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“Agreements change,” Yuer said. “Initin the Red was a wise man, a good leader, but he couldn't predict that when he died, his chosen successor would refuse the throne and turn control of the kingdom to a minor branch of the royal family.”
“What?” Scratha sat up straight, scowling. “You don't believe that old nonsense, Yuer. It's never been anything but a madman's rumor.”

“Madness for madness,” Yuer said mildly. He poured himself another cup, shook the pot gently, and set it back down. “I’ll have a servant make more.”
“I want you to explain how you can give any credence to that mad story.”
“Because I know the name of his chosen successor,” Yuer said. “And because the families of Mezarak, Ninnic, and the other mad kings had never shown any evidence of instability before taking the throne. Their madness came from a curse laid on the line for forsaking the proper order of things.”
“Who?” Scratha demanded.
“You won't believe me.” Yuer smiled. “You'll call me a liar and a fool.” A faint noise brought Idisio’s attention to Riss. She'd begun drowsing in her chair, empty teacup held loosely in her hand. The rain must have put her to sleep; Idisio had to fight the urge to let his own eyelids slide closed.
“Say it and let me judge,” Scratha said.
“Ienna Aerthraim,” Yuer said. “Mother to Asoana Aerthraim, who gave birth to Osenna Aerthraim, who gave birth to Aziarna Aerthraim, who gave birth to your darling Azaniari Aerthraim. They run a matrilineal heritage, like Scratha does.”
Idisio found himself blinking rapidly. The list of names had been so similar in sound—a standard complaint by northerns about the desert Families—that he'd completely lost track. But it
sounded
as though Lady Azni, who had been so kind to him and given him that miraculous salve, should have been in line for the throne in Bright Bay.
What a different world he would have grown up in if that had come true!
Scratha shook his head slowly. “How did you come to find that out?” “The teyanain keep records of everything,” Yuer said. “They have books going back to before the Split. Every king had a teyanin attend his court as a record-keeper since the beginning of the kingdom; that is, up until Ienna refused her calling. The kings from that point on refused to allow a teyanin the post of record-keeper, and as a result the royal line bore a curse from that point on.”
Riss snored softly. Yuer glanced at her and smiled.
“That's not possible,” Scratha said. “I would have—”
“No,” Yuer said. “You wouldn't have known. Even your beloved Azaniari probably doesn't know. Ienna wanted no part of a throne; she wouldn't have told her descendants. The Aerthraim have never accepted a public office that would bring them notice. Ienna passed the throne to one of her lovers.”
“I don't believe any Aerthraim would dishonor her family that way,” Scratha said, and stood, expression grim. “If all you have to go on are slanderous falsehoods, I'm through listening.”
“I did say you'd call me a liar,” Yuer noted, looking amused. “But I've been through the records of every desert fortress that would let me in, and a few that didn't know of my presence, before I was
encouraged
to leave the southlands. On my way through the Horn I gained access to the books of the teyanain. There's no argument with the facts!”
“How did you get into the books of the teyanain?” Scratha demanded.

“I rendered them an indispensable service,” Yuer said, and his grin turned unpleasant. “You don't need that story. I think this is more important right now.”

Yuer glanced at Riss, then at Idisio. A faint frown passed across his wrinkled face, barely noticeable. “First, more tea.”
A gesture brought a quiet servant into the room with a second teapot, almost identical to the first, and four fresh cups. After tea had been poured and the tiny cups taken in hand, Yuer said, “Those books I studied . . . each of them from a different point of view, each of them with a tiny piece of the overall truth. I doubt too many people have seen as many of them as I have, to see such a complete picture.”
“You flatter yourself,” Scratha said, frowning over his tea. “You're no wise scholar, Yuer.”
“Not when you last knew me,” Yuer shot back, “but people do change, don't they? I think I could name a few myself, and I know you can.” His gaze moved, rather speculatively, to Idisio for a moment.
Scratha snorted and shook his head, but sipped his tea and made no other argument. “Go on with the story.”
“It's interesting,” Yuer said, leaning forward a little, his eyes narrowing, “that this boy is still awake. I'd expected
you
to be awake, not him.”
The room suddenly seemed very quiet, and very warm. The soft rain outside faded to an occasional
plink
. Idisio stared at his tea in horrified understanding.
“You tried to drug us?” he squeaked, and bit his lip at the cracked, whiny sound of the words.
“It's always been one of Yuer's favorite games,” Scratha said dryly. He took another sip of tea, his dark stare fixed on the wrinkled old man. “I'm surprised, myself, that you're still awake.”
Idisio stared at his master, appalled and feeling rather betrayed. “You
knew
?”
“I expected it,” Scratha said, not looking away from Yuer. “The question is why he'd risk it.”
Yuer smiled. “I knew I'd at least slow down your servants,” he said. “With them asleep, you'd be less likely to run before Pieas gets here.”
Scratha sat up straighter. His scowl made Idisio cringe into his chair reflexively, even though he knew he wasn't the target.
“Pieas!” Scratha said; the name came out as a dire curse.
Yuer smirked. “Yes. I received a bird-messenger this morning that he was on your trail and to hold you against his coming.”
Scratha snorted. “You think I would have
run
from that little
ta-karne
? He's been all but disowned by his own family, he's on the run in disgrace, and he's got a blood-right call on his head. I certainly wouldn't hesitate to kill him, in or out of your home, Yuer.”
Moving with exaggerated care, he pulled several sheets of parchment from his pouch and tossed them on the table.
“Read it!” he said. “A message from the king's own hand, telling about Pieas's disgrace.”
Yuer grabbed the folded papers. His dark eyes scanned the close-set lines of writing rapidly: page after page, four in all. He read through them again, more slowly, then looked up at Scratha.
“Pages are missing,” he said.
“The others held no relevance to you.”
Yuer looked down at the pages, shaking his head slowly as he settled back in his chair.
“Disgraced,” he mused, rattling the parchment. “That changes . . . quite a bit.”
“I won't hold the mistake against you,” Scratha said, baring his teeth in a thin, humorless smile. “We all make mistakes, after all. Even you.”
“Apparently so,” Yuer murmured, his gaze distant. “It seems I have some talking to do with Pieas when he arrives—which ought to be soon.”
“Even disgraced,” Scratha said, “he's still child of a powerful desert family. I'd advise against killing him yourself. There's enough other people after him for that.”
“Oh, I'm not too concerned over killing him,” Yuer said, and his expression sent a shiver down Idisio's back. “I've other methods for expressing how upset I am with him. And other reasons besides this incident.”
A faint rattling sound, like feet scraping against gravel, came clearly from outside. One of the guards opened the door and looked in, his broad face furrowed in a frown.
“Man running,” he said briefly. “Got by us, think he was listening. Follow?”
Yuer sat up, his face flushing with instant rage. “He was
eavesdropping?
On
me?
He
dared?
Yes, gods damn you, bring him to me!”
The door clacked shut as the guard sprinted away. Scratha and Idisio both leapt to their feet and headed for the door. Idisio checked just shy of the threshold, turning a worried glance back to Riss, who still drowsed peacefully in the chair. Yuer flapped a thin hand at him impatiently, the gesture serving as reassurance and imperious command all at once; Idisio nodded and bolted after Scratha.
Just as they reached the main village road, the light haze of mist condensed into a heavy, thundering downpour. Idisio's foot hit a mud slick; he went down hard and spat mud along with curses while rolling clumsily upright. A hard hand caught in his armpit and yanked him the rest of the way to his feet.
“Let the guards get themselves soaking wet searching like fools,” Scratha said in Idisio's ear. “Stables, Idisio. He'll have to get back to his horse to run anywhere in this weather.”
Idisio slogged after Scratha as fast as he could; whatever had been in that tea seemed to be affecting him at last. His legs seemed filled with sand and his body worked sluggishly; he fell behind despite his best efforts, and Scratha disappeared into the downpour ahead.
Unable to move another step, Idisio stopped, panting. Not far ahead, a woman screamed; the sound jolted him back into motion. A handful of steps later, a thudding sound barely gave him time to fling himself out of the way as a large black horse thundered by, rider crouched low on its back.
“Looks like he got away,” Idisio muttered, picking himself up off the ground for the second time, and trudged, in no hurry at all now, towards the stables.
Scratha stood in the center aisle of the stable, his expression bleak as the weather and three deep scratches threading blood trails down one cheek. He glared at a woman who crouched, weeping, at his feet.
“Get up already,” Scratha snapped.
She raised a shaking arm over her head and cowered, as if expecting to be struck. Idisio, unable to help himself, moved forward and crouched beside her. He could feel Scratha's hard glare on the back of his neck.
A splotch of damp mud slid off his head as he leaned forward; it splatted on the floor right next to the girl. She flinched further into herself and whimpered.
“
S'a
?” he said tentatively.
Her thin, bruised face tilted up towards him, revealing wide, wild eyes and a desperate stare.
“Don't let him hurt me,” she whimpered. “Don't let him—”
“He won't hurt you,
s'a
,” Idisio said. The pattern of bruises and cuts on her face and arms warned him against trying to touch her right now. Overhead, Scratha breathed heavily. His looming, intimidating presence filled the air with an almost palpable anger.
Idisio risked saying, “Master Scratha, could you . . . back up a step, please? Maybe a few steps?”
Scratha growled but moved back two long steps. “He threw her at me. The little
ta-karne threw
her at me.” He touched the ripped stripes on his cheek gingerly. “
Damn
you,” he added.
“He hit me,” the woman whimpered, quivering. “Don't let him hit me again.”
“She clawed my face,” Scratha said unsympathetically, glowering.
“He won't hit you again,” Idisio reassured the woman. “I promise. I won't let him.”
“Then she'd best not claw at me again,” Scratha retorted. “Get up, get
up
, woman! What in the hells are you doing here? Who are you? Why did Pieas leave you behind?”
“Wian. I'm Wian. I'm Lady Alyea's . . . I was. . . .” The woman shuddered and shook, crying again, and refused to say anything else.
“I think she's best off resting to calm down,” Idisio said, looking up at Scratha. “And having a healer look at these cuts. Some of them look infected.”
“Hells,” Scratha said. “All right. Let's get her back to Yuer's.”
The woman looked up sharply, her face turning a stark white. A moment later, her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped in a thoroughly unfeigned faint to the dirty stable floor.
Scratha blew out a hard breath, then crouched and gathered the limp form into his arms. He stood with as little effort as if he'd picked up a sack of feathers. Which might not, Idisio admitted to himself, be far off; the rips in Wian's dress showed a gaunt form barely above starvation.
“Maybe we shouldn't take her back there,” Idisio objected. “She seemed upset when you said Yuer's name.”
“All the more reason,” Scratha said. “Time to find out what in the hells is going on here.”

That plan proved fruitless. Seeing the limp girl in Scratha's arms, Yuer summoned servants to take her away and dismissed his guests with unmistakable finality. Idisio shook Riss awake; muzzy and confused, she followed them tamely out the door and back to the inn. By the time Idisio finished cleaning himself up and changed into dry clothes, Riss had recovered enough to know she'd missed something important. Idisio filled her in while Scratha went to bathe.

“He
what?
” she said several times, each one more incredulous and furious than the last. As Idisio finished the account and Riss drew breath for an obvious tirade, Scratha returned.

“He
drugged
me!” Riss began, just as the desert lord stepped back into the room. “I'm going to—”
“You'll do nothing,” Scratha cut in. He shut the door behind him and regarded her soberly. “You weren't harmed. Let it go, Riss.”
“How could you have left that girl with him?” she demanded, turning her anger on Scratha. “How could you trust him like that?”
“Yuer always goes with his highest profit,” Scratha said. “From his reaction, he wants the girl alive. He'll get her back on her feet sooner than any of the village healers could. He
was
a promising ketarch student, at one time. He knows a lot about medicines
.”
“And drugs,” Riss said bitterly, unappeased.
Scratha shrugged. “I never said he's a nice person, Riss, or trustworthy. But the welfare of a strange girl Pieas dragged along, probably for his amusement on the road, isn't my concern. At this point, even finding Pieas isn't all that interesting to me. He's useless. He
ran
. Whether he went north or south, he's finished. He'll never be anyone important now. Nobody would touch him as an ally, after such a show of cowardice. And he's offended Yuer, which is as good as a death sentence in itself. No. Let him go. I've other business to attend to, more important issues to consider.”
“Like what?” Riss demanded, still scowling. “You can't just leave her behind!”
“Of course I can,” Scratha said sharply. “If
you
want to stay with her, feel free. I'm sure she'd appreciate a friendly escort back to Bright Bay. Or take some coin and be on your way alone. The same applies to you, Idisio,” he added. “I won't need a servant much longer. I'm going back south.”
They stared at Scratha in shared disbelief.
“But . . . you were told . . . you promised,” Idisio stammered idiotically.
“Back
south
?” Riss said, suspicion and anxiety mingling in her expression.
“I humored the king with this nonsense assignment,” Scratha said. “I wanted to see what he'd do, given the chance at a desert holding; now I know.” His expression darkened. “He explained in his letter what's been happening, and I can't believe he's fool enough to think I'd stand for it. He's making a hash of everything. I'm going home, and taking my lands back, and he can squeal all he wants from Bright Bay. There's nothing for me past the Horn anymore.”
Riss put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Chance at a desert
holding
?” she said, the words almost inaudible behind her palm. “The
king
?”
“But the king,” Idisio protested.
“Has no true authority over me,” Scratha said. “Desert business comes first.”
“You're a
desert lord
?” Riss breathed, her face starkly pale. She twisted her hands together. “I beg pardon, my lord—”
“For what? You're done nothing wrong, Riss.”
“I've argued . . . been disrespectful. . . .”
“You thought me nothing more than some idiot noble on a fool's errand,” Scratha said brusquely. “Let be. I'm not angry.” He pulled the money pouch from his bags and tossed it on the table. “Split what's left and go your own ways. I don't need servants in the southlands.”
Idisio didn't hesitate. “No. I want to stay with you.”
Scratha frowned at the refusal, then cocked an eyebrow at the latter statement as though surprised. “Why?”
“Oh, Master, just the other day, you said you couldn't do without me,” Idisio said, deliberately calling to mind his initial ploy in front of the king. Scratha's mouth twitched; clearly he recognized the reference.
“Mmph,” he said. “I said I'm getting used to having you around. Fine. I'll take you, if you insist. But Riss—”
“I stay too,” Riss said, rather unexpectedly, and wouldn't look at either of them. “I can't very well go home again. And traveling alone isn't a good idea for a woman, whatever money you give me. I'd rather stay with . . . in good company.” She colored a little. “My lord. If you permit.”
Scratha cast a shrewd glance at Idisio and smiled. “Very well. Get some rest, then. It's a long ride to Sandlaen Port in the morning, and I want to leave early.”