Even if I somehow convinced the king of Tirlin to flee the crown city and drag the entire populace with him at sword point, where would we all go? Cappas is a third the size of Tirlin. Romin not even that.

I refuse to live in a tent, vowed Meralda. There must be another way.

If I tell Yvin before I’m sure, she decided, he would only complicate matters by involving the army or the guilds. He might even decide to mount another attempt to knock the Tower down.

Meralda shivered at the thought.

“Something wrong, Mage?”

“Nothing. Just a chill.”

Mug snorted from beneath his bed sheet.

Also, thought Meralda, if what the captain said yesterday was correct, the Vonats started bribing court functionaries a year or more ago, all with the aim of wreaking havoc at the Accords. They may have even installed Hang eavesdropping spells in the Gold Room itself, and if so, discussing the Tower’s story of the doom bound for Tirlin would be nothing short of disastrous.

So no. Not the king. At least not today.

“Penny for your thoughts,” quipped Mug.

Meralda closed her eyes and tried to blow her coffee cool.

The castle was awash in uniformed soldiers, court members arrayed in all their finery, and a roving mob of penswifts which swept from place to place shouting questions and trying with little success to elbow their way past a dozen bemused guardsmen armed with short, stout lengths of oak.

Meralda was halfway to the doors when the penswifts spotted her and charged with two dozen strident cries of “Mage Ovis! Mage Ovis!”

The Bellringers stepped ahead of her, hands raised. “Don’t crowd, don’t crowd,” cried Kervis, above the din. “Back off, I say! Back off or else!”

Meralda frowned and marched ahead. If I let them stop me, she thought, I’ll be half an hour elbowing my way through them.

Penswifts and court functionaries and Bellringers all met in a mob. Mug shouted something, but Meralda couldn’t make out his words.

“Mage Ovis,” bellowed the closest penswift. His words were instantly repeated by a dozen of his fellows, and Meralda was quickly surrounded by a press of arms and chests and faces.

The Bellringers shoved and shouted. Penswifts yelled back. A paperboy caught in the press squealed and managed to slip past a sea of legs.

A splash of red and green moving through the crowd caught Meralda’s eye, as she shoved and sidled her way through the penswifts. Looks a bit like an Alon kilt.

“Mistress!” cried Mug. “Something isn’t right!”

The crowd shifted, just for an instant, and in that instant Meralda caught of glimpse of a tall, bearded, red-haired Alon, clad in kilt and sash, shoving his way through the mob toward her.

Mug shouted again. The only word Meralda made out was ‘knife’.

The Alon marched steadily forward, shoving penswifts to the pavement, pushing court staff roughly aside.

Meralda looked for his hands, and saw a brief glimmer of steel.

She tried to run. She tried to force her way past the ring of penswifts who shouted questions at her face, at her back. She didn’t dare put Mug’s cage down for fear he’d be trampled and her other hand still gripped the oversized paper mug of hot coffee and though she shouted for the Bellringers she could see neither of them.

The Alon charged. Penswifts went flying. Meralda tried to hurl herself backwards, but the tightly packed bodies at her back kept her pinned to the spot, and the bearded Alon shoved his way to her, knife uplifted.

Meralda hurled her hot coffee square in his face. The Alon howled and stabbed, missing Meralda’s chest by a hand’s breadth and allowing her to land a single solid kick somewhere in the region of his ornate clan belt buckle. The man folded at the waist, cursing and spitting.

Meralda tried to dash away, but again the crowd held her fast. As the Alon straightened and lifted his knife again, Meralda snatched Mug’s sheet away and hurled it at his face.

He batted it away.

Blurs rushed past Meralda on both sides. The Bellringers flung themselves at the Alon, both striking him at his knees. Alon and Bellringers and half a dozen bystanders went down in a tangle, grappling and punching, rolling and shouting.

Whistles blew. A column of guardsmen charged into the fray, swords drawn, and the crowd evaporated as quickly as it had formed.

Three burly guards in full plate encircled Meralda. The rest grabbed combatants and fallen penswifts and Bellringers alike, hauling each to their feet and warning them to stillness and silence with gruff shakes and glares.

The Alon was gone.

“There was an Alon!” said Kervis, wiping blood from his lip. “I tackled him!”

Meralda whirled, but the people hurrying away from the guards were Tirlish or Phendelits or Eryans. Not a scrap of Alon plaid could be seen anywhere on the street.

The captain, himself, came charging out of the castle, sword drawn, eyes ablaze. He saw Meralda and ran for her. More boots sounded from just beyond the doors.

“Thaumaturge!” he shouted. “What happened here?”

“Nothing at all happened here, Captain,” she said, forcing a smile. “Nothing at all. Why don’t you see us inside?”

The captain frowned. His men exchanged confused glances. Kervis kicked Tervis in the shins when the younger Bellringer made as if to protest.

“Someone get my bloody sheet,” muttered Mug. “It’s going to be that kind of day.”

Meralda nodded a quick thanks to her trio of perplexed guards, gently hefted Mug’s cage, and bade the Bellringers follow her into the dubious safety of the castle.

“He tried to kill you, mistress,” said Mug, quivering with fury. “How can you be so calm about it?”

“She’s using her head, houseplant,” said the captain. “Something you should try, now and then.”

“Demanding an arrest, threatening the Alons? That’s just what they want me to do, Mug. Calm down and you’ll see that.”

“All I saw was a bloody big knife, mistress. And a man determined to stab you with it.” Mug tossed his leaves and bunched his eyes. “Tervis? Kervis? Either of you care to chime in?”

The Bellringers withered under the captain’s sudden glare.

“Perhaps we saw an Alon, and perhaps we didn’t, Mug.” Meralda shivered at the memory of the bearded man bearing down on her. “He came from nowhere. He vanished without a trace, despite being a foot taller than everyone else and wearing more bright red plaid than anyone in the crowd. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?”

Mug snorted. “So he’s sneaky and a fast runner. Mistress. Dorn Mukirk was ready to kill you himself, just a few days ago. What makes you believe this Alon wasn’t some kin of his?”

“Because Alon blood feuds follow certain rules, houseplant. One of them is the formal declaration of feud by the offended party. Has Dorn Mukirk sent you a letter, Thaumaturge? A letter which mentions a fight to the death, honor of the clan, that sort of thing?”

“Of course not.”

The captain nodded. “There you are, then. This wasn’t a blood feud. Someone just wanted to make it look that way.”

“A murder committed in a crowd of penswifts would be just the thing to wreck the Accords.”

Mug deflated. “You won’t even talk to the Alon queen, mistress? She liked you. You could at least be sure.”

“I am sure, Mug. That man was no more Alon than you or I.” She looked to the captain. “But he looked the part. The penswifts will certainly claim this was an act of hot-headed Alon mischief.”

“The penswifts can write whatever they want. I sent a runner to the king before the fight broke up. The papers won’t print a word of it.”

Meralda lifted her right eyebrow. “Even the king can’t deny them the right to publish.”

The captain chuckled. “No. But he can appeal to their patriotism and beg them for silence.”