A small bit of tattoo shone through his white hair. He must be a former diviner, failed out or fed up.

“We’re a new branch of Lor’Gelrin from the far north valley,” Ren said.

He’d invented the name. It sounded close enough to Gellin to confuse a former diviner.

“I see,” the steward said. “Yes, I recall it.”

Ren almost laughed. The foolishness of these people and their names and tiers.

“I am Merthan Lor’Sarstin, the chief steward. If you will follow me.”

Merthan motioned the way and stepped ahead, leading Ren through the simple but well-appointed estate that he already knew so well. He recalled every door and opening, every hall and stair. It was new construction, square and angled. Most houses no longer knew how to make the hivelike tower structures joined by mysterious portals instead of stairs.

In some places, mortar had broken away, revealing not black rock, but simple gray stone or brick. It was a plain house for plain people. Take away the gray skin, silver eyes and hair, and they were not much better than the nomads below the Southern.

Merthan led him into a sparsely adorned parlor with a three-foot-tall marble statue of the Voice in a corner with a vase of wilting wintersuns to the side of it.

“It will just be a moment. Make yourself comfortable,” Merthan said.

He eyed Ren intently, no doubt trying to remember the house names Ren had mentioned, trying to place him so that he might tell his mistress a useful bit of information. He closed the door and left Ren to himself.

A moment later, a servant rushed in with fresh flowers, this time cheaper black-eyed daisies. Their devotion flagged when there was no one to impress. The statue itself was of decent quality. Silk lined her dress of fortieth weave. It was worth at least fifty silvers. Old Ren might pilfer it, but today he had a new purpose. He needed to keep his focus, or he might end up stabbed or in a Hosmyr dungeon.

He turned on his heels, surveying the room. Status ornaments covered one wall. A plaque made of kith slivers with the glyphs of Ilor’Hosmyr hung prominently in the center. Smaller ones detailing the knighthoods earned through the centuries surrounded it. The academy plaques were from six hundred years ago. They’d be less willing to part with the boy.

The door opened and the matron entered, her arm held by her consort.

Ren straightened and hoped the illusion was stronger than these Mornae. The matron’s eye twitched, but then she looked away. Ren was certainly no Maunyn. After him, other men must be a disappointment. She didn’t sit, and Ren found himself awkwardly halted before his high-backed chair.

“I understand you wish to negotiate Lor’Sarstin’s debts,” the consort said, standing behind his matron’s left shoulder. He did not say our debts. It must burn him to know the scions of Lor’Sarstin were not his. He must know.

“Your debts,” Ren corrected.

The consort nodded, and the matron’s eyes danced with pleasure. It’s an unfortunate thing when a priestess and her consort can’t work together. The bond becomes a burning hatred, literally and figuratively. A most unwelcome experience, and only resolved by death. There were stories, of course, of men who had found another to bind with and free himself from his sad state. Ren had never seen it happen.

None could sit until the matron did. Ren discreetly shifted his weight from side to side. It was a habit that he could rarely sit or stand still for more than a minute. He kept his limbs at the ready and warm. The consort’s Isiltrin plaque sat prominently next to the Hosmyr one. The man would carry at least two small blades and not make it easy if there was violence. Ren would hate to kill them—that would cause him even more trouble—and the consort was probably more capable than his simple garb let on.

The matron muttered and sat. No one wanted to be put in the position of owing anyone, much less an unknown Zauhune vassal.

“Sit, then,” she said. “Let us negotiate.”

Ren took his seat with a slight flourish, trying his best to mimic the mannerisms of the wellborn. Not too much, though, just enough for the ruse. The sprinkle of a lie is all you need, his teacher had always said.

“It is simple, Matron Lor’Sarstin,” he said, affecting a middling lord’s manner. “I will not go into the details of how or why: I own all your debt, and all the debt owed to you. Let us not say the amounts aloud.”

The matron, lips tight, nodded.

“I will have your boy in exchange,” Ren said. He couldn’t give her any time to think of Maunyn or Hosmyr. He needed to press her as a matron of her own house.

“You can’t have him,” she replied. “Not for the debt price. He is far too valuable.”

Ren smiled. She had been ready for his request.

“Not your first boy,” he said. “He is clearly of Sarstin quality, a boon to you and your house. I’m sure he’ll have a plaque on the wall in no time.”

He couldn’t tell if she was relieved or worried. Had she been willing to part with the first boy? Ren had promised the Toshtolin consort an unwanted child.

“The second one,” he said. “The plain one, flat-faced with the small, dark eyes. He’s on the short side, frail looking.”

She tilted her head to the consort.

“The goddess is truly fickle,” Ren added. He’d been too blunt, but just pointing out the boy’s weaknesses made it easier for her. What matron would want a boy like that standing for her house?

The matron’s lips twisted thoughtfully; her eyes fixed into a hard stare.

“Surely you can spare him,” he said. “Especially now that you will enter confinement. I’m certain it will be a fine boy, more in keeping with the first than the second.”

The matron’s hand rested on her belly. She didn’t ask how he knew. Only one other person knew. Ren’s jaw tensed, holding in the laughter. Her own consort didn’t know. The argument after he’d left would break this consort. His eyes were open windows. He was soured.

“You can’t have him either,” she said, confused.

“I understand Lor’Lisrune has wanted your fields for some time,” Ren said. She forced him to get ugly. “And I even overheard one of their sons saying this house would make fine quarters for their children. I think they would pay me handsomely for that debt sheet. I think it covers part of the villa as well?” He leaned closer. “I am happy to burn these odious sheets and put sixty-five talents in your hand for that boy. Consider it a boon from the goddess. She’ll unburden you of him. Tell me honestly, won’t he be a problem when it comes time to consort him? You’ll need to pay several times this estate’s worth or just give him away. Why not let me pay you?”

“But… but… I declared…” Her voice trailed off. She was considering the offer, her mind working like a watermill over the very real problem.

“He is only… what, three now?” Ren asked. “When did you declare him? I find it hard to believe.”

The matron nodded. “You are right. I was thinking of… of the girl. But still…” She reached around for her consort. “Do you recall, Giren?”

Giren was furious, but the binding held him. “She declared at two years old before the village priestess, may the stars keep her.”

“She’s dead?” Ren asked.

The matron’s eyes widened hopefully.

“No one could contradict us,” she said. “It was just her.”

“Scrolls? Ledgers?” Ren asked.

Giren scoffed. “She was a valley priestess. A nomad, even? We indulged her desire to have us declare early.”

“Good,” Ren said. “Are we agreed?” He needed to press the matron before Maunyn dominated her thoughts. “Just think about how well you will educate your sons once you lift this burden from your house. I hear tuition to Isiltrin and Isilmyr is ten silver talents a year. Not to mention the admission fee.”

That fee was really a bribe, and everyone paid it these days. She nodded slowly. Her mind was a whirlwind, but she was coming around.

Ren sat back to await her decision.

“We will make the exchange at midnight,” she said coolly. “You will hand over the sheets and the silver to our agent in the village.”