Nowhere to be found. The river must have swept it away, no doubt to fetch up completely waterlogged some unknown distance downstream.

Some time ago, I told you a tale of candied figs which you seemed to enjoy. I have another such tale to recount, this one rather longer. If you are interested in hearing it, you may find me any evening this week by the fountain at the north end of Rue Clavel.

She flashes a sharp little grin. "Many people find me surprising, your grace. Shall we go somewhere more private? This tale is not yet finished, and as an artist I prefer not to reveal my work to the world until it is complete."

"I find myself intrigued. I am willing to hear your tale, but the question of location is, shall we say, complicated. You dress as would a noblewoman, child; can you truly visit my estate, unattended as you are, and face no consequence?"

"I fear no consequences," the girl murmurs, smiling faintly.

"Yes."

The estate is not far; an hour's ride from the city, no more. And to be sure it is more private than an audience in his rooms in the palace. Still, he wastes no time upon their arrival, ushering his guest into a sitting room, calling for drinks as he does so. "Well and so. You had a tale for me, I believe?"

Not for nothing has his Grace spent years as diplomat to the Akkadian court in Khebbel-im-Akkad. He does not react as she lays forth her tale; he simply grows still, very still. His violet eyes, the sign of his House, are intense as they regard her. "That is a tale indeed," he tells her coolly, relieving her of the letter. "And no small accusation. Who are you, and how came you by such knowledge, and such a missive?"

"I do not wish to see my country conquered by the Skaldi; a reasonable motivation, I am sure you agree. I suggest we start by informing the Dauphine. I could not achieve a private audience with her in a way that met my rigorous standards of secrecy, but I imagine you will have better luck."

"I imagine I could see my niece, yes," he says sardonically. "But why the Dauphine? And in such secrecy? You hold a letter proving your tale; you could go straight to Ganelon." He laughs bitterly. "As Isidore and Melisande did, once, to save us all from Lyonette."

"Secrecy because I am very sure that Melisande is watching for signs of opposition, and if she realizes that her plans are known, she will change them. The Dauphine because the king is old and frail and has not left his bed in a week. And because I suspect, although I do not yet know it for certain, that she may have the beginnings of a solution to the problem."

"Well, no one can argue old Ganelon's health is failing. But Melisande cannot change her plans if she has been executed for treason," the Duc points out. "Or if I myself were to take actions that were... not entirely honorable, shall we say."

She smiles. "While I admit I find the thought entertaining, please do not do anything so direct. To execute her for treason one must first capture her, which requires that she have no idea she is accused until she is already in chains. Therefore, secrecy. Likewise, if you send assassins after her and they fail, which assassins have been known to do, she will know that you have sent assassins after her and she will begin to wonder why."

"My assassins will be sad to hear of your lack of faith. They were effective enough for the Stregazzas." He looks at her curiously. "So if you do not trust that we can capture her- what do you expect to happen? It need hardly be said she must be stopped somehow."

"I could capture her, given time and opportunity - all this chasing around after secret messengers has given me plenty of practice at moving unseen. But I am not sure I will have either the time or the opportunity. And I must first be assured that once she is caught, no one will be letting her go. What I hope will happen is that someone will be able to properly arrest her without first alerting her that she is to be arrested. If that seems unlikely, however - better to leave her be and instead try to solve the problem of thirty thousand invading Skaldi."

Barquiel sighs. "Much as this has been enlightening, you are- no offense meant, child- perhaps not the most relevant party for such a conversation. You shall attend, of course, but- we need the Dauphine, at the very least; at best, all the peers of the realm, though slim chance of that if we truly desire secrecy." He folds the letter back up and returns it to her. "You're an odd one, and no mistake, but you gave me my sister's murderer, and I owe you no small debt for it. If you think this is the best course, I'll abide it." He eyes her. "For now."

"I believe you may find I am more relevant than I appear," she says, making the letter vanish back into its hiding place. "I have a number of useful talents." She shrugs. "We shall see."

"Of course," she assures him, smiling very slightly.

"Uncle," Ysandre greets him calmly as he arrives, closing her book. "It's good to see you too."

He raises an eyebrow. "Don't take that tone with me, girl, you're not the Queen yet." But it is said fondly; they both speak in jest, and both know it.

"He's known as the Duc of helpful excuses," Barquiel says dryly. "Sarafiel, where did you vanish to? Don't tell me you actually left with the servants, after all this."

"I'm right here," she says, amused, stepping out of the corner where she has been quietly impersonating a shadow.

Ysandre inclines her head politely to Sarafiel, then looks back at the Duc. "What is the meaning of this, Uncle?"

"There's a tale you should hear," he tells her, clearly unbothered by her cool regard. "I myself am inclined to give it some weight. The source has, shall we say, provided me with valuable information before."

She looks at him in exasperation, barely tempered with fondness. "I suspect I know what information, then," she murmurs. "If I did not know why- well." She turns to Sarafiel and considers her, with a clarity of regard uncanny in one her age. "So. You are the one who found my mother's murderers, then." Her gaze sharpens. "And bore your news to my uncle the Duc, rather than the throne. Why come you here now?"

Wordlessly she reads it. The blood drains from her face, leaving her like to a marble statue. Only her eyes continue to blaze. "You charge Isidore D'Aiglemore, leader of the Allies of Camlach, and Melisande Shahrizai, both heroes of the realm, with this terrible crime?" She regards the letter, expressionless. "Tell me, then, how you came by this letter."

"I stole it from its messenger, and let him think it had been swept away in a river crossing. It is absolutely necessary to be as secret as possible about this. Melisande Shahrizai is... an extremely subtle person. I would not be nearly as worried about thirty thousand invading Skaldi did they not have Melisande advising their leader. The moment she knows she is opposed, she will find some way to deal with her opposition."

"Ah, Elua!" she sighs. "You're telling the truth, aren't you." It was not a question. She is silent a moment, accepting the truth of it, resolve hardening her face. "How, then, do we handle the lady Shahrizai? If she is, as you say, as subtle as all that."

"It may be best to wait until the invasion appears before trying to arrest her. That way, she will have less time to change the invasion plan if she escapes, and it will be obvious to everyone that there is something to blame her for, even if they may not all agree that she is to blame. And since it is too late to halt the invasion merely by locking her up, there is no loss in waiting. If it were solely up to me, I would wait until d'Aiglemort was about to let the Skaldi through the passes or had already done so, find him, show him that letter, and convince him to challenge Waldemar Selig to single combat in search of revenge. But I expect you have better resources to draw on." She pauses, then adds, "Your future husband, for example."

Ysandre goes very still. "That... was an excuse," she says slowly. "Not a conversation." Her eyes narrow. "And by what measure is it too late to stop this invasion? Autumn is already here; they would not invade in winter, surely."

"It is too late for arresting Melisande to stop the invasion by itself," she clarifies. "I judge that the only way to prevent them from trying to invade us at all would be to kill Waldemar Selig; he is too eager to be persuaded away, and long past the point where he might be daunted by the loss of one ally or the knowledge that we are expecting him. That is why my plan would be to inform d'Aiglemort of the double betrayal at the last moment. There would not be enough time left for Melisande to learn of his new knowledge and interfere with whatever he chose to do about it, and Waldemar Selig would be close enough for d'Aiglemort to fight while his anger was still fresh."

"Waldemar Selig is merely one among thousands," Ysandre points out. "You yourself have said as much. Even should d'Aiglemort win such a challenge, still we shall have thirty thousand Skaldi on our doorstep, eager to enslave and slaughter our people. What gain in this? It is our duty and our privilege to protect our subjects. Not- willfully endanger them."

"The Skaldi are not naturally inclined to make war as a single united army," Sarafiel explains. "Selig has convinced them to try it, and he has read books about how such armies are made and maintained and used. But he has no successor who shares his knowledge or his reputation. They see him as a legendary hero; 'Selig' means 'Blessed'. Remove him, and the army fractures instantly, leaderless and ignorant. Do it early enough, and the worst our country will suffer is an unusually large raid. I would assassinate him myself if I could do it without first having to cross miles of snowy Skaldi wilderness."

"Forgive the question, but you seem suspiciously well informed," Ysandre says tightly. "How do we know this is no trap?

"I am well informed because I am good at finding things out," she says. "Apart from all the messengers I followed, I also arranged to be captured in a raid and ransomed under a false name a few months later. The Skaldi say all manner of things around a house-slave who does not appear to speak two words of their language. You can, of course, choose to believe I am laying a trap. If you do, I would like the letter back so I can use it when the time is right. It would be inconvenient to have to work without it."

"Well, damned if you aren't efficient," Barquiel says bemusedly.

"No," Ysandre sighs. "'Tis implausible either way, but this is Melisande's hand, of a surety. It appears we needs must prepare for war." She looks at her uncle. "Uncle?"

"Call a council," he says promptly. "Quietly. A 'retreat for old family friends' or some such nonsense. Out of the palace, mind; 'twas enough of a risk finding you here." He frowns, thinking. "Rousse is still in Kusheth, but de Somerville's in the city, I'll be bound. We'll need the Army, that's for certain."

"I agree," says Sarafiel. "The Navy would be of... less direct assistance." She looks at Ysandre.

For the first time, Ysandre looks uneasy, uncertainty creeping into her eyes. "The Navy has men, trained men," she murmurs. "They could still be of use-"

"True," says Sarafiel, very dryly.

Barquiel looks between the two of them, confusion writ upon his face. "What else could they- no. No. Ohhhhh no. Ysandre, you can't mean to abide by it!"

"I can, and I do!" she says defiantly.

"Be reasonable," he implores her. "You could wed a prince of Aragonia, who could lend us two thousand spears. Elua have mercy, you were but sixteen!" He stretches out his hands beseechingly. "He no longer even has a kingdom."

"His kingdom could be regained," says Sarafiel. "With help. The Master of the Straits is known to take a dim view of violence crossing his waters, but it may be that the situation can be explained to him."

Barquiel arches one eyebrow at her. "I no longer even need ask how you come to know these things," he says sardonically. "Little goes on in this kingdom you do not know of, it would seem."

"Be that as it may, Uncle," Ysandre says firmly. "Lady Fortier. It would appear you are already aware of my betrothal to Drustan mab Necthana, despite my grandfather's insistence on secrecy. Do you then have a plan for Alba, as you do for Terre D'Ange?"

"Yes," she says. "This one does require your involvement, naturally. I would take however much of the Royal Navy I could convince the Master of the Straits to let pass, and the first person I could find who speaks Cruithne but is not widely known for it, and someone else unremarkable to provide entertainment - Thelesis de Mornay crossed that way once, but if I take her along, someone will notice. The idea is not to be noticed. And I'd bring my sister, too. And when we arrived, I would find Drustan and tell him that we were there to help him regain his kingdom, and would appreciate a similar favour from him come spring."

"It's too risky." Barquiel glares at Ysandre, displeasure writ on his face. He nods curtly at Sarafiel. "Oh, it might work, I grant you that. But there are too many factors here, too many things that could go wrong. And if they do, Elua help us! We face thirty thousand Skaldi with no reinforcement."

Ysandre regains her composure, drawing herself up and gazing steely-eyed into her uncle's glare. "We may discuss such things at our council," she says. "It may be that we can address your concerns there. But you are right; this is too grave a matter to be discussed by merely us three." She stands. "We will retire to the King's hunting lodge in L'Agnace in a fortnight. A gathering of friends, upon your long-awaited return from Khebbel-im-Akkad."

He smiles at her sardonically. "Useful, that."

"Until L'Agnace, then." She turns to Sarafiel. "Lady Fortier. It is hard news you bring, and I regret if I have seemed unkind. Know that you have the gratitude of your country, for the warning you bear us."

"Thank you," she says. "And know that I do this not for my country's gratitude but for her safety. I will begin looking for an entertainer and a translator, but I will not speak with them until after the council. My sister already knows as much as she needs to."

"Elua help us all, there's another of you?"

...Sarafiel laughs.

Wordlessly she produces it and offers it to Sarafiel.

"How did you cross?" asks Sarafiel of Thelesis.

"When I returned from my exile there? He let me pass for the price of a song," she says reminiscently, rich voice resonant. "Once thence, and once back. As best I can tell, he is governed by whim. To what whim did the Cruarch of Alba cater, when he visited our fair land for the purpose of your betrothal?"

"A very good question," says Sarafiel. She looks at Ysandre. "Do you know the answer?"

"They came following a dream," Ysandre says. "A vision, of the King's sister, of a black boar and a silver swan." She smiles, a little. "Drustan told of mermaids who arose from the sea to hear their tale, and grant them passage; I know not how much truth lies in that tale."

"There are mermaids, right enough," Thelesis says. "They are the face of the Master of the Straits as he passes over the waters. If he was intrigued by their vision- that might have done it, truly."

"Mermaids?" inquires Sarafiel.

"Not people, or their like. Their bodies are made entire out of the water, and they drift alongside the ship as a fish might. For the most part they are female, girlish and playful; there was a larger one, with a male form, who spoke to us in thanks as we passed. His voice-" she shivers slightly. "It cannot be described, not truly. But he was the avatar of the Master of the Straits, right enough." She smiles then, fondly. "He came to listen to me sing, he said."

"Interesting," she murmurs. "I wonder how—? I suppose it isn't all that relevant." At a more conversational volume, she adds, "He spoke to you directly? What did he say?"

"The female ones, first. They are his servants, or very like; they asked us our purpose, and accepted my offer of song. And then he appeared, rising from the waters to listen. He said-" she thinks, very briefly, then quotes, "You have a lovely voice, my lady. I thank you for the song. My waters will carry you safely."

"I see," says Sarafiel. "And did they? I would assume so."

"They did," she agrees. "We were carried along on his winds safely to the shores of Alba."

"These tales of yours make him seem... friendlier than rumour would have it," she says. "I wonder why that is. I will make it my business to find out."

"One almost pities the Master of the Straits. I look forward to reading the resulting books," Barquiel says with a dry smile.

"There has been word from Quintilius Rousse," Ysandre continues. "He has begged crossing of the Master of the Straits, and it has been granted. Should our delegation to Alba succeed, they are promised safe return."

"All this for the blue boy?" Barquiel asks, disbelieving. "You really want to wed the blue boy?"

Ysandre's eyes blaze. "I want to wed the rightful Cruarch of Alba, to whom I am betrothed! Yes, Uncle. And it is to that end that we are meeting."

"Drustan mab Necthana does not desire rulership of Terre d'Ange," Ysandre says firmly. "We spoke of it, laughing, in broken tongues; a dream of the two of us grown, ruling our kingdoms in tandem. The idle dreams of romantic youth, yes, but there was truth in it. I am not prepared to abandon this alliance for mere political expediency."

"The House of Aragon-"

"Enough. Lady Fortier. What do you require for your expedition to Alba? My lords, what course do we follow, either with Alban support and without?"

"I require some means by which to inform Admiral Rousse that I travel under your authority, and I have not yet found a translator I judge can be brought along without alerting anyone to my purpose. People fluent in Cruithne are rare, and therefore usually notable."

Ysandre hands her her ring. "I can use my father's," she murmurs. "...or perhaps, soon, my grandfather's," she adds sadly.

"You might inquire of Mierette nó Orchis," Thelesis contributes. "You mentioned an entertainer, did you not? I am sure she could find someone suitable in Orchis or Eglantine."

"And do try not to die," Barquiel adds sardonically. "You're too damned useful to drown."