confusion in the castle. Chances were, he hadn’t left right away.

“The duke of Mertesse lives,” the man said, as if he thought Shurik should have asked already. “He remains weak, though.”

“What of the queen?” the woman asked.

“She lives as well, but only just. When I left it was too soon to say if she would survive.”

“The first minister, is she all right?”

The messenger looked at Shurik again. “You mean of Mertesse? I’m sorry. I have no news of her. Only the duke and queen. I know that several ministers died, as did the dukes of Tounstrel and Noltierre.”

“Gods save us all,” the woman said. “What’s to be done with the brother?”

“He’s a traitor to the kingdom. He’ll be hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

Shurik gazed toward the door. He longed to ride for Solkara, though ne could still hear the wind buffeting the house and snow clawing at the wooden shutters like some taloned beast. Yaella might be dead. At the very least she had been poisoned. He should have been with her.