chamber, as you instructed.”
Tara nodded, and left as discreetly as she could to greet her new guest.
Lammain, Craftmaster of the Goldsmiths, had a sharp, long nose and angular cheeks and chin. It gave him a certain dignity, Tara thought, but it also always made him seem rather gaunt and hungry. And hungry he was, of course, though not for food. In common with much of Vaymouth’s population, wealth, power and standing were what he craved.
Tara did not dislike the Craftmaster. He was one of those amongst the city’s game-players who had never mistaken her for a mere wife, an empty adornment on the Shadowhand’s arm. Lammain had always respected her intelligence, and the particular kinds of influence she could wield. He was, as far as she could tell, one of the few men she had met who was not blinded by her beauty.
“Did they offer you wine, Craftmaster?”
“They did. I declined it. I did not realise you had other visitors this evening. I had no intention of disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” said Tara as she settled gracefully into a chair. She leaned a little closer to the Goldsmith, with an expression that conveyed both guilt and amusement. “I asked you to call on me today for this very reason. These ladies make for demanding company, you know. A few moments away from them will give me the chance to recover my strength. And it is only polite to give them the chance to discuss me, and my hospitality, without having to whisper.”
Lammain gave a brief half-chuckle. “I am sure it is not quite as tiring as you say,” he murmured.
“Oh, but it is. The talking is incessant. And the mind must be fast as a deer to keep up with it. One moment it’s gossip about some lustful intrigue, the next talk of war. Then it’s fretting about the cost of fine cloths. You can never be sure what is coming next. As I left, they were all agog at the news of Gann nan Dargannan-Haig.”
“They were?” The surprise in Lammain’s voice was far too unguarded to be false. It pleased Tara. So long as she kept the Craftmaster off balance, the conversation was hers to steer.
“You’ve heard, I assume?” she enquired. “They say he fell off the dock at Hoke, straight into the sea.”
“I had heard, yes,” Lammain said.
He would have been amongst the first to hear of Gann’s demise, Tara knew. The dead man had, after all, been the Goldsmiths’ possession, purchased over many years with coin and favours. How her husband had arranged the man’s death — and such an appropriately grubby kind of death, at that — Tara had no idea, but that it was a costly one for Lammain was beyond doubt.
“The Dargannan-Haig Blood is having no fortune, is it?” she said. “First Igryn gets himself thrown into a gaol cell, now his cousin manages to die a very common little death. Of course, rumour has it that Gann brought it on himself. I hear he was terribly drunk, and wandering about the harbour at dead of night. It is no great surprise that one with his habits should come to an ugly end.”
“Well, I never met the man myself. But yes, he had a certain… reputation.”
“Still, his death is rather regrettable. It proves the fragility of all our dreams that someone could come within reach of a Thaneship only to be denied by drunkenness and cold water. My husband will be disappointed, when he hears of it. He was most interested in your view, you know, that Gann might be the best choice as Igryn’s successor.”
“Was he? Well, I am gratified. Though it hardly matters now.”
“Perhaps you could consider whether there is anyone else you think well-suited to the task of leading the Dargannan-Haig Blood. I know that the Thane of Thanes took a much closer interest in Gann once he knew of your advocacy. Really much closer. Should you have anyone else to put forward…”
She left the suggestion hanging, with a delicate smile.
The Craftmaster’s face darkened for a moment before he recovered his self-control. It was only a fleeting slip, and the change had been almost imperceptible, but it was enough to satisfy Tara that she had done what her husband had asked of her. Mordyn seldom involved her directly in his dealings but on this occasion his enforced absence from Vaymouth had made it necessary.
“Make him doubt,” the Shadowhand had whispered to her on that last night — a long night, and gentle, both sweet and sad — before his departure. “That is all that is required. When word comes of Gann’s death — and it will come — give the Craftmaster just enough cause to wonder about the circumstances. I need Lammain to consider the possibility that his ambition ran too far ahead of his sense.”
“I will give the matter some thought,” Lammain now said quietly.
“Do. Well, we neither of us have the time to fritter away on idle chatter, I imagine? Before he left, the Chancellor asked me to make a gift to you in his absence. He had hoped to see you himself before his departure, but there simply wasn’t the opportunity. You know how it is, when there are armies marching to and fro.”
“Of course. I am not sure what I or my Craft have done to merit a gift from your husband, though.”
“Must every gift be merited?” Tara kept any hint of a smile from her face. She spoke softly, precisely. “Just as not every crime is punished, so not every reward is earned.”
Lammain nodded. He was watching Tara intently. She wondered if it was hostility that narrowed his eyes, but concluded that it was only concentration.
“Anyway,” she continued, her voice now light, glittering, “the gift is not for you, in truth. You know how Mordyn and I have always admired your Craft’s dedication to the service of the less fortunate. Your orphanages, in particular. You have two now, don’t you?”
“Indeed. Here and in Drandar.” The Craftmaster’s self-discipline was impressive. His tone shadowed Tara’s to perfection, pitched just short of merriment.
“It’s a most worthy cause. I will have the donation brought to the Crafthouse in the morning, if that is agreeable? Delivered to the Secretary in person, I imagine?”
“You are most kind, dear lady, most kind. I will ensure that it is expected, and dealt with appropriately.”
Tara strolled back towards the music chamber with a light tread. She did not hurry, savouring these few moments of peace and solitude. Her soft footsteps rang faintly along the marble-clad corridor. She wondered how much of the donation Lammain would keep for himself, and for his Secretary. However much was needed to salve the blow of Gann nan Dargannan-Haig’s death, no doubt. Which was exactly as Mordyn intended. He would be pleased to hear how smoothly everything had gone upon his return. And that return could not come soon enough for Tara. There was no one else in whose company she could set aside all pretence and be wholly herself.
She could hear the singer’s voice, an ethereal shiver through the halls. The girl really was very good, Tara thought. In all likelihood, Abeh would steal her away and have her singing in the Moon Palace within the month. And then, inevitably, her beauty would sooner or later catch the eye of Aewult or Stravan, the High Thane’s sons. Whatever happened after she had drawn such attention, it was unlikely to end well for her.
Tara paused outside the music chamber. A single upraised finger was enough to tell the servant there to wait before opening the door. Tara took a moment to run a careful hand over her hair, to settle into place the required bright smile. Then she made her entry.
The narrow strip of fields that skirted Kolglas — fragments of land gnawed out of the vast forests of Anlane — had disappeared beneath the boots and tents and hoofs and creaking wheels of Aewult nan Haig’s host. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of his men were yet to reach the town, but enough had arrived to transform the landscape. The earth was churned into a great lagoon of mud that curved around the town’s landward flanks. It made for a slippery, sodden camping ground; one that would sap the spirits and vigour of the Bloodheir’s men. Aewult nan Haig himself, to no one’s surprise, found it not to his liking. He claimed finer quarters, in the centre of the town.
That was where Taim went seeking him, but the guards on the gate told him the Bloodheir was not within. Aewult, it transpired, had gone to the sea, to view Castle Kolglas. Taim hastened down through the crowds towards the harbour. The thought of Aewult nan Haig observing the empty shell of the castle in the sea was irrationally distasteful to him. For Taim and everyone else of his Blood, what had happened within those walls on the night of Winterbirth was a bitter memory: painful, but also, in an ill-defined way, shameful. It was all too easy to imagine the Haig Bloodheir having a very different response. It felt rather like having to watch an enemy gloating over the corpse of a fallen friend.
The night before, there had been no opportunity to speak with Aewult at any length. When Taim had greeted him outside the town, their reunion was, if not exactly hostile, certainly cold. The Bloodheir had made it plain that his only interest was in finding himself a warm bed and hot food. Taim had found himself dismissed and all but
