The Empress sat drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair.

"Tell me you have good news, Eivind," she said. She took up her cup and sipped, replacing it on the table beside her.

"I have news, Your Majesty," the scout said. "But it is for you to decide the nature of it." He paused. "Athelmar's men have withdrawn."

The Empress raised a brow, and Mouse saw what looked like a momentary gleam of optimism passing through her eyes.

"And what of Ralist's men?"

"They remain, Your Majesty," Eivind said.

"Perhaps we should loose more huntsmen on them," Lord Rambert from where he sat by the hearth, his thick white mustache twitching. "Make a sport of it." But his jest, if one could call it that, went unanswered.

"You said that an envoy arrived at Pothes Mar a few days ago," the Empress said, careful not to reveal too much in front of the High Marshal. "What news of them?"

"None, Your Majesty," answered Eivind.

"What about a hostage?" interjected Lord Rambert. "Someone who can tell us what Ralist is up to? Someone who knows him?"

The scout looked warily between the High Marshal and the Empress.

"I suppose it is possible," he said.

"Someone from inside the General's estate," Lord Rambert instructed.

Eivind waited for a nod of approval from the Empress before agreeing to the plan.

"It will be done, Your Majesty," he said.

And with a last bow of his head, he rose and left the way he had come.

"How long do we wait?" bellowed Lord Rambert. "How long do we allow him to continue this treachery?"

A small council had been called the moment the scout had left, and the chancellery was now full of the sound of old men shouting to be heard over one another.

"Attack now, and any retaliation on his part will be justified," said Lord Toffrey, his voice rising to match his fellow's.

"Do not attack and he thinks he can do as he likes with impunity," countered the High Marshal. "What message does that send to the other lords?"

"What you must bear in mind, Your Majesty," said Lord Eadic, ignoring the others and addressing the Empress directly, "is how the situation appears to those on the outside. Ralist claims that he is carrying out field exercises. It takes a man like Eivind to see what he is really up to. If we attack him on his own lands…" he shook his head and allowed silence to finish his thought.

The murmurs of the other Councilors echoed about the small chamber. Lord Eadic had a point. They all knew that Ralist had struck the first blow. He had brazenly lured knights from the Empress's employ and arranged the attempted assassination of one of her best men. But the Empress had retaliated by taking his son and raiding his stores. Things had held so far, but one misstep on the part of the crown was all it might take to incite rebellion.

"Where is Batton?" Lord Toffrey demanded. "Should he not be the man whose counsel we seek on this matter? He was the one who reported Ralist's plans of a blockade in the first place."

"That would be just the thing, wouldn't it?" said Lord Eadic. "But funnily enough, no one can seem to find the man."

Mouse felt the Councilor's eyes move to her and bristled at the implied accusation behind his glare. She had been the only one to speak to Lord Batton, and it had called into question the validity of her claims.

"What about Sir Conrad?" Lord Rambert said. "Might he not be someway useful? He is Ralist's right hand, after all, is he not?"

"His right hand," murmured Eadic, "and yet he remains here."

"What do you make of him?" the High Marshal asked, suddenly turning to Mouse. "You knew him at Pothes Mar, did you not?"

Mouse started under the unexpected inquiry.

"I believe that Sir Conrad a good man," she blustered, unable to think of what else to say.

"A good man. Fine. But is he loyal?"

Mouse open her lips to speak, but hesitated. She wanted to answer in the knight's favor, but she was not sure what to say. Sir Conrad, she was learning more and more, was a man of logic and practicality; he was a pacifist when possible and a legionnaire when necessary, but what recommended him most, at least to Mouse, was a certain tenderness of heart, the greatest evidence of which was his love of the boy, Leopold. And she knew that he would do nothing to place the boy in jeopardy. But she could not say all of that here, now.

"I do not think him capable of treachery," she said.

She could hear Lord Eadic scoff.

"You believe he sides with the crown?" Lord Rambert prompted.

"Yes," Mouse answered resolutely, if only to spite Eadic. "I believe that given the choice between his lord and his sovereign, he would choose his sovereign every time."

"You are not just saying that because you are lovers?"

Mouse flushed and turned to answer Lord Eadic's sneer.

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"We are not lovers," she said. "We are friends, nothing more."

"Friends with an offer of marriage between them?"

"And do lovers often wed?" Mouse snapped. "Tell me which is the more likely, sir, that I am lying about being Sir Conrad's lover or that you are prejudice against reason?

Her cheeks blazed with anger. She was tired of the Councilor's incessant attacks and abuses.

The Empress, who had until now been sitting quietly with a cup of wine in her hand and a dark, brooding look in her eyes, now spoke.

"Yes," she said, "perhaps we should speak with Sir Conrad." She raised the wine to her lips. "And if he is of no help, then perhaps it is time to remind the General that we have his heir."

Mouse looked down into her muddy cup of wine. The smell of spiced mutton and kirsch hung heavy in the air, mingling with the stench of stable and sweat. The great hall was full to brimming with bodies, a deafening cacophony of minstrels, mummers, shouts, and song.

"I hear she came with six and twenty horses," one of the ladies to her left was saying to the others.

"Prick your finger, Daria. You lie."

"It's true. Six and twenty and all of them shod in silver."

"Six and twenty horses for a girl who looks like a horse herself?"

Mouse swirled her cup, lifting the wine to her lips and allowing the pungent taste of unpeeled grapes and cracked pepper dance over her tongue as she surveyed the hall. The ladies next to her were gossiping in the usual fashion, laughing behind their sleeves and blushing anytime some handsome knight walked by, while across from her sat Ludger, teetering on the bench next to Old Beatty, two drunk old fools giggling like girls.

Meanwhile, the Empress sat glassy-eyed on the dais, a dour look of discontent on her face as she listened to Lord Vikyyor chatter animatedly in her hear, no doubt voicing his growing concerns in regard to transport legislation and his litany of suggestions on how to amend the situation in Manakin Sabot. The woman had been irritable and erratic of late, swinging from gleeful one moment to sulking the next. And Mouse could easily see what sort of state she was in at present.

"Have you seen the way Lady Celie sits?" one of the ladies sat to her left said. "She looks as though she's about to break."

"I heard that it's because she thinks she swallowed a glass harp when she was a girl, and now she's afraid of it shattering inside her."

"How does one swallow a glass harp?"

"She didn't, numpty. Only she thinks she did."

Mouse's eyes swept over the myriad faces of knight and squires, lords and ladies, footmen and servants. She studied them each in turn, recalling the names of the ones she knew and giving new names to the ones she did not, until her eyes landed on Johannes. The nobleman was bent over some flaxen-haired girl, pink with delight at his attentions. Mouse felt her skin prickle, a palpable unease creeping over her as she watched him.

She thought of the way he pulled her hair and pinched her skin and twisted her arm, of the lewd remarks and hurtful insults he was wont to throw at her, and she felt an anger being to curl around her, squeezing her chest. For as long as Mouse had known Johannes, he had done everything in his power to make her miserable. He had teased, tormented, and threatened her, he had made her feel frightened and powerless and small. She looked down into her cup. She would do anything to avoid being bound to him.

She took another swig of wine, and the feelings that she had tried so hard to bury now came bubbling to the surface. Guilt and frustration, anger and doubt, and with them, a question she was too afraid to answer: What if the real reason she was helping the Chatti was only to help herself? What if there was no goodness in her heart, only a desperate drive toward self-preservation, a desire to escape her fate?

"Alright, Mouse?"

Mouse started and looked up to see Bo standing above her. The guardsman's dark curls hung over his brow, and he sat down beside her with a hand on her shoulder and a lopsided grin on his face. But when he saw her face, he furrowed his brow.

"Oi, are you crying?"

"No," Mouse said, lifting a hand to her cheek to feel for tears. If she had been crying, she had not realized it. The guardsman looked at her.

"Why don't I finish that for you?" he said, gesturing to the half-drunk cup of wine that sat in front of Mouse. Mouse watched as he picked up the cup and drained it, replacing it on the table and drawing an arm across his mouth. The low light of the chandeliers reflecting in his grey eyes, which Mouse studied closely.

"What's that look for then?" the guardsman asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

Mouse shook her head.

"Nothing," she said. "You look well in blue is all."

The guardsman's ears began to turn a faint shade of pink.

"You don't mean it," he said, the blush spreading from his ears to his cheeks.

"I do," said Mouse. "It suits you. You look very handsome."

The guardsman held her gaze for a long moment, long enough for Mouse to forget that she had been angry, long enough for her guilt and anxiety to begin to subside, long enough that she stopped feeling so small and started feeling something else. She looked away, fighting the urge to reach out and tuck the dark curl that hung over his brow behind his ear.

"Oi," Bo said, "Mouse. What are you doing right now?"

"Again," the guardsman, "but this time faster. Outside, inside, high, low. Got it?"

Mouse nodded. He was letting her take the offensive this time, building up her confidence in the attack so that eventually she might go for the riposte.

"But first, let's see your longpoint."

Mouse held her sword out in front of her, arms taught.

"Roof."

She raised the blade up over her left shoulder, the hilt even with her head.

"High."

She raised the sword overhead.

"Alright," Bo said with a smile. "Just checking."

Mouse fixed her guard, reverting to longpoint. No, she would need a high guard to attack high and outside, wouldn't she? She took a deep breath, and raised the sword, tensing the muscles in her upper body. Outside, inside, high, low.

She stepped forward, bringing her blade down at an angle and letting the guardsman deflect her blow with ease. Again. Outside, inside, high, low.

"Don't look at my sword," Bo said, as he glanced another one of Mouse's cuts, "look where you're trying to strike."

Mouse nodded. She went for his neck, his thigh, his head.

"Good," said the guardsman, a smile of encouragement on his face.

Mouse repeated the movement over and over again. Outside, inside, high, low. Neck, thigh, head, hip.

The cool of the night air was sobering, the repetitive synchronicity of the movements clearing her mind and calming her dizzying thoughts.

"I think that's enough for tonight," Bo said, as Mouse wiped a tired arm across her forehead. He drove the tip of his blade into the ground and stood there looking at her as she wiped the sweat from the back of her neck, a smile tugging at his lips.

"What is it?" said Mouse.

"Nothing," shrugged the guardsman, yanking his blade back out of the earth. "You look well with a sword in your hand is all."

Mouse climbed the step of the keep on tired legs, already on the brink of collapse by the time she reached her rooms. She fell against the door, pushing it open, but no sooner had she taken her first step inside than every muscle in her body tense, a shiver running down her spine.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

Johannes smiled from where he sat at Mouse's desk.

"I thought we might have a little talk, you and I," he said.

Mouse's hand went to the dagger in her pocket. She wrapped her fingers around the gilt handle but did not remove it.

"I don't want to talk to you," she said. "I want you to leave. Now."

Johannes uncrossed his legs and slowly rose from the chair, beginning to walk toward her.

"It seems to me," he said, "that someone's been telling you stories, filling that pretty little head of yours with lies." His green eyes gleamed. "But I know who you are, who you really are."

Mouse backed away from the nobleman, her fingers squeezed tightly around the dagger as he continued to advance.

"Leave, Johannes," she said. But the nobleman ignored her.

"You are the mouse who carries in the plague," he said, the words sharp and venomous. "The one who ruins the storehouses and poisons the water." He reached out and grabbed Mouse's wrist, forcing her to drop the dagger and causing a yelp of pain to issue from her lips. "You," he said, looking down at her, "are no one."

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