“Ah, Toshtolin! Sad business, that of your consort,” Gaur Lor'Paelune said to Taul as he approached. “I hope the winter served her well. May the goddess favor her. It's been so hard of late in the crater. Not a winter goes by without sad news.”

Taul smiled coldly. It didn't take long for them to point out his house's obvious weakness.

“I meant to buy cider from your Nolestin shop, but the shelves were empty,” Tris Lor'Baldir said.

“We're focusing our efforts on a more lucrative venture,” Taul said, grasping a glass from a passing waiter. He grimaced slightly at the wine, a proper answer to the insult. The wine was Baldir's. “Can't always have a good year, can you?” he said.

Tris looked away.

“In a few years, perhaps,” said Zadar Lor'Nevtar with a nod to his uncle. Zadar was the son of Taul's sister, Nevtar's heiress. He was a sharp lad and loved working the beehives. He produced decent honey and would make his second tender trial soon. “We'll all be dealing in wool soon.”

They chuckled. Wool was lucrative, more so with each passing generation. The south valley had ample pasture.

“If that boy continues winning,” Tris said, “we may have to.”

“I think he will,” Zadar said. “I doubt Roturra can send anyone capable of defeating him. Unless they plan to send Vaudin Lor'Baronar.”

“Goddess above, can you imagine the slaughter?” Gaur asked, shaking his head. “The young bear would tear him to pieces.”

“Didn't you stand for Isilayne with Nothrin?” Tris asked Zadar.

“I did. He was strange then as well.”

“Terrible business,” Gaur said.

The events of the Beytol arena, which led to Nothrin's twenty-nine-year exile, had been the source of juicy gossip for months. Then everyone had forgotten him, as the exile intended.

“Never thought he'd come back,” Tris said. “Would have been easier for him to disappear. Now he'll have all Roturra and eventually Daushalan wanting his death. I know there are those in the first high house who've not forgotten his name.”

“There are excellent lines in Roturra still,” Vornul Lor'Naxmyr said. “When their Daushalan master decides they've had enough, then the boy will end his reign as god of the arena.”

They called him boy to denigrate his knighthood, not earned from an academy but by simple oath to Zauhune's high matron.

“I hear they are using these fights to test new steel,” Zadar said. “That's why they lost… lumbering about in all that armor. Unnatural!”

Vornul, nodding, said, “Yes, there is no explanation for a wildling knight to beat Xaldan Lor'Mertrin. A shame, really. I saw Xaldan fight in a tournament once. Excellent.”

“And now dead,” Tris said blithely.

“The steel... have you seen the great foundries to the west?” Gaur asked. “My steward was out there on business and saw them. They never stop. Preparing for an invasion, it seems.”

“How far west?” Tris asked.

Gaur shrugged. “Perhaps as far as the Jalessin.”

“Farther out than the Tears?” Taul asked. “What business had your steward in those parts?”

Gaur shrugged again and lifted his chin. He knew but wasn't telling.

“It's the globes,” Vornul said. “Alcar globes in the far south. Daushalan must think there is merit to the threat.”

They grew silent. Not in any of their lifetimes had they thought such a thing was possible. Not after Saylassa's Fall. The Alcar were supposed to be gone and most Mornae used their name as a curse.

“Still, I've made a tidy stack of silver on that Zauhune boy,” Tris said. “Let him keep winning.”

“And the bodies?” Zadar asked. “What of those killed? It's disgusting. I'll stay in the east; you can have that unfavored soil bought with Mornae blood.”

“Could you grow our pears in the south valley?” Taul asked, taking a sip of the wine. It was actually quite fine, but he grimaced anyway.

They all turned to him. Had they been thinking the same? None rebutted with the most obvious answer: only if Hosmyr turned its strength to it. Its true strength. And in ten thousand years, even fifty, it might produce a pear like those in the east valley. It didn't have the east valley's unique foundation.

“I plan to try,” Tris said. “And grapes as well. Whatever will take.” He hesitated and added, “Lor'Baldir received twenty acres from this court. Unfavored or not, we'll make it produce.”

“How many tenders have you for the task?” Taul asked.

The men turned to him with an air of disdain.

“What does it matter?” Tris said.

Taul nodded, pursing his lips. “Indeed,” he said. Goddess above, what were they all thinking?

“I won't move my house out there though,” Tris said. “Savages pour through the border daily. The southernmost villages are full of foreigners. Let my steward's house do it.”

“I hear a horde has invaded the Southern Reaches,” Zadar said. “A rabble of tribes led by a witch or shaman… or both!”

Gaur sighed. “Roturra is always claiming the southern border is at risk. An excuse for Daushalan to hire more spearmen and use their new steels.”

“When that steel approximates a Nishmur, then we can worry,” Tris said.

They watched the next bout in silence. The Sons of Ilor'Hosmyr had taken the field. They fought well, agile, like the knights of a past age, but not bearing the Dark. Light shells clashed; light spears sparked.

Taul slipped away unnoticed and walked toward the other end of the hall. He'd been able to forget his troubles while they chatted about the issues of the day. Not for long, though. Upon a great dais sat the matrons, watching the men fighting in the pit. Ryldia sat to the side with matrons she knew well: Lor'Haimyr, Lor'Nadmyr, Lor'Viclyn, and Lor'Mirayne. Small houses, but true. They hemmed her in, protecting her from the careless, unfeeling words of others who rejoiced in Toshtolin's downfall.

Ryldia looked diminished. They didn't seat her near the heiress where she ought to be. If the girl had been born, she'd be sitting at Julissa's left hand. But now she was a curse and relegated to the edge. He was grateful to the four matrons who sat near Ryldia and would not forget them.

Guilt for every conversation he'd had or heard so far filled him. None here cared for Toshtolin's woes. He deftly maneuvered around the thing in his heart, the problems he put aside in the name of other, less important things.

A cheer roared through the gathering, breaking his concentration. Victory for the high matron's third son, Rauvon.

But what could he do to achieve victory? He toyed with the idea of getting land in the south valley for Lor'Toshtolin—to be like the rest and look for easier prospects.

He flushed with anger. That would be cowardice.

He passed behind a crowd of impeccably dressed men. Embroidered down the sleeves of their tunics was the Zauhune owl. They were discussing the break-up of a large estate with Lor'Malmyr's prime consort. There was an enormous debt. In those few minutes, while Taul listened at their backs, Zauhune made a deal, making it the effectual owner of hundreds of acres of Malmyr land. No one would call it a loan. No one would mention it, but behind Matron Lor'Malmyr, Joumina Ilor'Zauhune would dictate what happened in that part of the east valley.

Why worry about globes, barbarians, and giants? A silent invasion was already underway. What would Zauhune do to their land? They weren't tenders, but miners and ironwood forgers. Nothing grew in the north valley but rocks and ironwood.

He walked on, furious. Did the high matron know this was happening? She must. He felt foolish. Balniss would have known. He was clever.