“Fiddle!” said Mary de Cumberland. “I’m not a Peer of the Realm; I’m as much a commoner as you are.”

Tia shook her head with a soft laugh. “It would make no difference, Your Grace. Anyone with a title is considered infinitely far above a common person like myself — at least, in the province of Banat, which, I confess, is all of the Polish Hegemony I have ever seen. So when I hear the title ‘Duchess’, I automatically give a start.”

“I noticed,” said Mary, “and I point out to you that anyone who aspires to a degree in Sorcery had better learn to handle symbols better than that.”

“I know,” the girl said softly. “I intend to try very hard, Your Grace.”

“I’m sure you will, my dear.” Then, changing the subject quickly: “Tell me, where did you learn Anglo-French? You speak it beautifully.”

“My accent is terrible,” Tia objected.

“Not at all! If you want to hear how the language can be butchered, you should hear some of our Londoners. Whoever taught you did very well.”

“My Uncle Neapeler, my father’s brother, taught me,” Tia said. “He is a merchant who spent a part of his youth in the Angevin Empire. And Sir Thomas has been helping me a great deal — correcting my speech and teaching me the proper manners, according to the way things are done here.”

The Duchess nodded and then gave Tia a quick smile. “Speaking of Sir Thomas — I hope his title doesn’t make you frightened of him.”

The sparkle returned to Tia’s eyes. “Frightened of Sir Thomas? Oh, Your Grace, no! He’s been so good to me. Much better than I deserve, I’m sure.

“But, then, everyone has been so good to me since I came here. Everyone. Nowhere does one find the friendliness, the goodness that one finds in the realm of His Majesty King John.”

“Not even in Italy?” the Dowager Duchess asked casually.

Tia’s expression darkened. “They might have hanged me in Italy.”

“Hanged you? My dear, what on earth for?”

After a moment’s silence, the girl said: “It’s no secret, I suppose. I was charged with practicing the Black Art in Italy.”

The Dowager Duchess of Cumberland nodded gravely. “Yes. Go on. What happened?”

“Your Grace, I have never been able to stand by and watch people suffer. I think it is because I watched both my parents die when I was very young — within a few months of each other. I wanted so very much for them both to live, and there was nothing I could do. I was — helpless to do anything for them. All children experience that terrible feeling of helplessness at times, Your Grace — but this was a very special thing.” There was a heavy somberness in her dark eyes.

Mary de Cumberland said nothing, but her sympathy was apparent.

“I was brought up by Uncle Neapeler — a kind and wondrous man. He has the Healing Talent, too, you see, but it is untrained.” Tia was looking back down at her beer mug, running one tiny, dainty finger around and around its rim. “He had no opportunity to train it. He might never have known that he possessed it if he had not spent so many years of his life in the Angevin Empire, where such things are searched out. He found that I had it, and taught me all he knew — which was small enough.

“In the Slavonic States, a man’s right to become a Healer is judged by his political connections and by his ability to pay. And the right to have the services of a trained Healer is judged in the same way. Uncle Neapeler is — was — a merchant, a hard man of business. But he was never rich except in comparison to the villagers, and he was politically suspect because of the time he had spent in the Imperial domains.

“He used his Talent, untrained as it was, to help the villagers and the peasants when they were ill. They all knew they could rely on him for help, no matter who they were, and they loved him for it. He brought me up in that tradition, Your Grace.”

She stopped, compressed her lips, and took another drink from her mug. “Then — something happened. The Count’s officers…” She stopped again. “I don’t want to talk about that,” she said after a moment. “I… I got away. To Italy. And there were sick people there. People who needed help. I helped them, and they gave me food and shelter. I had no money to support myself. I had nothing after… but never mind. The poor helped me, for the help I could give them. For the children.

“But those who did not know called it Black Magic.

“First in Belluno. Then in Milano. Then in Torino. Each time, the whisper went around that I was practicing the Black Art. And each time, I had to go on. Finally, I had to flee the Italian States altogether.

“I got across the Imperial border and went to Grenoble. I thought I would be safe. I thought I could get a job of some kind — apprentice myself as a lady’s personal maid, perhaps, since it is an honored profession. But the Grand Duke of Piemonte had sent word ahead, and I was arrested by the Armsmen in Grenoble.

“I was frightened. I had broken no Imperial law, but the Piemontese wanted to extradite me. I was brought before my lord the Marquis of Grenoble, who heard my plea and turned the case over to the Court of Justice of His Grace the Duke of Dauphine. I was afraid they would just hand me over to the Piemontese authorities as soon as they heard the charge. Why should anyone listen to a nobody?”

“Things just aren’t done that way under the King’s justice,” said the Dowager Duchess.

“I know,” said Tia. “I found that out. I was turned over to a special ecclesiastical commission for examination.” She drank again from the mug and then looked straight into Mary of Cumberland’s eyes. “The commission cleared me,” she said. “I had practiced magic without a license, that was true. But they said that that was not an extraditable offense under the law. And the Sensitives of the commission found that I had not practiced Black Magic in my healing. They warned me, however, that I must not practice magic in the Empire without a license to do so.

“Father Dominique, the head of the commission, told me that a Talent such as mine should be trained. He introduced me to Sir Thomas, who was lecturing at a seminar for Master Sorcerers in Grenoble, and Sir Thomas brought me to England and introduced me to His Grace the Archbishop of York.

“Do you know the Archbishop, Your Grace? He is a saint, a perfect saint.”

“I’m sure he’d be embarrassed to hear you say so,” said the Duchess with a smile, “but just between us, I agree with you. He is a marvelous Sensitive. And obviously” — she gestured toward the archiepiscopal arms on Tia’s shoulder — “His Grace’s decision was favorable. Quite favorable, I should say.”

Tia nodded. “Yes. It was through the recommendation of His Grace that I was accepted as an apprentice of the Guild.”

Mary de Cumberland could sense the aura of dark foreboding that hung like a pall around the girl. “Well, now that your future is assured,” she said warmly, “you have nothing to worry about.”

“No,” said Tia with a little smile. “No. Nothing to worry about.” But there was bleakness in her eyes, and the pall of darkness did not dissipate.

At that moment, the waiter reappeared and coughed politely. “Your pardon, Your Grace.” He looked at Tia. “Your pardon, Damoselle. Are you Apprentice Sorcerer Tia… uh… Einzig?” He hit the final g a little too hard.

Tia smiled up at him. “Yes, I am. What is it?”

“Well, Damoselle, there’s a man at the bar who would like to speak to you. He says you’ll know him.”

“Really?” Tia did not turn to look. She raised an eyebrow.

“Which one?”

The waiter did not turn, either. He kept his voice low. “The chap at the bar, Damoselle, on the third stool from the right; the merchant in the mauve jacket.”

Casually, Tia shifted her eyes toward the bar. So did the Dowager Duchess. She saw a dark man with bristling eyebrows, a heavy drooping moustache, and deep-set eyes that darted about like a ferret’s. The jacket he wore was of the oddly-cut “Douglas style,” which was a strong indication that he was a Manxman, since the style was very little favored except on the Isle of Man.