The great hall was warm, the smell of roast goose hanging heavy in the air and mingling with the sweet notes of blackberry and ripe oranges. On the tables lay platters of meat and whole birds decorated with ornamental fruits. In addition to the goose, which had been cooked over smoking juniper and doused with sage, a rosewater pottage had been prepared, served steaming and sprinkled with flower petals. The most impressive concoction, however, was a subtlety made of ground almond and sugar which had been molded into the form of a castle. It stood proudly in the center of the high table, holding its shape even in the heat of the late afternoon, a marvel for all to behold.

The cost of such an affair was difficult to estimate, but Mouse had no doubt that it was monstrous. Tables were decorated with entire rosebushes, sweet wine and cherry spirit flowed freely, and the great chandeliers that hung from the ceiling were lit not with tallow but with wax. Peacocks roamed the hall freely, causing exclamations of delight and amusement as they knocked cups from tables and chased after unsuspecting guests in the ostentatious display of courtship.

Mouse sat with her chin in her hand, the red-haired girl beside her mirroring her pose as the two watched a splay-tailed peacock court a particularly handsomely-clad knight who had not yet taken notice of his suitor.

"What if Alastair's brothers decide not to buy him out of the war?" Val Hector asked. "What then? Would he be left with no option but to fight? And would I then be required to send men to his cause?"

Mouse drummed her fingers against her jaw.

"I suppose that might be the case," she said. "But then again, they might give him the decency of an honorable surrender and allow him to keep a handful of his men."

The Val stared ahead pensively. The knight had just noticed the peacock over his shoulder and smiled bemusedly at it before beginning to walk away. The bird followed.

"And if they are not given to decency?" the Val asked.

Mouse shrugged her shoulders.

"Then I suppose they will kill him," she said.

The Val lifted her chin from her hand and turned to Mouse.

"Is that all?" she asked with a smile of amusement.

Mouse returned the girl's smile. The knight was now quickly walking across the length of the hall, the peacock in pursuit.

"Let us not forget that Alastair is only one possibility," she said, "and likewise, marriage is only one form of alliance among many."

The now-fearful knight had been chased clear to the end of the hall, the bird shaking its feathers at him as it made loudly its mating call.

"You are right," the Val said as the knight ran out into the gallery. "I am too impatient." She looked down into her cup before picking it up and draining it. Mouse watched the girl in fascination. What had she herself been doing when she was fifteen? she wondered. Mastering a chain stitch and trying to memorize the dates of ascension? She had not been standing up to the Empress and pursuing alliances with foreign powers, that much was certain. No, Mouse had been busy making herself as small and unremarkable as possible. She had done as she was bade, read her lessons and practiced her hand, and the rest of her time had been spent hiding in the kitchens and drinking pilfered ale, staying up into the early hours of the morning, laughing and bird watching with Pritha. She felt a blush of embarrassment creep onto her cheek. What was she doing now that was any more impressive? she wondered. Hiding from Ludger and copying stolen letters?

In a way, she thought, the Val was far more like the Empress than she was like Mouse. Both women were quick-witted and determined, audacious and seemingly impervious to censure. Both had had immense responsibility thrust upon them from an early age, and had learned to embrace it rather than back away from it. Both were given to a confidence and self-assuredness that Mouse would never understand. The chief difference between the two women, as least as far as Mouse could tell, was that the Val sought to serve her people, while the Empress, on the other hand, sought to be served by hers. To one, power was a gift that had been handed to her by virtue of birth; to the other, it was an elected duty.

The Val pushed herself to her feet.

"That man there," she said with a nod of her head, "who is he?"

Mouse followed the girl's gaze to a thin man with a grey pointy beard.

"That is Lord Vikyor of Manakin Sabot," she said. "Why?"

The Val nodded her head.

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"I am going to go and talk to him," she said, "see if he can be of any use. Unless you think that I should not."

Mouse shook her head. She had no reason to think Lord Vikyor would be of any particular use to the Chatti, but nor did she have any reason to object. So it was with a final word of parting that Mouse watched the girl march across the room to make herself known to the lord of Manakin Sabot. She admired the Val, her boldness, her determination.

She raised her cup to her lips, her eyes surveying the guests who sat shoulder to shoulder on the benches, the multitude of faces both familiar and new. The Feast of the Fourteen was a celebration of Toth lineage, an ode to the Knights of Toth and their sires whose bloodlines had served as a foundation for the Empire's ruling class and buttressed ties across the continent. Most of the people in this room were Toths, by marriage if not by blood, either that or they served Toths in some form or another.

Mouse watched as a handsome Westerland knight paid court to the lovely young wife of some balding lord who could not be bothered to look up from his pottage, whispering into her ear something that brought a smile to her lips and a blush to her cheek. The knights who came to compete in the tournament did not do so for purse or boon, but for a chance to serve one of the great houses, or, if they were lucky, the crown. The rest came only to make love to beautiful ladies.

The wine in Mouse's cup was sweet on her tongue, like summer fruit steeped in a mountain spring. She held the cup to her lips, savoring the taste as it slid down her throat and danced through her veins. Somewhere, a group of minstrels was playing music, the tune of which was largely lost to the din, but the melody of which carried across the warm air to Mouse's ears. It was The Last Rose of Versanth, the same song that had been played the last night of the Foilunders' stay at Silver Lake. Mouse closed her eyes and remembered, allowing the music to take her somewhere far away. She was in the great hall of Silver Lake, Torben was looking down at her with gleaming blue eyes. His hand grazed gently along her arm as the sound of his laugh mixed in with the music. She could smell the leather of his doublet as he stood before her, feel his thumb pressing into her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw.

"You have not kissed me yet, Mouse."

Mouse opened her eyes, blinking as she looked up at the fair-haired girl in front of her.

"Mathilde," she said, slowly rising. The girl's golden locks had been woven into twin plaits that swooped down to her shoulders before tucking back up into the nape of her neck. Mouse took the girl's hands in her own and planted a ceremonious kiss on each of her cheeks. "I am so very happy for you," she said. Mathilde smiled at her. She looked rather pleased with herself, thought Mouse, for someone whose marriage had been arranged entirely out of spite. And with a simple word of thanks, the new bride moved on to find the next person who had not yet given her their due of well wishes.

Mouse resumed her seat with a sigh, watching as Mathilde began to approach the Val, before wisely turning and going the other direction. She lifted her cup to her lips and continued her perusal of the guests, stopping when her eyes landed a certain guardsman lingering in the archway. Bo was wearing a dark blue jacket with decorated rivets, a contrast to his usual manner or relatively simple guardsman's dress. Mouse wondered what he was doing there, apart from shaking the hair from his eyes every few moments. She watched him for a few minutes, counting the number of times his hand moved to a sword belt that was not there, before swallowing the last of her wine and rising to cross the hall. She was making for the archway where the guardsman stood, but before she had made it even halfway, he had turned and disappeared into the gallery. Mouse pushed her way through the crowded hall in the hopes of catching him. He was not in the gallery as far as she could see, and so she continued out onto the promenade, where she was greeted by a warm breeze that tickled her neck and rustled her skirts. She looked around, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"Lost, little Mouse?"

Mouse froze, a sudden chill running down her spine. She did not turn to see her addresser; she did not need to to know who it was. She could feel the heat emanating from the nobleman's body as he drew nearer, could smell the wine sour on his breath.

Leave me alone, she wanted to say. Please, just leave me alone.

"You look so innocent out here in the moonlight," Johannes said, raking a finger through her hair and drawing it down her neck. "One would almost never know what you're capable of." Mouse gave an involuntary shudder at his touch. She had tried to banish the nobleman from her thoughts, but even burning the marriage contract had not been enough to purge him from her mind.

"You know, I was reading a book the other day," Johannes said, slowly beginning to circle her like a wolf stalking its prey, "the one about the mouse who lived in the bell tower. Do you know it?"

Mouse did not respond. She knew exactly the one he was talking about, but she was determined not to speak.

"The angry bellman chases the rancid little mouse all throughout the tower," Johannes continued, "until at last he catches her and cuts off her tail." He tugged a strand of Mouse's hair free and wound it around his finger. "Does that sound familiar?"

Mouse did not answer him. There was a pit in her stomach, one that told her to run, to flee, but instead, she stood there silently, refusing in any way to acknowledge the nobleman. Johannes looked at her, his green eyes flashing in the moonlight as he pressed the strand of hair to his nose.

"But something occurred to me." He let the hair fall from between his fingers and resumed circling Mouse. "You see, the bellman wasted so much energy chasing that disgusting little creature up and down the halls, and for what?" He paused. "I say, the best way to catch a mouse is with a trap."

Mouse swallowed. Her heart was pounding against her ribcage.

Run, the voice inside of Mouse said. Run, now. But whether from terror or resolution, she did not move.

"Look at me," the nobleman said suddenly, grabbing Mouse's chin in his hand and squeezing until she winced in pain and looked up to meet his green eyes, which glistened with malice. "You think you're so clever, don't you?" he said through gritted teeth. "You think that no one is watching." His breath was hot on Mouse's face as her eyes opened wide in fear. "But I'm watching," he said. He pressed his lips against her ear, his voice a damp whisper, a threat that clung to her skin. "And I know who you are."

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